on life, music etc beyond mainstream

2023 4 Sep

Death Comes for Donald Trump

von: Brian Whistler Filed under: Blog | TB | 18 Comments


One day Donald Trump was sitting at his office desk in Mar-a-Lago when he sensed a strange presence. He looked up to find a middle-aged man wearing a dull grey business suit and a fedora, holding an official-looking clipboard.

“Mr. Donald J Trump?”

“How the hell did you manage to get here?” Trump fumed. He had been sorting through dismal reports on yet another failed business venture and had no time for this nonsense.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have business to attend to.”

Trump looked the man up and down. What a loser, he thought.

 “What business would that be? And where did you get that cheap suit, from the rack at Men’s Wearhouse? Who are you anyway?”

“I am known by many names, sir. The Grim Reaper. Thanatos. Hades. But I prefer Death.”

“Now I’ve heard everything. Who the hell are you really?”

Death stuck out a bony finger and touched the only living thing (besides Donald Trump) in the room—a single white orchid in full bloom. The minute he touched its delicate petals, they withered.

“Nice trick, mister, but no more BS. Who the hell are you?”

“I already told you, sir. I am here to inform you that your time has run out.”

“No, that can’t be right. My doc just informed that I’m in excellent health. Of course I pay him a lot of money to tell me that.”

Death smiled and said, “It doesn’t matter, sir. When it’s your time, it’s your time. There’s really nothing you can do about it.”

Trump stared at the man in the grey suit and reached for his phone. “Hey security, we’ve got an intruder here. Get up here immediately and get him off my goddamn property.”

By the time the security men showed up, Death had vanished. “Did you guys see him? This creep barged into my office and threatened to kill me!”

“President Trump. Our people checked the perimeters of the property. Alarms and security cameras didn’t alert us of an intruder.”

“But he was just here! You idiots better double check.”

The security guards looked at one another, the same question in their eyes: Was the big guy finally losing it? 

“If you’d like, we’ll post two security officers in front of your office while we check this out.” Trump nodded and went back to his tasks.

The moment they left, Death reappeared. He was looking at his watch. “Mr. Trump, we really haven’t got all day. I’m on a pretty tight schedule here. I suggest you prepare yourself for your Great Transition.”

“Great Transition, my ass. I have things to do, elections to win, opponents to crush, deals to be made. How about leaving and coming back for me in, say, 20 years?”

 “It doesn’t work like that, sir. You see, each day I check my docket and there’s a list of those I need to take. You came up this morning. Yes, see.” Death turned his clipboard toward Trump and placed his index finger next to the heavy print: 8:47 a.m. Pick up Donald J. Trump. Cause of death: cardiac arrest.

 “What a crock. You’re a whack job. My heart is perfect.  It’s beautiful. You can’t just come barging into my office and tell me that’s it, that it’s all over.”

“I’m just doing my job, sir. I understand. It’s not always easy to accept.”

“Easy to accept? Are you kidding me? There’s nothing to accept! I have a lot to do here, so how about you just leave me to it?”

“I can’t do that, sir. This is my job. Indeed my very purpose.”

Death’s silent eyes fixed on Trump.

“Wait just a minute, won’t you?” Unruffled, Trump reached underneath his desk and unlocked a drawer. He rifled through a pile of documents, some labeled “Top Secret.”“Hmm,” he muttered to himself, “forgot about these…” Finally, after a few minutes he found what he was looking for.

“Ahem, Mr. um, Death, I have a legal document here I would like to show you. I think you’ll find it…very interesting.” He broke a red wax seal and unrolled a long scroll of yellowed parchment paper decorated with ornate calligraphy. Slowly standing up, he handed it over his desk to Death.

“You see, I have a contract, a prior agreement with Satan, to whom I had sold my soul in exchange for a 100-year lifespan. He’s a great friend of mine, so he kindly threw in lifetime legal protection.”

“Hmm, and how has that worked out?” asked Death, taking the scroll in his hand.

He took in a quick breath, his eyes widening, as he glanced down at the contract. This was certainly a first.

“I wonder why I wasn’t apprised of this prior agreement, “

“Bureaucracies,” said Trump, widening his stance. “It’s the same everywhere. Besides, we had an NDA.”

Death peered over the parchment. “You don’t say?”

“I had my people look over this document over first before I signed it. They said it appeared to be legal and binding. Before you think about refusing to honor it, you should know that I’ve got a team of the best lawyers in the world. And if necessary, I will sue you to hell and back again.”

Death reached into his pocket and drew out a monocle, placed it over his right eye and began to read the contract. By the time he had finished, he couldn’t help but giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Trump blurted out, his face twisted.

“Well, you see, this document wasn’t signed by Satan himself. It’s a forgery. I have a younger sibling, Pestilence. He likes to think of himself as Satan, but actually he’s only a low-ranking demon. He has always had a predilection for pulling pranks. I’m afraid you’ve been had, sir.”

Trump groaned. Then all at once, he brightened.

 “Let me ask you something.” He leaned towards Death. “You look like a man who could use a little R ‘n R. I have a beautiful ocean front property in Lantana, a luxury seaside villa that I would be willing to sell you cheap. It’s fantastic – it’s terrific.”

Death looked up, nonplussed.

Trump decided to sweeten the offer. “Hey, I’ll tell you what,” Trump pushed on,  “I’ll gift it to you. Just think: lying on a comfortable chaise lounge, while being lulled by the ocean waves. You could relax and just take it easy. No more reaping, sowing—whatever it is you do. No more having to break the bad news to another victim. Just a peaceful stress-free life with no hassles. And just because I like you, I’ll throw in a few beautiful women. You’ve never seen women like these, all of ’em beauty queens. You’ll have your own pool, a private chef, and an on-call massage therapist. She’s a great friend of mine. Totally gorgeous. I think you’ll like her. Her name is…”

“Sir,” Death interrupted, “I have no use for worldly things. This appearance you see before you is ethereal. I have no physical body and thus have no need for a villa, nor can I enjoy the earthly pleasures you so vividly describe.”

“Hey, buddy, that sounds like a horrible, terrible job. And what do they pay you to do this horrible job that no one else wants?”

“They don’t pay me anything, sir. It’s simply how I was made and what I do. My purpose and my existence are literally one and the same.”

Trump shrugged.

“Look, all I’m saying is you’ve got a bad deal there. I can offer you a much, much better one.”

Death let out a hiss of astral air. It was the closest he could come to a sigh. It sounded like an ancient steam heater about to give up the ghost. Suddenly, a chill came over the room.

“Sorry Mr. Trump, I’m afraid there is simply no wriggle room here.”

Trump furrowed his bushy brows. Then his face lit up.

“Ok, I get it. You have to take someone, but hey, couldn’t we exchange my soul for someone else’s? Look, I know this guy, Mike Pence. You’d like him. He’s a very pious guy, a nice guy, always going to church. A very religious man. Why not take him instead?”

Death was silent for a moment and then responded in an even tone: “Because it doesn’t work that way, sir. And besides, it’s not his time.”

“What about someone else? One of my sons maybe. What about Don Jr.? Almost the same name; no one would notice. And if your boss catches on, you can just say it was a clerical error. Blame it on your secretary, or maybe someone upstairs. That’s what I do all the time. It’s always worked for me.”

Death paused. He knew something of earthly affairs and was familiar enough with Don, Jr. to be tempted to take him, instead. But Death took his job seriously and knew he had to stick to protocol.

“Sorry, sir, but my assignment requires me to retrieve your soul and not your son’s, or anyone else’s for that matter.”

Trump began to feel a sense of dread. Up until now, there had always been a way out of a difficult situation, a deal that could be made, someone to pin the blame on. But this guy— he was impenetrable, incorruptible.

 “I’ll tell you what, and I don’t say this lightly. You may have heard I’m running for president again next year. How would you like to be my running mate? It’s quite an honor you know. Not much to the job really. Most of the time you have your days to yourself. And you can still keep your day job. Once in a while you have to make a public appearance or meet a few dignitaries. You sit behind me and nod in agreement when I give my State of the Union address. You get a lot of perks and free health care. What do you say to that?”

Death was tempted. He had always admired the earnestness of earthly politics, the winner-takes-all jousting and political theater, the human drama at its most excessive. After all, being an eternal entity dreaded by all he came in contact with was somewhat depressing at times. He could use a hobby.

 “Someone once said power is the ultimate aphrodisiac” Death mused out loud. “Perhaps we can work something out.”

Trump clasped his small hands together and gave death his most winning smile.

“So, we have a deal then?’ He extended his hand.

Death took Trump’s hand in his and shook it. Suddenly, Trump clutched his heart and gasping for air, he fell to the floor. Death took his True Form and swept Trump’s soul into a small wicker basket hidden beneath his dark cloak. Death’s empty, black eyes peered out of his skeletal face and looked into the basket, shutting the lid tightly. “What a tiny soul.” he muttered to himself.  And with that, he became transparent and wispy, and while still clutching the basket, his form grew indistinct, and in an ever-tightening vortex of whirling shadows, he disappeared.


This entry was posted on Montag, 4. September 2023 and is filed under "Blog". You can follow any responses to this entry with RSS 2.0. You can leave a response here. Pinging is currently not allowed.


  1. Sue Briney:

    Well done! And my most fervent wish.

  2. Brian Whistler:

    Well I think you’ve read this before, but it is more refined now.

  3. Lajla:

    Great story, Brian. Who ist the guy in the Hopper coloured painting in the back?

  4. Jochen:

    Nicely dramatized dialog, Brian.

    Like Steely Dan sang: „Everything must go …“

  5. Alex:

    Somehow just before the end I was fearing that Death would run for president instead of Trump and would spare him. Thanks for the happy-end …

  6. Brian Whistler:

    Thanks for reading all. I think writing it was a kind of therapy. And for that reason, I needed a happy ending.

  7. Brian Whistler:

    By the way, the Hopper-like graphic was generated by a text to image AI. It took a number of attempts to get it here. It wouldn’t do what I wanted it to, but I like this one in a way better than my idea.

  8. Dale Williams:

    Great story Brian and very cleverly written. Congrats !!

  9. Ursula Mayr:

    Sorry, my English isn’t that good …

    Im bayrischen Sprachraum existiert ein altes Volksstück: Der Brandner Kaspar und das ewig Lebn. Immer wieder gern aufgeführt und verfilmt. Der Boandlkramer (= Knochenhändler, also der Tod) kommt zum 73jährigen Kaspar um ihn zu holen.

    Der will aber 90 werden, macht den Tod mit Kerschgeist (Kirschwasser) besoffen, bescheisst ihn beim Kartenspielen und handelt sich so die erforderlichen Lebensjahre aus. Durch tragische Verwechslungen kommt aber dann seine Enkelin zu Tode.

    Mit dem Tod handeln haut irgendwie nicht hin …

  10. Jochen:

    I saw that film on TV as a child, on a sunday afternoon at neighbors house. It made a deep impression on me. „Boandl“ means ribbon. Death had a tangle for each person. When that unwounded, he drove there in a horse-drawn carriage: „Your time is up now“.

    „Come, first sit down and have a drink, we may discuss that subject, we can talk about everything“, said tricky Brandner Kaspar. Death soon got drunk, which gave a tragic human touch to that frightened appearence.

  11. Ursula Mayr:

    Jochen, Boandln sind Knochen.

    War das der Schwarzweiss-Ufa-Film? Hast Du da ein Wort verstanden??

  12. Jochen:

    Ah, okay.

    Ja, das muss der S/W-Ufa Film gewesen sein.

    Ich war damals so 11, 12 (also Ende der Sechziger).

    Ja schon, meine Sprachbegabung ist phänomenal ;)

  13. Ursula Mayr:

    Dann wars der von 1949.

  14. Jochen Siemer:


    Der Film hat damals natürlich nicht als Komödie auf mich gewirkt, sondern völlig gruselig.

  15. Ursula Mayr:

    Ja, fand ich auch – hab ihn auch als Kind gesehen – das kam auch durch die starke Schwarzweisszeichnung. Ein Meisterwerk in der Erzeugung von unheimlicher Stimmung …

    Später lief er jahrzehntelang im Münchner Residenztheater bis die Schauspieler langsam wegstarben – da waren mehr witzige Elemente eingebaut. Und in den letzten Jahren hat der Josef Vilsmaier danach gegriffen – dem muss man immer jeden guten Stoff rechtzeitig aus den Fingern reissen weil er ihn gnadenlos verkitscht – und hat eine höchst überflüssige dritte Version geschaffen – mit Bully Herbig als Boandlkramer … ich sage nichts weiter …

  16. Jan Reetze:

    One of the best stories Woody Allen didn’t write!

  17. Uli Koch:

    Excellent story with a tricky happy end. I love it!

  18. Brian Whistler:

    Thanks all for the positive feedback. That cracks me up about Woody Allen. I read those books when I was pretty young. And I do remember a certain tone to them that reminds me of his style, although I wasn’t aware of it when writing it. More to come!

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