'Continuity of Trump' by Guy Narcissus

CONTINUITY OF TRUMP

Assassination! July 14 had been handed to the President by Witkoff on Bastille Day, with the words—'This was the forerunner of Day of the Jackal. Based on the plot to kill De Gaulle. It was banned in France by the Globalists for being too realpolitik.’

Ukraine-pained, post-peace negotiations, the President settled into his rooms in the Chateau de Rambouillet, more closely guarded by the Secret Service than ever before, and opened Assassination! July 14. Sitting down in a red armchair, facing the log-fire, he kicked off his ‘Trump-pumps’ as Melania called them.

Peace, real peace, came at a high price—he’d informed his bodyguard to shoot any E.U.-losers who might disturb him, except Emmanuel Macron—should the lil Techno-squirt want to do a real deal on rare earth minerals. As if! Not gonna happen, The Apprentice to Rothschild & Cie hadn’t a clue how to do a deal, and his wife was one of those Trans.

The first words of Le Assassination! July 14: The sun shone down on Monceau while the rain pattered off the French windows in his room. He crossed his legs, settled into the chair some, and applied his extremely stable genius to the task. Reading wasn’t like watching Fox News, but he worked things out easy. The bad guys were the O.A.S., the Secret Army Organization, who’d sentenced President De Gaulle to death, for decolonizing Algeria. The good guy was a Brit, an M.I.6 heavy, name of Max Palk, who was helping the French beef up their security.

Good v. Evil. Black v. White. Red v. Blue. It made sense. The whole world polarized in his mind’s eye. Letter by letter, word by word, he was taken away from the present into the world of 1960s French political intrigue. Aah, the heat of the fire, soothing his aching feet and calves; the cushioning of the armchair taking all his weight.

Le Assassination! July 14 was a page-turner all right. Before he knew it, he was three-quarters of the way through. He was glad these O.A.S. guys weren’t after him. They were a wild bunch the Foreign Legion, a bit like the Delta Force, unbelievably determined, when they got the bit between the teeth. Max Palk would have his work cut out for him to stop them, because it was hugely tough to protect a president from assassins: see Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley and Kennedy, and nearly the dearly-departed Gipper. #Let’s Make America Great Again.

Reading on, images taking on the dyslexic form and color of a Hollywood war movie for one, and he was witness to two men kissing cheeks in an isolated farmhouse. One of these shady characters was a French-Algerian legionnaire with a personal grudge against De Gaulle. The other was a quartermaster, fresh from an arms cache in a shooting wood, there to supply the MAB PA15 pistol should the window of opportunity at Rambouillet present itself, as it had.

There was talk of brothers-in-arms who had died in Vietnam for the Fifth Republic, Honneur et Fidelité, and the betrayal of the Legion and its home-base of Algiers. The blue, white, and red, patriotic dialogue ran down the page like the rain on the French windows outside; the War on Terror was not only necessary for the destiny of Algeria but for the survival of France; there was no other way. The President had to die while signing this degrading peace treaty.

That struck a chord. There were so many, many, many alligators in the Swamp, the Cesspit, the Washington Sewer; Crooked Democrats who’d happily kill him to stop him withdrawing the CIA from Ukraine. Wars without end! He was gonna show them all. Bush Original. Wild Bill. Dubya. Cheatin’ Obama. Crooked Hilary. He was gonna bring peace. #Make America Greater. He always came out on top, always would. Seriously good genes. The best. Ever.

They went over the plan, these bad-bad guys. Nothing was left to chance; every eventuality had been considered, from the positions of bodyguards to unforeseen hazards to possible mistakes. From this moment on, each instant of the legionnaire’s life had been minutely assigned a historic significance. The legionnaire examined the pistol, and then loaded it. The quartermaster saluted him stiffly. The legionnaire returned the salute, nodded, and left the farmhouse, fixed on his task. It was dark, and the rain was getting heavier; he pulled his jacket collar up to stop it running down his neck. He walked across the field opposite to the north wall of the estate.

There was the rope ladder in a bush, as arranged. He slung it over the wall and climbed up and over. He ran crouched down, using trees and assorted bushes as cover, approaching the chateau by way of the French Garden. There were no bodyguards on patrol in this vicinity. He made it up to the chateau. The Alsatians did not bark at his scent, their handlers were supposed to have kept them in their kennels.

He entered by a servants’ door and took the side-stairs up to the second floor. Blood was thumping in his ears, but he could still hear the quartermaster’s words: go across the hall, through the first door to the left, through the room, onto the balcony, it will be the third balcony.

Nobody in the first room. Keeping low in the night. Nobody in the second. Moving like a jackal in the twilight. Firelight-flicker from the French windows in the third. Leaping onto the ledge. Pulling the pistol from his jacket. Jumping down. Checking the room, the high back of a red armchair, the grey-haired head of a man sitting there. The President!

Reaching for the handle, the door should be unlocked, and the alarm, deactivated. Aiming at the head. O-M-G! Where the hell were his bodyguards? A single shot rang out. The President let out a sigh. The legionnaire staggered forwards and fell dead next to the armchair.

Max Palk—in the nick of time.

#You’re fired, Bad Guy. Totally fired.