Iverson had a weakness for anything chocolate, and that craving proved to be his downfall. He’d spent two nights in the Canadian Rockies on a Vision Quest, a rite of passage for a boy entering manhood, and he was bored, hungry, and tired, and completely without visions. In fact, on the night of his disappearance, he was trying to make up a good vision story to tell his adopted parents, when he noticed a family of campers. They couldn’t see him because he was seventeen feet up a Canadian maple tree and hidden from view by an orange-red leaf the size of a Denny’s Grand Slam pancake.
And that’s when he espied it - an open rucksack containing Reese’s chocolate peanut butter cups. He fluttered his wings in anticipation, as he counted the chocolates - one, two, three – who cares – a whole lot of chocolate! And he decided to take the risk and swoop down into the rucksack for a tiny smackrel of chocolate. In the failing light, a fairy didn’t look much different from an oversized cicada - well, maybe more like an oversized dragon fly or a small bat.
Anyway, he was overlooked. With one hand holding onto his pointy green hat, Iverson dive-bombed the bag and, blissfully unaware that the humans were stirring, he sampled its contents.
But while Iverson was feasting, the Hartmans, were packing up their belongings and getting ready to leave for home the next morning. They’d had a splendid two-week adventure in the Canadian Rockies. Dan hated to leave, but it was time for them to head back to New York. “Hustle, everyone,” he said to his kids. “All that food has to get packed up good and tight into the coolers. We don’t want to attract any bears tonight.”
High on chocolate, Iverson didn’t notice the activity until, suddenly, he heard a zipping sound and everything went dark. He was locked inside. A weaker fairy might have panicked, but not Iverson. With nothing better to do, he applied his attention to a peanut butter cup as big as his face.
The next morning, everything got loaded into the car. Alpo was the only one who noticed the rucksack’s faint twitching and he snarled and lunged at it with all the ferocity of a trained attack Chihuahua, but, as usual, the humans didn’t understand. “For heaven’s sake, keep that dog away from the snacks,” said Charlotte, using her gesturing finger for emphasis, and sixteen-year-old Meg lunged for Alpo’s collar and hauled him back into her lap. Oh, the ignominy! She treated Alpo as if he were a common - shudder - dog. Alpo sneezed, licked his nose, and scratched his rump in protest. It’s hard to demand respect when you’re a Chihuahua.
They crossed the border from Canada into the United States, and said good bye to their camping adventure, and five-year-old Stuart waved to the mountains in the distance and told them he’d see them next year.
At the border, Dan waited in line with the other cars crossing into the United States. “Have you anything to declare?” asked the border guard, looking stern.
“No, nothing, said Mr. Hartman. Alpo yelped and yipped, and snarled at the border guard. He had a thing about uniforms. “Quiet, Alpo,” scolded Dan. “Meg, keep that dog still.” The border guard paused for a moment eyeing Alpo, then motioned the Hartmans to drive on through.
Meanwhile, inside the rucksack, Iverson began to get thirsty after eating all that chocolate. That was when he realized that the comfy bed he was lying on was really a juice pouch. And, several sharp bites later, he managed to poke an eyetooth through the plastic and get a deep satisfying drink. Red and sticky - this is good stuff, thought Iverson. So between the chocolate, and the Hawaiian punch, Iverson had a reasonably comfortable ride into The United States.
Back at home, Charlotte was the first person to notice the rucksack’s movements. Figuring it to be some sort of large insect, she took the bag into the back yard, unzipped it and quickly walked inside - just in case whatever was inside could sting. And so Iverson got his first glimpse of Middletown, New York and of the Hartman’s back yard.
Charlotte’s fertilizing, watering, and her war of the weeds had paid off. The bright purples, pinks, and blues of the hollyhocks next to the Kugglemans’ fence caught Iverson’s eye, and he bounced around from petal to petal, glad to be able to stretch his wings and his kneecaps.
Well, all this activity did not go unnoticed. With a terrible yap, Alpo charged at the hollyhocks biting and snapping, but Iverson was able to dance just out of the Chihuahua’s reach. However, Alpo’s persistent, annoying bark woke Mr. Kuggleman from a blissful couch nap.
Now Mr. Kuggleman and Alpo had had run-ins before, and this one was the last straw. He’d gotten used to quiet while the Hartman children and dog were on vacation. First Mr. Kuggleman tried to ignore the yapping. Then he yelled “shuddup, dog” through the window and threw his sneaker at the fence, and finally, after Alpo had been snarling, growling, barking and whining non-stop for another fifteen minutes, he filed a complaint with the County’s Animal Control Office.
Dorothea Blakley went to the Hartman house to investigate. Alpo was at the side fence barking at the hollyhocks and his tail bounced up and down with each bark.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Charlotte. “He’s been doing that ever since we got back from Canada. She and Dorothea went closer to investigate, and that was the first glimpse any human had ever had of a Canadian tree fairy. (Iverson was still pretty drunk on the chocolates and not at all careful about keeping hidden from view.)
From her truck, Dorothea extracted a butterfly net, and, the next thing Iverson knew, he was trapped in a small cage in the pound. He tried to bite a hole through the mesh, but it was made of cold steel, which provides protection against fairies, as anyone knows, and anyway, the steel was much stronger than Iverson’s teeth. Dorothea consulted her supervisor because she’d never caught a fairy before, and wasn’t sure what to do with Iverson. Protocol required holding a stray animal for seven days and then either euthanizing it or making it available for adoption; so that’s what they did. They fed him crushed cat food. Iverson tried to change it into fillet mignon, but the cold steel dampened his powers, and the cat food remained cat food. Still, Iverson managed to choke some of it down to keep up his strength.
Well, the future looked grim for Iverson, and, indeed, that might have been his end had not Dorothea’s boyfriend Tom Bustly, who worked for the Department of Fish and Wildlife, made a special point of visiting the pound to see Iverson.
“That’s…that’s…I can’t believe it.” He sputtered and stared, then whipped out his digital camera and took pictures of Iverson from every angle. I’ve never seen anything like that before. “You can’t euthanize it!” he gasped. What you have here is a new species. Probably an endangered species. This is an abso-fantasmagorically amazing find.” He poured through all of his taxonomical books, but couldn’t come up with any animal matching Iverson’s description.
Every biologist dreams of discovering a new species, and Tom was no exception. “Ornithoptera, bustlii - the name swam in his head. Or maybe Magicicada, bustlii. Tom wasn’t sure of the taxonomic family much less the genus. This was huge. He invoked the Endangered Species Act and forbad the pound from euthanized Iverson. However, Tom had overlooked one detail. Iverson was not officially on the list of endangered species, and therefore was not privileged to protection under the act.
In desperation, Tom told his boss, Carney, about the creature, but Carney’s reaction was unexpected. “How did this creature get past the agricultural check point,” he asked, and, muttering something about heads rolling, made a call to his supervisor.
Kneeling next to the keyhole, Tom could hear snatches of the conversation. “Introduced species”, “threat to native wildlife”. And then there was muttering about “eradicate the threat,” and finally, “You know, chief, I’d like to dissect it.”
Tom had heard enough, and, with screeching tires, he whipped around in his Edsel and high-tailed it down to the pound at twenty-two miles per hour. He counted out his shekels and sprung Iverson out of jail - I mean the pound, and triumphantly brought Iverson’s cage back to his apartment only to be met at the door by Saidy the landlady.
“I think not,” said Saidy.
“But look how cute he is.” Tom gave her his little-boy-lost look, and held up Iverson’s cage to prove his point.
Iverson’s voice was high and squeaky, much like a cricket rubbing his hind legs together. “ Un gateau, peut etre,” said Iverson. (As a young nymph, he’d been adopted by a patriotic Quebec family of fairies).
“Agh, kill it, eradicate it, quick before it multiplies,” said Saidy. “I just spent $762 on poisons and sprays and bombs and baits, not to mention traps, glues, gloves, goggles and a gas mask. I even bought a DDT-pellet blunderbuss from a “Guy” whose address is 2.74 miles east of the village baobab tree.”
Saidy paused and gulped for air. Her face alternated between Chinese New Years’ red and ghostly bride white. “We had cockroaches the size of coconuts. They organized an army in the sub-basement and practiced military maneuvers every night under cover of darkness. And I poisoned and squished, and drowned, and bazookaed every last gushy, crunchy one of them and now you think you’re bringing another - another… thing… in here???? Not on my blunderbuss, you’re not!!!” She screwed her face into a grimace resembling a baboon’s behind.
So Tom quickly removed Iverson from the apartment and hid the cage under his Edsel’s front fender.
“Are you hungry, little guy?” asked Tom and he filled up a parakeet feeder with bird seed.
“Un morceau de fromage s’il vous plait,” chirped Iverson as Tom walked away. Glumly, Iverson picked out the sunflower seeds and managed to choke them down. Anyway, the gasoline fumes had dulled his appetite.
Tom was nothing if not resourceful and stubborn. He found numbers for the National Enquirer, the Star and the Globe and pestered the reporters. He out-paparazzied the paparazzi. This was breaking news.
That first day he got three tabloid interviews - the Globe, the Star, and a cover shot on the National Enquirer. Not satisfied with his success, he then hounded the mainline news reporters - radio, TV, and newspaper - and, finally, the Oprah show. With Oprah, he hit a soft spot, and Iverson’s plight finally got some coverage.
Meanwhile in New York, Melvin Miroguchi was feeling like dirt on a hot dog that had fallen into the cat litter box. He’d drowned himself in malt liquor, and was systematically throwing the contents of his tool box - screw drivers, electric drill bits and wrenches at the TV set when his crescent wrench hit the TV’s “on” button. Just as he was fixing to launch the electric drill at the TV sending it to its final reward, Iverson’s cherub face on Oprah caught Melvin’s attention.
Melvin’s ego was still raw from his disastrous appearance on “The Apprentice” and the infamous Porky Pig challenge, where contestants had had to sell live pigs in downtown L.A. His team mates had been dodging hog tusks and prodding the back sides of the angry swine - seven-hundred-pound slabs of thundering bacon still on the hoof - as Melvin later put it. And all the while what was Melvin doing? He had been caught on camera snoring behind some landscaping with his head propped up on a pregnant sow’s belly, the sow having been rendered unconscious by a generous serving of Stolichnaya.
Melvin was still smarting from Donald Trump’s verbal deluge to him in the board room: “Useless, blubbering chicken-twit,” and “maggot man” and “bleeping, bleep, bleep, bleeping, bleep of bleep,” and the Donald’s ultimate pronouncement: “You’re fired.”
In spite of Melvin’s misery, Iverson’s cherub face piqued his interest. Surely there was a way to cash in on this creature.
So he told Tom he wanted to help. Melvin’s gold tooth gleamed in the sunlight as he spoke. “I’ll take exceptional care of the little fellow. What a remarkable creature! What does he eat?”
“Coca Cola, et chocolate.” squeaked Iverson.
“He doesn’t seem to need much food. I’ve been feeding him bird seed, but you could try hamster pellets or maybe live crickets or mealy worms,” said Tom.
He handed the cage to Melvin who stuffed it into the back seat of his Lincoln Townhouse.
“Fois gras, Puille Fuisse, crepes Suzettes,” chirped Iverson, fondly remembering better times.
“Oh, said Melvin, “You speak French. Francais?”
“Merci a sacre nom de Dieu,” squeaked Iverson.
Melvin purchased a French-English dictionary and pushed it into Iverson’s cage, and the fairy began working with it immediately, eager for the power of being able to communicate. “Cheeseburger, French fries and a milkshake,” were Iverson’s first words in English.
While Iverson taught himself to speak English (he was a fast learner), Melvin worked on his plan for glory, wealth, and revenge on the Donald. During those days, Iverson dined on French fries, artichokes with Hollandaise, beef Wellington, and chocolate ice cream. And he discovered a new and wondrous American delicacy - lox and bagels. Melvin cheerfully shopped the gourmet food stores looking for treats for Iverson. Given Iverson’s size, it didn’t take much to fill up the fairy, and Melvin consumed the remainder.
And all the while Melvin was hatching his plot against the Donald. While a contestant on “The Apprentice”, Melvin had always felt caught off guard. If only he’d had advanced notice of the nature of the challenges and some knowledge of where the cameras would be placed! Melvin decided to use Iverson, first to learn about Trump’s plans for the next run of “The Apprentice”, and then to discover material for blackmail or bribery to guarantee Melvin a second chance to appear on to the reality show.
Iverson’s mission was to infiltrate D.T’s inner sanctum and to glue a microdot listening device to Donald Trump’s scalp underneath the Donald’s thick, lush hair. “Do this for me, and I’ll drive you all the way to Canada, Melvin promised holding crossed fingers behind his back.
“Oh, c’est marvaileuse!! Merci, merci, mon ami,” said Iverson. In a moment of ecstasy, he had reverted to his native French.
So Melvin suited Iverson up in a mini camouflage suite fitted with a back pack of mini burglar tools and a micro-dot listening device, along with a mini tube of super glue for sticking the dot to D.T.’s pate.
Shortly before five o’clock, Melvin drove Iverson to a spot three blocks north of Trump Tower and pointed the way to the tower’s front door. Iverson entered the lobby of the building unnoticed, and settled himself behind a lush, potted ficus to wait until most of the employees had left the building before making his way to the air duct. Iverson had memorized his path through the ventilation system. Right turn, left turn, proceed past the dining hall to the vertical chute, and then straight up to the Donald’s penthouse suite. Inside the penthouse he found Mr. Trump alone in his study pouring over his notes for the next “Apprentice” series. Iverson eased his way through the vent’s grill and landed unnoticed on the Donald’s head.
Now fairies, even good fairies, are known for their love of mischief, and it had been a long time since Iverson had had a good chuckle. “Atten-hut” he commanded the hair and all the strands stood straight up at attention. He squeaked another command, and the hair styled itself into a Mohawk, then into spikes, then into a comb-over.
Trump suddenly became aware of a strange tingling sensation occurring on his head. Trump’s room was decorated with floor to ceiling mirrors, and checking his reflection in them, he was surprised to see his hair waltzing, bee-bopping and hula-ing across his head, and finally settling into the comb-over.
Meanwhile, crouched behind the comb-over, Iverson took the top off of the crazy glue tube, plopped a big glob of glue onto the Donald’s pate, and quickly dropped the microdot on top of it. But the glue was runny and dribbled out of the tube and all over Trump’s head. Iverson had to jump onto Trump’s ear to avoid getting stuck. And that’s when the Donald spotted him. He swatted at Iverson first with his left hand, and then his right, and of course both hands got stuck to his hair. He grunted, swore, and, with a mighty lunge, pulled both hands free, removing two huge hunks of that lush hair he’d been so proud of. Horrified Trump looked into the mirror to see pink skin and red welts where abundant waves and curls, so carefully styled, had once lain.
Ever the helpful fairy, Iverson provided Donald Trump with a possum-hair toupee, but that just seemed to infuriate the Donald all the more. His face turned bright red, then purple, and Iverson wished he’d had his French-English dictionary available for all the new words he heard that night. “Impudent cockroach!” screamed Donald. Iverson understood that. In retaliation, he elongated Donald’s nose and ears. (Well, Iverson did need to practice!) He examined his work; he grinned; he chuckled; and finally he collapsed in hysterics on the Donald’s laptop, and Trump quickly overturned an ornamental cold-iron chalice on top of the computer, trapping Iverson inside it.
Then, in a fit of rage, Donald Trump pawed his furry hands around the telephone receiver and speed-dialed a direct line to Homeland Security.
Captain Chuck Walton, Homeland’s duty officer that night, was surprised to hear Donald Trump’s strained voice on the other end of the hot line. “Major threat to national security…..Direct attack to my person. …Eluded the most sophisticated security system next to the Pentagon.”
On the other end of the phone, Walton snapped to attention. He’d been preparing for this moment all his life, it seemed. “Aye, aye, sir. Right away, sir! You can count on me, sir.” Straightaway, he dispatched an NYPD SWAT team to Trump Tower. Then, to be on the safe side, he activated two squadrons from the National Guard, the Blue Angels, three stealth bombers and seven helicopters for initial reconnaissance. And so began the ill-fated invasion of Trump Tower.
Helicopter pilot Lester Barkley was first to report in. “No sign of Trump,” he said, “I see only one terrorist - a strange man - Caucasian - average height and build - with pronounced ears and nose, and a truly terrible toupee. Other terrorists are probably somewhere inside hiding. I’m now commencing hostage negotiations.”
And with that Barkley brought the bull horn to his face. “Ahoy, terrorist,” he said. “You are completely surrounded. Resistance is futile.” (He’d always wanted to say that.) “Place your weapons on the table slowly and walk over to the window. Keep your hands in plain sight at all times.”
It took Donald Trump several minutes to realize that the man was talking to him. “I’m no terrorist, you Dunderhead,” said Trump.
“What have you done with Trump?” asked Barkley.
“I am Trump,” said the Donald, and he started to explain that the terrorist in question had been sitting on his left ear, and was now buzzing around inside of a chalice on top of his computer but realized he’d better not go that route.
“How many of you are there?”
“All a mistake,” said Trump alarmed by the helicopters buzzing around Trump Tower. “No threat to national security.” Maybe he had over-reacted.!
“That’s what they all say,” said Barkley. “Why should I believe you, you sicko terrorist bastard?”
“But I’m the one who called you.”
“Donald Trump called in the threat, and you, my twisted, misguided friend, are no Donald Trump. Do you think I don’t know what Trump looks like? I’ll give you ten minutes - five minutes to release Trump and five minutes for you and your friends to give yourselves up - or else me and my pals here, well, we’ll just teach you what it means to mess with the good old U. S. of A.”
The ten minutes passed in a twinkling.
“Commence firing,” ordered Barkley. Leading the attack, he lobbed a couple of smoke bombs through a window into the room. Trump scrambled under his desk. A round of sub-machine gun fire followed. Trump’s cherished sculptures crashed to the floor in bits. Paintings fell. One of the bullets hit the rim of the chalice knocking it over and freeing Iverson. His wings were crumpled, his back was scrunched, and his pointy hat was now pointy in several new angles but he was fundamentally okay. Then he took a breath and his lungs protested, with squeaky spasms of gasping and coughing, against the cloud of toxic gas, and his eyes burned as if scratched by hawk talons. The magic spell he needed was new and strange to him, but Iverson was able to manufacture a mini gas mask to protect his eyes and lungs from the stinging, choking smoke.
“Sacre nom de Dieu,” said Iverson to himself, surveying the disaster scene. Trump’s bed, desk, dresser, and TV had been hit. Sparks from the dying television threatened to send the living room up in smoke. Trump was hugging the floor of his penthouse trying to breathe. It had started as a joke - just a harmless, prank. How had everything gotten so out of hand? Iverson felt a sudden unexpected pang of guilt for his part in causing the invasion, and he tried to make a larger gas mask for the Donald to wear until the peppery gas cleared away.
Then he remembered the rain dance his adopted grandfather and had taught him -
“Hey, wey, ey, ey, hey, wey, ey, ey,” he chanted, while flapping his arms in the air high over his head and hopping on one foot - three hops on his left foot and six hops on the right. A light mist began to collect over Iverson’s head which grew into a drizzling rain that filled the penthouse and began to knock the tear gas out of the air.
And while the helicopters continued to shell the Donald’s suite from the air, foot soldiers from the National Guard began swarming into Trump Tower from the street. Concerned that the elevators could be booby trapped, the troops climbed the emergency staircase up to Trump’s apartment. Periodically, they noticed what could be suspicious activity, and shot off a round of fire just in case.
The first object to enter Trump’s apartment was the butt of a rifle belonging to private first class Thomas Glimme, followed, shortly thereafter, by Thomas Glimme himself, all one hundred and eighteen pounds of him. Iverson had enough presence to conjure up a Photo-Hut-sized boulder which completely blocked the doorway behind private Glimme, keeping the rest of the guard out of the penthouse, at least temporarily. Thomas squinted. Dust and smoke still hung in the air. Shrapnel, crushed pottery, and pieces of furniture covered the floor. ‘Like the morning after a really good party,’ thought Thomas surveying the scene. He looked under the remains of the desk and caught sight of the possum-my Donald Trump wearing what appeared to be a muzzle, alternately bellowing and shivering next to an enormous butterfly-like creature in camouflage tentatively removing a gas mask from its face.
Thomas’s orders were to shoot to kill anyone not fitting the description of Donald Trump. And he figured that Iverson was some weird new biological weapon of mass destruction, but Thomas was also a biologist, and couldn’t bring himself to destroy these specimens. Meanwhile rifle butts and combat boots were crashing through the front wall of the penthouse. “Sacre nom de Dieu!” breathed Iverson.
“Oh, you speak Italian,” said Thomas.
Iverson was able to produce cement to dam up some of the holes in the wall, but he was still immature as fairies go, and he was fast losing ground against the National Guardsmen trying to break down the front wall. ‘We need a diversion,’ thought Iverson and succeeded in pouring a pool of blackberry Jell-o just outside of the penthouse.
The room stilled. Dust settled. As Trump cautiously removed his muzzle - I mean his gas mask - Thomas looked at Iverson in wonder and smiled.
“Enchante,” said Iverson, bowing. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Thomas also bowed. “Would you like some salami and foot cheese,” he asked and pulled a snack out of his pocket. A bond instantly formed between fairy and National Guardsman.
“Peut etre,” said Iverson, stuffing a largish hunk of the salami into his mouth, “we could get away from here and discuss le pax - the peace.” And as a gesture of good will, Iverson removed the pointed nose and ears from Trump replacing them with Trump’s pre-incident features.
Trump surveyed the ruins of what used to be his luxurious apartment. “Agreed,” he said, knowing a good deal when he heard it.
“Sure,” said Thomas. “These combat boots are killing my toes.”
Iverson tried to return Trump’s hair to what it had been, but his magic wasn’t powerful enough, and Trump ended up - to this day as far as I know - with a bad toupee glued to his head.
Moments later, the front wall collapsed and dozens of Guardsmen poured into the room.
“This is the hero who saved my life,” said Trump, throwing his arms around Thomas like a long-lost brother, while Iverson hid from view in Thomas’ pocket.
“But the terrorists…. Where is everyone?” The rest of the National Guardsmen were dumbfounded.
“Gone,” said the Donald gesturing into the air and shaking his head. “When this brave man broke into the room, they knew they had lost, and they blew themselves up. Their remains lie buried somewhere in all this debris.”
Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked out of the penthouse with Iverson still in his pocket.
“Shall we grab a brewsky or two?” suggested Thomas.
“Certainment,” said Iverson.
Several brewskies later, Iverson became quite talkative. “Before a boy can truly call himself a man, he must go alone into the woods, there to wait for a vision - a sign that points out his way in the world and the meaning to his existence. But I have failed as a seeker of wisdom. I have seen no vision, and I long in vain for home - for my home - for my Canadian trees. They stand so tall you can climb until your head touches the heavens. And the Rockies never lose their snowy hats, even on the hottest summer day, and when the sun sets it’s as if the sky has exploded with wine and berries. And the birds - the geese and hawks and eagles and songbirds - they’re all my friends, and I know them and I honk and whistle and chirp to them, and when we ride the breezes together, it’s as if the earth is playing catch with us and we are her beanbags.
“And mon pere, et ma mere.” Here Iverson blew his nose loudly on his shirt sleeve. “My family, my home!”
Weeping softly, Iverson broke into song.
“Oh, Canada,
My home and native land.”
Deeply touched by the story, Thomas pulled out a hankie and wiped his own eyes and nose.
“Will I ever see them again?” Iverson sighed.
“Well,” said Thomas after a deep swig of Heinekens, “I think we should see C the Great.”
“C the Great,” Iverson repeated in wonder.
“Yes. C the Great. She is all-knowing. If anyone can help you, she can.
They found C the Great in the middle of a field of irises making greeting cards out bits of leaf and petals and strips of rattan. She wore a green muumuu and gold lame´ slippers.
Iverson bowed low in respect and told her his problem.
“Are you an American citizen?” asked C the Great. Iverson shook his head. “Do you have a green card? A visa? A passport?” Again Iverson shook his head.
“Are you a political refugee seeking asylum in America?”
“Mais, non!” said Iverson vehemently shaking his head yet one more time.
“That’s the answer then - the Border Patrol,” said C.
“Qu’est que c’est que ca?”
“Imigration and Naturalization. You’re an illegal alien.”
“I never rode a space ship in my life!” said Iverson.
“An illegal alien to this country. The authorities will deport you back to Canada”
“Home, my family!” said Iverson beginning to hope. “I’ll be home. But, sadly, my vision quest has failed.
“Have you not journeyed?” Charlotte demanded.
“Well yes, from Canada to New York, to the pound, to the front fender, and the ventilation shaft and the exploding penthouse in the sky.”
“And you have learned?” Charlotte prompted.
“Never take chocolate, especially a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, that doesn’t belong to you, and don’t turn anyone into a possum.”
“Your purpose is peace; your path is with mortals; and your animal totem is the lofty possum. And don’t discount your vision simply because it really happened. Now wait here while I call Immigration and have you deported. C the Great flounced out of the room with Iverson calling out to her, “thank you and good bye!”
Days later in Quebec, Iverson recounted his experiences in America to his family - his incarceration at the pound, the battle of Trump Tower, his new friend Thomas, and the wonderful fishy experience of lox and cream cheese.
“Incroyable,” said his father. “Quell visions fantastique! Vraiment tu es un homme, en plein, maintenent!” And he hugged his son, now a man, and kissed him on both his cheeks.
