Chapter 12 To read the beginning, click on the cute picture of Iverson (the fairy) to the right of this post.
The ten minutes passed in a twinkling.
"Commence firing," ordered Burk. 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 Iverson, but he was able to manufacture a mini gas mask to protect his eyes and lungs from the stinging, choking smoke.
"Sacre nom de Dieu," ("sacred name of God") 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 crying and 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 gas mask for the Donald to wear until the peppery gas cleared away.
Then he remembered the rain dance his adopted grandfather had taught him. "Hey, wey, ey, ey, hey, wey, ey, ey," he chanted while waving his arms in the air high over his head and hopping on one foot - three hops on his lift 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.
This is a work of fiction (in case you were wondering).
The ten minutes passed in a twinkling.
"Commence firing," ordered Burk. 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 Iverson, but he was able to manufacture a mini gas mask to protect his eyes and lungs from the stinging, choking smoke.
"Sacre nom de Dieu," ("sacred name of God") 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 crying and 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 gas mask for the Donald to wear until the peppery gas cleared away.
Then he remembered the rain dance his adopted grandfather had taught him. "Hey, wey, ey, ey, hey, wey, ey, ey," he chanted while waving his arms in the air high over his head and hopping on one foot - three hops on his lift 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.
This is a work of fiction (in case you were wondering).
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