Temporary Address

Temporary Address

Monday, February 29, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest - Chapter 10

Chapter 10 

Click on the cute photo of Iverson to right of this post to read he story so far.

    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 BBBR (bright baboon butt red), then purple, and Iverson wished he'd taken his French-English dictionary with him for 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, D.T. pawed his furry hands around the telephone receiver and speed-dialed a direct line to Homeland Security.
         Captain Craig Welerton, Homeland's duty officer that night, was surprised to hear D.T.'s strained voice on the other end of the hot line. "Major threat to national security . . .direct attack to my person . . . eluding the most sophisticated security system next to the Pentagon."
       On the other end of the line, Welerton 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.







Friday, February 26, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 9

To read the beginning, click on the the cute picture of Iverson, the fairy, just to the right of this post.  "Iverson's Vision Quest - the story so far.)


     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 on Donald Trump's head 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. His 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 tube and all over DT'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 ineffectively, 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. He cried as if his heart would break  "Mommy, why me?"


This is a work of fiction, obviously.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 8

Iverson's Vision Quest - Chapter 8

(See "Iverson's Vision Quest - the story so far" for the beginning of the story. Click on the cute face of Iverson on the right of this post.)

     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 plan 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 the reality show.
     Iverson's mission was to infiltrate D.T.'s inner sanctum and to glue a microdot listening device to 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," ("Oh, it's marvelous!! Thank you thank you my friend") In a moment of ecstasy, he had reverted to his native French. 
      So Melvin dressed Iverson up in a mini camouflage suit 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 penthouses suite. Inside the penthouse he found D.T. 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.



Author's note - This is a work of fiction.

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest - Chapter 7

Iverson's Vision Quest, Chapter 7  (See "Iverson's Vision Quest - The story so far" for the beginning of the story.  Just click on the picture of Iverson to the right of this post.)  Note that Iverson is a French-speaking fairy.

    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 Tim 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 Tim.
     He handed the cage to Melvvin who stuffed it into the back seat of his Lincoln Townhouse.
     "Fois gras, (goose pate) Puille Fuisse, crepes Suzettes," chirped Iverson, fondly remembering better times.
      "Oh, said Melvin, "You speak French. . . . Francais?"
     "Merci, a sacre nom de Dieu, ('thank you, sacred name of God')" 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.

Monday, February 22, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapters 6




    
Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 6 (See previous post - "The Whole Story So Far) to read the beginning.   Please note: Iverson is a French fairy

  
Iverson's Vision Quest. Chapter 6  

  Meanwhile in New York, Melvin Hamstrickian was feeling like dirt from a hot dog that had fallen into the cat litter box. He'd tried drowning his frustration in malt liquor, and was now systematically throwing the contents of his tool box -screw drivers, electric drill bits, and wrenches - at the TV set. That's 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 a Pottery Barn dumpster with his head resting  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." Is anything redder than a baboon's behind?  Donald's face was that day.



Author's note: This is a work of fiction.  Everything that happens in this story is fiction.  As far a I know, Donald Trump's face never got redder than a baboon's behind. No pigs were hurt in the writing of this story.





  

Sunday, February 21, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 5

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 5   (See previous posts for the beginning of the story.)  Note: Iverson is a French fairy.)

     So Tim quickly removed Iverson from the apartment and hid the cage under his Edsel's front fender.
    "Are you hungry, little guy?" asked Tim and he filled up a a parakeet feeder with bird seed.
    "Un morceau de fromage s'il vous plait," ("a piece of cheese, please.") chirped Iverson as Tim walked away. Glumly, Iverson picked out the sunflower seeds and managed to choke them down. Anyway, the gasoline fumes had dulled his appetite.
     Tim was nothing if not resourceful and stubborn. He pestered any reporter who would listen. He out-paparazzied the paparazzi. This was braking news.
    The 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.
    

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 4

Iverson's Vision Quest Chapter 4   (See the previous posts for the beginning of the story.)

Tim had hear 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 pennies and nickels 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." Time gave her his little-boy-lost look, and held up Iverso'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. (Translation - "a cookie, please." 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 $742 on poisons, sprays, bombs, and baits, not to mention traps, glues, gloves, goggles, and a gas mask.  I even bought a DDT-pellet blunderbuss on the Internet 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 bride-of-Frankenstein 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 - thing . . . in here???? Not on my blunderbuss, you're not!!!" she screwed her face into a grimace resembling a baboon's behind.  

Iverson's Vision Quest - The whole story so far



      

 


   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 fairy 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, when he noticed a family of campers. They couldn’t see him because he was seventeen feet up a Canadian maple tree.
And that’s when Iverson noticed 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 a small bat.
              Anyway, he was overlooked.
              The next morning, everything got loaded into the car for the trip to New York. Back at home, Mrs. Hilliard, the mother, 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 Hilliards’s back yard.
             The bright hollyhocks next to Mr. Kugglemans’ fence caught Iverson’s eye, and he bounced around from petal to petal, stretching his wings and flexing his knees. 

             With a terrible yapping, Alpo, the Hilliards' attack Chihuahua charged the hollyhocks and woke Mr. Kuggleman from a blissful couch nap.
            "Shuddup, dog," he yelled, said some words I can't repeat, and filed a complaint with Animal Control.

           Now Mr. Kuggleman and Alpo, the Hilliards' Chihuahua had had run-ins before, and this one was the last straw. Mr. Kuggleman had gotten used to quiet while the Hilliard children and dog were on vacation.  First Mr. Kugglemand 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 Animal control.
     Dorothea Blakeley went to the Hilliard 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 Jan Hilliard, the Hilliards' mom. "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 pretty drunk on chocolate 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 Tim 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."
And he poured through all of his taxonomic books, but couldn't come up with any animal matching Iverson's description.
        Every biologist dreams of discovering a new species, and Tim was no exception. "Ornithptera, bustlii -the name swam in his head. Or maybe Magicicada, bustlii. This was huge. He invoked the Endangered Species Act and forbade the pound from euthanizing Iverson. However, Tim 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, Tim 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, Tim could hear snatches of the conversation. "Introduced species," "threat to native wildlife," and finally, "you know, chief, I'd like to dissect it."
Tim had hear 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 pennies and nickels 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." Time gave her his little-boy-lost look, and held up Iverso'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. (Translation - "a cookie, please." 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 $742 on poisons, sprays, bombs, and baits, not to mention traps, glues, gloves, goggles, and a gas mask.  I even bought a DDT-pellet blunderbuss on the Internet 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 bride-of-Frankenstein 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 - thing . . . in here???? Not on my blunderbuss, you're not!!!" She screwed her face into a grimace.  
     So Tim quickly removed Iverson from the apartment and hid the cage under his Edsel's front fender.
    "Are you hungry, little guy?" asked Tim and he filled up a a parakeet feeder with bird seed.
    "Un morceau de fromage s'il vous plait," ("a piece of cheese, please") chirped Iverson as Tim walked away. Glumly, Iverson picked out the sunflower seeds and managed to choke them down. Anyway, the gasoline fumes had dulled his appetite.
     Tim was nothing if not resourceful and stubborn. He pestered any reporter who would listen. He out-paparazzied the paparazzi. This was braking news.
    The 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 Hamstrickian was feeling like dirt from a hot dog that had fallen into the cat litter box. He'd tried drowning his frustration in malt liquor, and was now systematically throwing the contents of his tool box -screw drivers, electric drill bits, and wrenches - at the TV set. That's when his crescent wrench hit the TV's "on" button. Just as he was fixing to launch the electric drill at the TV, sending the TV 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 a Pottery Barn dumpster with his head resting  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." Is anything redder than a baboon's behind?  Donald's face was that day.
     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 Tim 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 Tim.
     He handed the cage to Melvvin who stuffed it into the back seat of his Lincoln Townhouse.
     "Fois gras, (goose pate) Puille Fuisse, crepes Suzettes," chirped Iverson, fondly remembering better times.
      "Oh, said Melvin, "You speak French. . . . Francais?"
     "Merci, a sacre nom de Dieu, ('thank you, sacred name of God')" 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.
     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 plan 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 the reality show.
     Iverson's mission was to infiltrate D.T.'s inner sanctum and to glue a microdot listening device to 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," ("Oh, it's marvelous!! Thank you thank you my friend") In a moment of ecstasy, he had reverted to his native French. 
      So Melvin dressed Iverson up in a mini camouflage suit 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 penthouses suite. Inside the penthouse he found D.T. 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 on Donald Trump's head 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. His 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 tube and all over DT'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 ineffectively, 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. He cried as if his heart would break  "Mommy, why me?"

    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 BBBR (bright baboon butt red), then purple, and Iverson wished he'd taken his French-English dictionary with him for 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, D.T. pawed his furry hands around the telephone receiver and speed-dialed a direct line to Homeland Security.
         Captain Craig Welerton, Homeland's duty officer that night, was surprised to hear D.T.'s strained voice on the other end of the hot line. "Major threat to national security . . .direct attack to my person . . . eluding the most sophisticated security system next to the Pentagon."
       On the other end of the line, Welerton 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 Leo Burk 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 Burk 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," he said.
     "What have you done with Trump?" asked Burk.
     "I AM Trump," said DT 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 that if he went that route someone might think he was crazy.
     "How many of you are there?"
     "All a mistake," whimpered Trump suddenly frightened by all the helicopters. "No threat to national security." Maybe he HAD overreacted.
     "That's what they all say," said Burk. Why should I believe you, you sicko terrorist bastard?"
     "But I'm the one who called you."
    "If you think you're Donald Trump, you're eve more twisted, sick and misguided than I first gave you credit for. I'll give you ten minutes - five minutes to release DT 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 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.

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 ther est 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 DT wearing what appeared to be a muzzle, alternately bellowing and crying next to an enormous butterfly-like creature in camouflage tentatively removing a gas mask from his face.
     Thomas's orders were to shoot to kill anyone not fitting the description Donald Trump, and possum-man certainly didn't. 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 destry these specimens.
     Meanwhile rifle butts and combat boots were crashing through the front wall of the penthouse."

"Sacre nom de Dieux, " (sacred name of God) breathed Iverson.
     "Oh, you speak Italian," said Thomas.
     Iverson nervously eyed that front wall. 'Peut etre, a diversion,' thought Iverson and succeeded in pouring a pool of blackberry Jell-o just outside of the penthouse.
     The room stilled. Durst settled. As Trump timidly removed his muzzle - I mean his gas mask - Thomas looked at Iverson in wonder and smiled.
     "Enchante," said Iverson, "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.
     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's pocket.
     "But the terrorists  . . . Where is everyone?" The rest of the National Guardsmen were dumbfounded.
     So, like a dummy, Trump had called out the National Guard, the Blue Angels, the NY SWAT team, etc., etc., for no good reason. How embarrassing! "Gone," he said 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." You have to admit it. The guy can act.
     Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked out of the penthouse with Iverson still in his pocket.
     "Shall we grab a brewsky or two?" suggested Thomas.
     "Certainment," (Certainly) said Iverson.
     Several brewskies later, Iverson became quite talkative. "In my family 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," (my mother and father) 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 my family again?" Iverson sighed.
     "Well, said Thomas after a deep swig of Heineken, "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 of 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 the United States?"
     "Mais non!" (But no) said Iverson vehemently shaking his head yet one more time.
     C smiled, and, as she did so, two robins landed on her shoulder, and a chipmunk scampered to her and rubbed his cheek against her ankle. "We must notify the Border Patrol," said C.
     "Qu'est que c'est que ca?" (What is that?)
     "Immigration 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?" C inquired.
"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?"
    "Never take chocolate, especially a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, that doesn't belong to you, and don't turn anyone into a possum."
     "C touched Iverson's cheek and lifted his face until he was gazing into her deep blue eyes. "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 away with Iverson calling out 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," (incredible) said his father. "Quell vision fantastique!(What a fantastic vision!)   Vraiment tu es un homme, en plein maintenant!" (truly you are a man now!) And he hugged his son, now a man, and kissed him on both cheeks.





Author's note: This is a work of fiction.  Everything that happens in this story is fiction.  As far a I know, Donald Trump's face never got redder than a baboon's behind. No pigs were hurt in the writing of this story.