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.
