Clouds part over north-west Syria. Lucidity in a fevered dream.
The fighting had been intense. Since the eight special forces helicopters emerged from the darkness and landed in the small compound in Idlib province, cracks of gunfire had echoed across the mountains. Nobody would ever know the identity of these brave men and women sent on a mission by their even braver President. They lived their lives in the shadows. All, that is, except one hero who was already seeing good numbers from his latest Rasmussen polls…
The golden warrior stood six foot three, his lean 239 pounds honed by a lifetime of burgers, fries, and questionable medicals. Captain Donald J. Trump of Seal Team 9 knew that nobody would believe him. The press would accuse him of fetishizing military action when he later recounted the night’s fighting in a rambling 40-minute press conference. His was a problem so memorably summed up by White House press secretary Stephanie Grisham. Cynics were just “totally unequipped to handle the genius of our great President!”
He was in the process of composing this injustice into a tweet when he saw a figure split away from the fighting.
“Baghdadi,” he hissed through perfect teeth that were still all his own.
The name had obsessed him ever since the ISIS leader had outwitted Gotham City’s batshit crimefighter, Rudy Giuliani, thanks to the Joker and CNN’s Jim Acosta. This time there would be no escape. The bearded terrorist wouldn’t get far in the underground tunnel network. Baghdadi had the athleticism of Rosie O’Donnell, though, frankly, was much better looking. The special forces captain, meanwhile, was a track star, who could have played baseball professionally despite bone spurs that had plagued him until the 30th of April 1975.
“I’ve got you now, el-Baghdadi,” cried Trump. “They said nobody would ever catch you, but I’ve got you cornered like Pencil-Necked Adam Schiff’s illegal committee during the looming government shutdown…”
Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi swore in a language Trump suspected was Mexican.
“Oh, you’re going to die like a dog, el-Baghdadi!” promised Trump, his tiny hands gripping the handle of his 9-carat gold M4A1 assault rifle with M&M launcher. “Then, when you’ve finished whimpering, crying and screaming like the Democrat you most definitely are, I’m going after your boss. Barak Hussein Obama…”
The truth clearly hit home. With a forlorn cry, the terrorist leader exploded his vest, taking with him all the evidence that it was the Hawaiians who rigged the 2016 election and that Jeff Bezos inherited his wealth from his rich Aunt Flo who you all know (but will never admit) was Puerto Rican and therefore not really American.
As the smoke cleared, Trump wiped the dust, dirt, and DNA evidence from his face. Finally, al-Baghdadi was as dead as all the previous times they’d killed him to distract from bad domestic news. He reached for his phone.
“Something very big has just happened!” he tweeted out to Sean Hannity and 66 million losers. He would explain it all later but, first, he had Kurds to betray, Ukrainians to blackmail, and a luxury tower to build in Riyadh… All quid pro quo, of course…
Oops. He realised. Had he just tweeted that out too?
It didn’t matter. None of it ever mattered. Not since he’d decided that the narrative would be any damn thing he imagined it to be.
A wind blows, clouds stir, and darkness falls. The nightmare continues.