The car seat creaked dangerously as the hairdresser settled into it. A deep sigh of flimsy metal put under far, far too much stress echoed throughout the structure of the vehicle. What did he expect? In the new state of America Magna all manufactures were produced in the great factory complexes of occupied Mexico. The oppressed population of that country, forever living in the shadow of the great walls which criss-crossed that benighted land, seemed to take some perverse pleasure in deliberately churning out poor quality vehicles. At least that’s what Fox and Breitbart said these days (the last rogue CNN contributor having long since been apprehended).
Ted, for that was this hairdresser’s name, pulled out of the parking lot onto the Grandfather Drumpf memorial highway. Highway was perhaps a rather kind way of describing this misbegotten patch of road. It had been built by the Consortium of United National Trumpians, a well known paper shell for El Rey de Mexico’s expansive business interests. As the engine stuttered, Ted glanced sadly at the ruins of the Donald Trump Monument, still smouldering from the terrorist attacks of the Californian Freedom Movement – it seemed such a shame to him that these strange people couldn’t see the truth of what the Donald had brought to his delighted nation. These days all that could be seen of the obelisk were the letters ‘T R U’, defiling the great man’s name which had been so proudly emblazoned across it. As he moved further down he looked somewhat mournfully at the remains of the Capitol. When the great leader had ascended to his throne not only had he quickly disbanded the ‘Main-Stream Politicians’ who had dared to resist him, he had also taken most of the structural supports of the building to erect on the top of the ‘Donald Trump White House’ (it was actually a strange shade of orange). Now all that remained were a few romantic ruins, bedecked in Pepe the Frog graffiti.
Passing a convoy of police tanks, Ted pulled up at Trump Tower 2 (The President always had to have the biggest tower, the best, one that was better than anyone else’s) and pulled off his gloves. It still seemed strange to him that all citizens were required to wear gloves several inches thick, designed to emphasise the great size of their hands. He knew though that if he wore them while cutting the Leader’s hair he might make a mistake again. Clumsiness was not easily forgiven in America Magna.
He stepped into the tower, it still struck him how deferential the crowds were, shuffling in great queues to gain the slightest glimpse of the dear leader. He skirted round the back as he always did, to the secret door at the back of the display case.
The leader was sitting there, as he always did, looking as if he were in mid speech. In the background a radio played a repeated snorting noise, a sound comfortingly familiar to all who watched the compulsory replays of the debates which had led to the kind leader’s rise to power. His fingers were pinched and posed as always, the leader seemed to be contemplating his next attack on the manipulative enemies of America.
Ted carefully lifted up the wig and put it on the stand. He knew by now that he would have to work quickly. First the spray, then the scissors. He set to work on the hair, a snip here, a trim there. Finally, stepping back, he admired his masterpiece. It amazed him how over the course of the last 30 years his careful substitution and manipulation of this headpiece had kept the whole of America convinced that Donald Trump was still a vibrant, forceful young premier. No matter that his speeches were now strung together from old recording and the strident braying of the ‘all nu Donald Trump imitating Donkey’. No matter that his physical form only existed as a wax effigy adored by thousands on a daily basis. The slowly mutating blond combover convinced everyone that the leader remained the potent force he always had been.
Of course there were some who wanted to put an end to Ted’s silent loyalty to the leader. All the actual power these days was wielded by his son, Barron Trump, and his wife, Chelsea Trump-Clinton (if you can’t stop them running against you in elections, dynastically involve them in your power structure…). They wanted him out. They wanted him gone. But Ted was happy, he liked his job, it gave him purpose.