Trump 2.0 And The Taking Of Scalps - Illegals, Bureaucrats, And DEI Zealots Run For The Hills

Bob Muzelle had seen enough. The carnage after only four days of the Trump Administration - the bloody, scalped remains of asylum seekers, government caretakers, and the avant-garde of the diversity revolution floating unceremoniously down the Potomac River and out to sea. 

A Last Roundup would have been quite enough, the corralling of progressives and neo-leftists, herding opponents into pens, breaking them, and sending them out to pasture; but the Big Chief wanted nothing but scalps, the humiliation of his enemies left as carrion to be picked clean, their bones left to dry in the Washington sun.  

It was right and fitting, said Trump, channeling his hero White Wolf, Comanche chief who slaughtered, eviscerated, disemboweled, and raped white settlers who had the temerity and audacity to camp on Indian land.  It was justifiable vengeance which, like all violent, righteous retribution, felt good. 

It felt good to send corrupt judges packing, to exile the venal, self-serving prosecutors who built stocks and gibbets to humiliate and hang him; and to burn at the stake the same Salem, witch-hunters.

Bob watched as Gestapo troops rounded up illegal immigrants, stuffed them in cattle cars, and sent them to extermination camps to be gassed, cremated, and sent up Sobibor-like chimneys.  He saw thousands of bureaucrats and all their office belongings dumped on Independence Avenue, summarily dismissed while cranes, backhoes, and wrecking balls took down the bastions of old government 

He saw the SS march into Anacostia ghettoes and scour the projects, handcuffing black men at will while street cleaners power-brushed the trash, needles, and syringes into dump trucks. He saw storm troopers raid every progressive, black-forward, diversity-intent non-profit organization; uproot every rainbow flag, Black Lives Matter banner, and Hate Has No Home Here lawn sign in tony upscale neighborhoods and toss them into dumpsters. 

 

'Oh, God', moaned Bob as he stood gaping as the phalanxes of gorgeous white, sequined, busty girls twirling batons, smiling to the cheers of thousands marched up Constitution Avenue.  He cringed at the sound of tubas and snare drums and at the sight of confetti, while he watched as his hangdog, bullied colleagues ran the Trump gantlet, naked and whipped and herded out of town. 

White Wolf commanded respect and honor not only from his Comanche tribesmen, but from the Kiowa, Sioux, Lakota, and even the farther Algonquins and Mohawks who had heard of his bravery and fierce defense of native American lands.  His annihilation of Bridger's Mill, a white settlement of English farmers numbering some two hundred on Indian land became the stuff of legend for proud tribal communities and a source of fear for white settlers and Union Army protectors. 

The settlement of Bridger's Mill has been soundly sleeping that night of November 16th when a Comanche raiding party led by White Wolf came charging down from the hills setting alight log cabins, opening corral gates, spearing pigs and trampling gardens, bursting into homes and raping, pillaging, and murdering all men, women and children in their path. After no more than thirty minutes all that was left of Bridger's mill was a smoldering ruin littered with amputated, headless, eviscerated human bodies. 

Bob Muzelle could only think of White Wolf when he saw the shuttered caravans leaving Washington, the naked, pitiful bureaucrats of the old Washington establishment on curbs and streetcorners, left to freeze in the January cold, left to wander and die. 

Every nightmarish vision of a second Trump Presidency had come true.  Every last warning about his Hitlerian vision, his pogrom-minded Stalinist gulags, his Pol Pot Year Zero cleansing of an entire country had come to pass.  This was Armageddon, the End of Days 

Poor Bob, deluded, disheartened, wandering fool of the Left whose visions were nothing but products of fantastical incubuses and Succubuses poking in and out of his consciousness, turning him into a fevered St. Vitus dancer.  

The truth was far more sane and temperate - an orderly transfer of power from a disillusioned, fantastical Left to a radical revolutionary Right.  While the promises of Donald Trump might seem like insurrectionist, Nazi torchlight horrors, they were nothing of the kind.  

The era of big government was about to end and the resurrection of nativist individualism and a return to originalist principles was at hand; and while many on the Left saw this turn of events as a horror of horrors, it was simply the fundamental reordering of government and society that happens time and time again - the old Shakespearean Turn of the Screw, the hippy What Goes Around Comes Around, the Buddhist There Is No Change But Change certainty. 

To be sure, this particular turning is bit less temperate and far more bloody, especially given the crude, crass, and bottom-feeding nature of American politics.  This time around is like the Irish-American civil wars of the Five Points district of New York in the Civil War period - a riotous, blasphemous, brutal time of social sorting out before inclusivity was even a pipe dream.  

Vengeance plays are the stock in trade of Western literature. Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus is perhaps the best of the lot where Tamora, Queen of the Goths has her sons capture, rape, and mutilate King Titus' sons in an act of violent, vengeful, retribution; and he in turn murders her sons and serves them up  

 

So it is no surprise that Donald Trump will go after his tormentors and string them up along Pennsylvania Avenue; but no one except his followers knew how close to the ground the Trump scythe would cut.  No worthless, supernumerary, clock-watching Washington bureaucrat would have a job after January 20th.  All DEI (Diversity, Equity, Inclusivity) office would remain in place; and every illegal immigrant would be shown the door in a no-holds-barred break-and-enter campaign of purification. 

Worse still was the ridding of government of every trace of color-conscious, identity pandering affirmative action.  Appointments would be made on the basis of intelligence, professionalism, performance, loyalty, and ambition; and if the Administration ended up as white as the driven snow, so be it. 

'Oh, God, Oh God' moaned Bob again and again as he stood there, frozen in shocked disbelief.  For over ten years he and his progressive colleagues had worked to change America, to convince its citizens that gender was fluid, that the black man should be placed on top of the human pyramid, that women could do no wrong, and that transgenderism was the new Garden of Eden reality.  And now, all gone with the wind, tossed aside to be derogated and forgotten. 

 

Long after the trumpets has ceased sounding and the drums stopped beating, Bob still stood there on Pennsylvania Avenue wondering what would become of him and the country.  The Second Coming was not just the inauguration of a new president but a seismic event.  He watched many colleagues, black men, women, and transgenders pitched into the crevasses of the Trump earthquake.  He saw molten lava and red hot magma boil up to the surface and felt volcanic tremors.  He was a goner for sure, and with him legions of progressives, all run out of town, laughed at by MAGA Trumpists. 

'A new broom sweeps clean', the old adage describing the change of administrations was but tepid porridge compared to the bulldozing cavalcade about to raze Washington. 

'Time to rethink that condo in Tampa', said Bob's wife as she watched him come in out of the cold.