Kung Fu Trump

by Roberto Dinero…

Robert De Niro

Hi. My name is Roberto Dinero, and I’m from the LA. East LA. The mean streets, where it all goes down.

Shit. Okay, so you know who I really am. What gave it away?

But that’s not the point. Everybody has the right to use a pseudonym. If Martin Lieber gets to be Stan Lee, and Benjamin Franklin got to be Mrs. Silence Dogood, then I get to have a pen name too. That’s not the point.

The point is that most of you probably don’t remember me calling out President Trump. “This f***ing idiot is the president? The guy is a f***ing fool.” Yes, I said those things. But I was just getting warmed up.

“Our government today, which the propping of our baby-in-chief — the Jerkoff-in-chief I call him  — has put the press under siege, ridiculing it by trying to discredit it through outrageous attacks and lies.”

If I just would have stopped there, I wouldn’t have this little story to tell. But No, I couldn’t just let it go. That’s when I said that I wanted to punch him in the face. That’s when things started getting interesting.

So there I was getting shit-faced at home the other night, as people in my line of work often do, when the doorbell rings. “Who could that be at this time of night?” I said to my cat. That damn cat was no help at all.

I answered the door with much bravado and standing there were two men in black suits and sun glasses. Who the hell wears sunglasses at night? Corey Hart? Then I realized: they were Secret Service agents. What happened next I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years.

They told me to come with them, that the President of the United States wanted to see me. I downed another vodka martini with a lemon twist and followed them out the door. I mean, come on, who doesn’t go when the president calls, even if he is a f***ing idiot?

They took me down to the loading docks, to this old abandoned warehouse there. My first thought was that they were going to off me. But if I could survive the Mob in movies like Goodfellas and Casino, I figured I could hold my own with these clowns.

Inside the warehouse there were a dozen more agents. A few beauty-pageant queens, as well. The vice-president of the United States was there, reading his Bible, the chief of staff too. Then he came out of the shadows, our very own dumbass-in-chief. The man with the small hands.

“So,” said the man with the small hands, “I hear you’ve got a few things to say about me.”

I thought I already said them. Idiot.

“And that you want to punch me in the face.”

You got that right: right in his orange f***ing face.

“So,” he said, “what are you waiting for?”

Here, I asked him? Now? What about all his body guards?

“They’re not going to interfere,” he said. “It’s just you and me.”

I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.

“I must warn you, however,” he said, “that I have a black belt in Kung Fu.”

So what? I have two Oscars. Besides, he was wearing a suit. Bironi. And dress shoes. Cucinellis. He didn’t much look like a Kung Fu master to me.

“Bring it on,” he said, and then he went into a karate stance.

I was no fool. The second I went for him, his goons were going to stomp me within in an inch of my life.

“Let’s see what you got, Raging Bull.”

Raging Bull? Had he forgotten all about Taxi Driver? Mean Streets, too?

“More like The King of Comedy,’ he said, and that was it. No one insults my work.

It was at that moment we went for each other, like two sumo wrestlers. We exchanged blows, first me hitting him in the face, then him hitting me in the groin. A groin puncher, eh? Didn’t surprise me.

We went at it like Hung Well and Li’l Wang, which was really good for me being that I had never starred in a Kung Fu movie my whole life. I just imagined I was Bruce Lee. Method acting, you know?

“Bruce Lee,” he said? “Makes sense you’d choose an immigrant. “Myself, I’m Chuck Norris, a red-blooded American.”

What a f***ing idiot. Bruce Lee was no immigrant; he was from San Francisco. And didn’t this moron know, as much television as he watches, that Bruce Lee kicked Chuck Norris’s ass in Way of the Dragon. I guess he only knew Chuck Norris from Walker, Texas Ranger.

“When I get done with you,” he said, “you’re going to be like in the movie Awakenings, and mostly resemble Frankenstein.”

Oh yeah, I told him: When I get done with you…  Shit. I didn’t have any references because the motherf***er wasn’t in any movies at all, not unless you count Home Alone 2.

“Bring it on, Raging Bull.”

Raging Bull? Again? But that was no insult.

“Older Raging Bull,” he said. “Old and fat Raging Bull.”

Now he’d done it. That only motivated me more. For Hollywood actors, it’s all about motivation. And besides, I got an Oscar for that film.

We went at it like two Kung Fu Pandas, trading blows until we were both bloody in the face, all the while him insulting me like Muhammad Ali. We went at it like Kung Fu Hustle. Big Trouble in Little China, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

We went at it for what must have been half an hour. I could tell he was tiring by the way he was slowing down. When he went to catch his breath, that’s when I let him have it, a karate punch right to the belly. That should finish him off. As many Big Macs as he eats, he should have been softer than soft ice cream by now.

But he wasn’t. And it wasn’t. His belly, I mean. Instead, it was as hard as rock candy. All I felt was my hand being crushed, like that poor slob’s head with the baseball bat in The Untouchables. When I pulled back, I could tell my knuckles were all smashed to hell.

What the f***, I thought? Was he truly a Kun Fu master? Was he really made of stone?

“Not stone,” he said, “steel.”

It was at that moment he began tearing open his shirt. Like Superman. Was Donald Trump just a secret identity, like the bumbling fool Clark Kent? Was he really the Man of Steel? Not hardly.

He opened his shirt to reveal a metal washboard. Washboard abs, my ass. The sunuvabitch was a cheater. Not only was he a liar, now he was a cheater. It shouldn’t have surprised me.

“You’re going down,” he said, “Cape Fear down. Then, me still holding my bloody hand, he knocked me to the ground.

Who did he think he was? Nick Nolte? More like Archie Edward Gouldie.

Archie Edward  Gouldie, better known as the Mongolian Stomper, was a professional wrestler back in the golden age of television who, when his opponents were down, finished them off with his infamous black boot.

What no one knew at the time was that the boot was full of lead. Enough heavy metal so that when he hit them in the head, it rendered them unconscious.

Such would be my fate as well, for little did I know that the man with the small hands was a huge, HUGE, professional wrestling fan. With as much TV as he watched, it made perfect sense.

I looked up from the ground and that’s when I saw him taking off his shoe: the Cucinelli. “This isn’t one of your Hollywood movies, Bobby,” he said. “This is the real world.” He then reared back and really let me have it, bashing me over the head with that shoe. That’s the last thing I remember.

When I woke up the next morning, the warehouse was empty. My head was killing me and that’s when I realized, the sole of that Cucinelli must have been lined with lead. How did I know? I own at least a dozen pair of Cucinelli myself, and more women have hit me in the head with them than I care to swing a stick at.

I got up off the floor, realizing that I didn’t have money for cab fair or even something to eat. But the bastard did leave me a coupon for McDonald’s: sausage biscuit and hash browns. Sunuvabitch. I can’t stand McDonald’s. Truth was, though, I could go for about anything right now. I didn’t have dinner last night, and it was going to be along walk home.

F***ing idiot. The coupon didn’t even include coffee.

 ———————————————————————–

Kung Fu Trump is the latest in the Flashbytes series from worst-selling author Philip Loyd. Inspiration for the story comes from Robert De Niro’s video where he said he wanted to punch Trump in the face. According to De Niro, it was simply in response to Trump saying the very same thing.

 

 

About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. Loyd has worked for Forbes and McGraw Hill, each time running for his life as if waking up from a nightmare. He dreams of one day moving to Hollywood and winning a Razzie. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. PhilipLoyd.com

 

 

Get these other great T Philly titles at Amazon.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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