Charles Foster Trump

When it became clear life was not going to deliver as he had hoped, Charles Foster Kane became weary and dispirited.

He had everything a man could want and yet was haunted by what he could not buy. All he had bought had not satisfied him. Could it be that what he had not yet bought or been able to buy would be the thing that would satisfy him? He had hoped, so he had tried, manfully it must be said, to procure these things, to arrange the conditions by which he might receive those things, and yet those things remained elusive.

What Kane understood, and understood perfectly well, was that the thing he truly sought was love. And he remained mystified that love eluded him so. Surely he had performed the correct obesiances. Surely he had sacrificed enough of his privacy and vulnerability to have deserved love in return.

Kane knew he was different than Trump. Trump was a man furiously bailing. Trump was a variety of shark, who could never stop moving. Having left his authentic self behind long ago, at the bottom of a blue hole in the ocean, Trump had to keep clearing datum, keep vacating the fouled nest of his yesterdays, in order to remain even remotely palatable to himself and to have even a chance of pleasing the shadowpuppets who pestered his ruminations, the effigies who haunted his every waking moment with their capering jeers.

The thousand adjustments every second one required to be Trump left the man with no actual discernable personality, just a throbbing, wet protuberance of desire, ensconced in a shape that was more or less identifiably human. A human weathervane, eager and alert to change orientation the second it became necessary. As the most malleable and chameleonic of human beings, he embodied the very flexibility that had allowed humanity to rise and thrive — the craft afforded by a larger more complex brain, the instinct to subterfuge and cowardice that allowed the proto-human thingumabob to survive in a thumping, thudding world of ambling leviathan. He was the infinite-faced human template on which was written all the crime, all the mischief and transgression that flesh was heir to, on which was inscribed all the sin and horror and murder and demonality that human flesh had employed through the millions of years of its evolution to rise to the top.

This is why Trump's expressions are simian, chimpanic. He is the avatar of the cunning human race. The mark of Cain is on his face; the mark of Cain is his face. In the shifting eyes and the pursed lips, the sucker-like mouth, the flag-waving hair — it is a visage ever-alert for ego opportunity and self-aggrandizement.

That is your poster for human beings, my friends. The last president of the human race. Trump. The final Trump for the human race, before the Tribulation, before the apocalypse, as foreseen in 1st Corinthians 15:52: "In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed."

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