Justin and Me And Trump Make Three (or is it 11?) - THE REDUX

By Stephen Weir The gentle tap tap quickly birthed a knock knock followed by a kick kick at the base of my front door. Someone wanted me wide awake, like yesterday.

“Hey Dream Boy, rise and shine,” barked a loud voice from the other side of my solid oak front door. Was that a faint Quebecois accent lurking in that military staccato?

“ Mange la merde”, I screamed back. I wasn’t going to give up on my disturbing dream without a fight. I know this voice; this man was going to make my morning its own waking nightmare.

“ It is Justin, he knows.” My unrequested wake-up service shrieked right back at me. Yes, I was correct, this wasn’t going to end well.

“What does His majesty know? And why does he suddenly want to speak to me after the last time?” I turned the volume down a notch, best to find out what the hell I had done before I ended up having to buy a new door.

I am a Toronto based news hound who will do anything to get a Front Pager. I am not always successful. And I am not shocked that another critic wants to tell me what a loser I am.

 Take last month. Acting on my own psychic tip I went in disguise (I wore a tie) and snuck into the back pew of a Black Methodist church’s private service. I was ready to take pictures for the Globe of Trudeau worshipping with the congregation.

Knew that I had the scoop. Shoulda guessed Justin would spot me. He has that sixth sense that all A-list celebs do. Preternatural. He could smell the media! Canada’s number one guy nodded at his “team” and I was out the door.

He did this even though we go way back. But more of that in a moment.

This is the backstory of how I had suddenly vaulted to the top of the PMO’s Shit List. Wish I knew why I was now getting this dawn pardon?

The PM knows about you and Monsieur Trump. He wants to talk.”

‘How could this be?’ I asked myself. I only finished the dream when he started kicking the door down a scant 2-minutes ago.

‘“Come in asshole.” I stood up and swung open my now creaky door and gave him a sweeping one-arm salute. Standing ramrod straight in front of me was a tall, tall soldier. White hair. Braided hat tucked stiff under his armpit. Five stars on each shoulder.

Gulp. The strap on his sidearm had snapped open.

I didn’t have to modesty it up. I was fully dressed and mostly awake.

I had come home from the annual Press Dinner last night in my 20-year-old suit and almost pressed black dress shirt and blue tie. I did a faceplant on the floor and started my prophetic night terrors as soon as I went through the door.

 Wish I knew what the premonitions and the blackouts are all about. It certainly wasn’t booze related, I haven’t had a drink since that infamous Putin Dream I had 1 year, 11 months and 11 days ago.

Shame about PooTee. It wasn’t my fault, or at least I don’t think it was. Sure, some people jumped out of some Kremlin windows but not even a single Red Square general shed a tear.

I suspect that Justin and the dream I had been having about ex-prez Trump’s coming death is what it's all about. My inside scoop on the future.

By the way the rowdy rabble, call me the Death Dreamer. I am never wrong. Do yourself a favour, don’t send me the pillow you dream on, cause darlin’ I will dream on it too.

“Jimmy Olsen. Shake it off. PDQ. This is strictly off the record. There isa special prison cell waiting for any grand bouche fifi grappeau "

He doesn’t. Remember that pew toss I was talking about? He was the officer overseeing Trudeau’s bully boy bodyguards who picked me up by my armpits, waddled me out of the full-blown speaking-in-tongues Black Methodist service and tossed me out face first.

That dream got me into this mess and the one that followed. It all starts after I had dreamt that Trudeau was going to join the congregation in a hush hush revival service. Flash. I woke up, grabbed my camera and hit-the-door-running. It was to be my stop-the-presses spread. A TikTok pay day moment.

After the subsequent Steve-toss I dusted myself off and stood on the sidewalk hoping to snap a picture of Him walking down the steps ahead of the fawning congregation. No way, Jose. My escort stood chest to my chin blocking the shot until the limo pulled away.

This time he let me walk out of my house on my own two feet. As I was getting pulled out of my house and down to the street, an armoured Hummer with a machine gun turret and sharpshooter at the ready, screamed to a full stop at the sidewalk’s edge. Horrors. It was a NO PARKING spot, in Toronto no less. I knew the PM was PO’d.

The Hummer door opened. Justin sat in the back in full body armour. So, chic, even for his camo. “Bonjour mon amie, been to church lately?” He sneer-laughed at me.

I don’t kiss ass to any man that brings a combat tank to a Sunday drive. I let my morning burps, grunts and farts do my talking.

“It is for your own safety, Steve”. The PM was suddenly all serious. “Trump didn’t like the latest dream. He really really doesn’t like that dream. Don’t suppose you can take it back? “

“He knows? ”I gasped. “And about my success rate?”

“Yes, he knows. Everybody knows. He even calls you the Death Dreamer” Justin yelled at me. Spit hit my mouth and chin (at least one of us got to brush this morning - he actually tasted pretty good)

“Like Alex Jones, Tucker Carlson and ex-Canucks Elon Musk and Ted Cruz too?” I was all gape mouth.

“Stephen. When I say the whole world. I mean every single person on the planet that dreams in English. Everyone. That’s what happened last night while you slept. Look out the window.”

I guess he is the true Spitter In Command. I used the elbow of my shirt to wipe the side portal glass clean-dry. He was right. Thousands were surrounding the Hummer. Many held homemade signs crudely written with lipstick.

“ Whatz The Day Trump Goes Away (For Good)?” was one of the more popular signs. My fav was written by Jimmy Kimmel. "One Million US for 10 minutes tonight.”

“IF you get me a mill in cash, I will join you” stage whispered Justin.

Time for my Big Question. “How much do they know? “

“It was at the dot of midnight,” explained Trudeau. “It was like one of those Amber Alerts you get on the phone, only louder. Everyone and I mean everyone in English Canada heard it in their sleep. They had no choice.”

“We could see your back. You were leaning your head through a small door. We could hear you Tsk Tsk, Mon Dieu and 45-and-Out,” he continued. “Everyone knows you are the Death Dreamer, the dude who dreams people into death.”

“It was the Big One. The Liar and Chief. The Orange Guy. You said sweet dreams on the 11th. But you never said which month!”

“It is this man’s fault” I said pointing at the escort. “If he hadn’t took his boots to my door, I woulda finished the storyline in my sleep, and the world would all know by now when Trump will start his dirt bath.”

I thought it was case closed but apparently it was not. Justin pointed out that I had also neglected to say how he will die. Murder. Suicide. An overdose of Adderall? How about a past-dated Whopper (or three)? What is the lucky month?

Timing is everything. The think tank on Parliament Hill is working on a trade deal with the US. Should they rush it through before the Orange Guy keels over, or wait until after, when there is a new mood in Washington.

The Republicans want to know who to blame. Melania wants to know how long she must wait until she is free. The banks want to know when they should start foreclosure of the Trump Tower. Fox News wants to know when they must change formats (but they don’t).

And So Time Passes

Everyone wants me to dream and tell. But without the final tidbit of knowledge, the month of final disclosure, all the demonstrations, the calls and the dunning tweets began to fade.

Okay I am a patriot. I did tell the PM the month (In my dream I look out the window and it is obvious when it happens), but the rest of the English dreaming world will have to wait.

I hear Trump has taken back the dime he tried to drop on me. He now crows that the Death Dreamer has lost his mojo and only he knows how to beat the nightmare predictions.

Last night I went to a church revival with Justin – he has been grateful for the intel. He had remembered the importance of today’s date and came by in his Hummer. After the service he told me that I fell in front of the alter and screamed in some ancient language.

The next thing I remember after that is being on the floor behind my door. Mr. Medals and Guns had dumped me there. What was happening to me?

I can now hear cheering from every direction of the compass. I can see flags at half-mast. The lights are dimmed at McDonalds. KFC staff wear black arm bands. I am right. The Christmas lights have been switched off. It is December the 11th.

I think I will call Jimmy Kimmel. One lingering question remains, is TV America ready to hear how the big guy died? That has to be worth a million. I know the answer, It came to me while on the floor of the alter. And yes Trudeau joins me on the show when I laugh and say Trump pulled an Elvis (or was it a Genghis Khan?)

Post Script– Obviously I got it wrong. 

December 11thhas come and gone. I didn’t get on Jimmy Kimmel. The only celeb to pass that day was retired baseball pitcher Gaylord  Petty. Never mind, the Death Dreamer was at it again last night. Justin and I have a date for March 11th. Please don’t tell anyone.


How this story came to be and why what you just read was an update / edit of the first version which is also on my website.

It was the last day of October and I was at the Toronto's Pearson Airport with my adult family. We were in Chef Zane Caplansky's Deli in Terminal 3 wolfing down Montreal style sammies waiting for the overnighter to Iceland to load.

We had a few hours until the Icelandic Air flight took off. Just enough time to work out what I was going to write about on that flight. You see I just gotten a txt message from a classmate at Windsor U. He said he had forgotten to mention to me that I had to submit, tomorrow, a fictional story for our 4th year Creative Writing Course.

I have been writing for over 50 years, mostly news stories and magazine features (although some critics might say I only write fiction.) What to write? 

My daughter-in-law said write about what I know. Base my whopper on something from my recent past. Good advice, and I followed it.

The backbone of this story is based on a true event that happened to me in early July with Justin Trudeau and his CSIS bodyguards. You can read all about it a few stories down from here.

The flight was five hours long. I finished my story just before we touched down.  While waiting for our cab ride to our apartment, my longtime editor (my wife) proofed it, tightened it up and tarted it up for good measure.  I e-mailed it to my prof who got it, because of the time difference between Iceland and Canada, actually a few hours early.

I loved it. The class hated it. Think they thought it read like something a 70 year old would write - they were right (the picture above is my business card and that is me) Most didn't read past the first couple of paragraphs.  

I posted the story on this blog and put teases on Facebook and Twitter. MISTAKE. It had only been up for an hour when both Musk and Team Zuckerberg, shut me down. I guess it isn't a good thing to write about the death of a US president.  I apologised non-stop for a day, removed some offending art work and adjusted the story somewhat. They let me back on.

But yes, I did dream about #45's death of natural causes. What is interesting is that since I wrote the first version, I have been quizzing adults about if they have ever had Trump appear in their dreams. In hot tubs and swimming pools and on the train, I find an opportunity to pop the question. Most who say no are women, most middle-aged men say yes. The paranoids who think I may be CSIS say they never dream.

copyright - Stephen Weir 2022

Images created by Dall-E AI


Popular posts from this blog

America Wild. The name of a movie, a metaphor for the star!

Trinidad and Tobago Kidnap Movie Kills At Box Office

No Butts About It (although judges liked his Butt!). Mr. CHIN Bikini chosen today