The president of the United States seriously suggested that Americans “clean” their bodies with disinfectant to treat the coronavirus, in response to Bill Bryan, who heads the Department of Homeland Security’s Science and Technology division, touting cleaning agents’ ability to kill coronavirus on surfaces. “I see disinfectant, where it knocks [coronavirus] out in a minute—one minute—and is there a way we can do something like that by injection inside, or almost a cleaning,” Trump said at Thursday’s press briefing. “Because you see it gets in the lungs and it does a tremendous number on the lungs, so it’d be interesting to check that. So you’re going to have to use medical doctors, but it sounds interesting to me.” (When Bryan said that his lab was not doing any research to look into that, the president responded, “Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t work.”)
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What follows is a fictional, satirical account of what happened in the aftermath of Trump’s now infamous comments.
In the wake of Trump’s comments, one couple in Suffern, New York, become somewhat of a social media sensation—fueled by the hashtags #SuffernNoMore and #TrumpMiracleCovidCure—after posting about their thrice-a-day “preventative cocktail”: a dishwasher tablet swallowed back with a shot of bleach.
Since the pandemic’s earliest days, hand sanitizer and toilet paper were already scarce in the United States. As the Suffern couple’s popularity goes viral, trending on Twitter, drugstore and supermarket shelves are similarly purged of dishwasher tablets and bottles of bleach.
When he hears about the Suffern couple, Trump immediately and instinctively loves them. And he loves how his beloved base loves them too. So. Much. Love.
Feeling inspired, Trump throws caution to the wind and, on a whim, decides to announce a series of socially distanced (wink, wink) TRUMP RALLIES! This makes Trump so happy. The daily White House briefings—during which he has to stand in-between that little know-it-all Tony Fauci and the scarf lady, Deb….what’s her name…Birx!—are a piss poor replacement for the thrill of TRUMP RALLIES!
Over the course of the following weeks, Trump crisscrosses the country to bring the people what he thinks they need during such bleak times—him!
Billed as TRUMP LIVE! THE REUNION RALLIES, the president and his adoring followers are finally reunited and it feels so good. (Peaches & Herb knew of what they sang!)
At each of these rallies, Trump is all too pleased to trot out the Suffern couple as his special guests. Chief of Staff Mark Meadows makes sure that the Suffern couple travel separately from the president and his entourage. They’re not exactly jetting around on Air Force One; in fact, they don’t fly at all. They travel exclusively by train—a specially-designed, hermetically-sealed train car of their very own.
Looking worse for wear, with eyes bulging, their hair falling out in patches and flesh flaking off their skin, the Suffern couple chalk it up to their grueling travel schedule.
A rumored germaphobe even before Covid, Trump makes sure never to share the stage with the Suffern twosome, and always stays at least twenty feet away from them. He personally thinks their “dishwasher tablet with a bleach chaser” regimen is idiotic. But he never dissuades them from continuing with it, nor does he ever publicly repudiate it. Why should he? People are eating it up! Trump’s favorite part of the rallies is hearing not just the cheers, but also the screams when the Suffern couple are released to run free through the crowd. The Reunion Rallies ratings may end up being his biggest yet, maybe even surpassing The Apprentice!
With each stop on The Trump Tour, he notices attendees getting more unruly—diving into what look like mosh pits—and the crowds’ cries getting louder and louder, almost primal.
News reports begin circulating about outbreaks of violence, as “zombie-like creatures” begin terrorizing town after town, city after city that Trump visits. While Trump shrugs off such reports as Fake News, he has to admit that the crowds on The Trump Tour increasingly look and sound mighty strange. Stanger than usual.
Trump had always wished that his base could look more “upscale,” but this is different. Their shoddy clothes, shredded to mere rags, reveal open sores and peeling flesh. Their skin tone bears a distinct greenish, or maybe bluish, tint. And night after night, the sound rising up from the rallies’ crowds is a foreign, piercing nbm-nbmm-nbmmm-nbmmmm-nbmmmmm.
“Weird!” Trump says to himself of the followers he only sees from the distance of a raised stage, rarely if ever close-up. Trump may be a showman, but unlike his predecessor, he’s not exactly what you could call a retail politician. And speaking of retail politicians…
Far from “Sleepy,” Joe Biden turns out to be a formidable opponent to the incumbent president. And even though Biden, at 77, is older than Trump, he is as fit as a fifty-something runner. (And his soon-to-be announced running mate Kamala Harris is a fifty-something runner!)
The Biden campaign team is aware of growing reports of what is being called a looming “Zombie Trump-ocalypse.” Then, a top-secret security memorandum is circulated among the team. The memo contains the results of a toxicology report of a Trump rally attendee who was taken into custody after suffering a seizure following a display of public lewdness and indecent exposure. As Biden thumbs through the report, his eyes widen.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” he asks.
One of his advisers nods, “Yes, sir.”
“Come on, man!” exclaims an incredulous Biden. “You mean to tell me that this crazy cocktail those people up in Suffern concocted has actually created a new virus variant that not only can kill, but also turn people into….actual killer zombies?”
Biden’s adviser nods somberly, “Believe the science, sir. The killer zombies have all been infected by a unique strain. They’re calling it Variant T.”
“You idiot!” Meadows fumes at Dr. Deborah Birx. “You were right there when the President started all of this nonsense, and what did you do? Nothing! Have those Hermes scarves finally cut off the blood supply to your brain?! Now look at the mess we’re in.”
“What would you have had me do?” asks Birx.
“Here’s what you’re going to do now. First step, we need to isolate patient zero—both of them. So get on a plane with your crackpot team, up to Suffern and get them under control. I don’t care if you have to use tranquilizer guns, nets, crucifixes, whatever. Just do it!”
As the plane carrying Dr. Birx touches down at Teterboro Airport, she receives word from the CDC team that had been dispatched to the Suffern couple’s home. Husband and wife are dead. Birx instructs them not to call the coroner or do anything until she arrives.
Clad in hazmat suits, Birx and her team make their way up the gravel drive to the white brick Cape Cod-style house. Three empty black Suburban SUVs are parked in the narrow driveway. Two ambulances sit idly by the curb. The silence is eerie.
Birx calls into the already-opened front door, “Hello?”
No response. She tries again. Nothing.
“I am Doctor Deborah Birx and I am here with my medical team on orders from the White House. Hello?”
Birx motions to her team to follow her as she walks through the open door. Inside, they hear nbm-nbmm-nbmmm-nbmmmm-nbmmmmm. The door slams shut behind them.
Seated at the head of a long conference table lined with white-coated scientists, Dr. Anthony Fauci shares his findings.
“It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like that TV show The Walking Dead. Don’t get me wrong, in most instances Variant T is fatal. But in some cases, we’re seeing it mutate and actually turn people who’ve been infected into….for lack of a better word, zombies.
“We believe this variant originated with people who may have already had the antibodies, and then took it upon themselves to undergo a self-prescribed regimen of dishwasher tablets and bleach. After that, it just started to spread, like any infectious disease.
“We have every reason to believe that the same measures being used to protect against Covid-19—wearing masks, social distancing, washing hands—are also effective against the transmission of Variant T. The problem is that the most vulnerable populations are also the ones most resistant to adopting the CDC’s recommended safety measures. Another problem of course is the threat posed by the zombies themselves, but that’s more of a public safety issue. Let’s keep focused on public health.”
“Will the vaccines currently being developed work on the Variant T stain?” asks one of the scientists.
“We have every reason to believe so, yes,” replies Fauci. “But our immediate concern remains stopping the current spread of Variant T. So far, the majority of cases have been contained to areas where President Trump held rallies. They’re like arena-sized Petri dishes.”
Another scientist chimes in, “So, the only way to put an end to it—”
“You got it,” Fauci interjects, “The Variant T strain will only cease when the Trump rallies cease.”
Former president Barack Obama listens into his phone, his brow furrowed in consternation.
“I understand,” he says. “This has always been a monumentally important election, but now our very survival may be at stake. As the leader of our party, I will do everything I can to converge the support of every sector in America to rally behind Joe. You know, ‘we’re in this together’ isn’t just a slogan.”
November 7, 2020. In big cities and small towns across the country, car horn-honking parades and dance parties erupt as Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are declared the next president and vice-president of the United States.
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Summer, 2021. The threat of Covid, and of Variant T, dramatically declines. People are getting vaccinated, masks are coming off, and zombie sightings become a rarity.
Riffing on Ronald Reagan’s famous campaign ad “It’s Morning Again in America,” a new catchphrase now buzzes from Anchorage to Arkansas, Newport to Nevada: “It’s Summer Again in America.”