The Trumpomorphosis

by Franz Derpka

One morning, when Donald Trump woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin, which for him was not much of a change. He lay on his slimy back, and if he lifted his head and bent his eye stalks just so, he could see his slimy belly, soft and shining from mucus. The bedding was soaked with it and seemed ready to slide off any moment.

His first thought was to check his hair the mirror. He rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a wet thump, then slithered to the bathroom. He was relieved to see the familiar gray, wispy bouffant was still there.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door of his hotel room. Trump remembered he has due to give a speech with the other GOP candidates that morning. He slimed to the door and awkwardly used his facial tentacles to open it. A chipper young aide greeted him.

“Mr. Trump! Sorry to wake you, but we need to get you backstage. Please, follow me.”

Trump wondered why she did not notice he had transformed into a giant slug. He put away his doubts. Time to make America great again, he thought.