Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom Read online

  Table of Contents

  Clovenhoof and the Trump of Doom

  31st October 2016

  1st November 2016

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  Athens, Greece

  Miami, Florida

  2nd November 2016

  Avlona, Greece

  Miami, Florida

  Sofia, Bulgaria

  Miami, Florida

  Carpathian Mountains, Romania

  3rd November 2016

  Concord, North Carolina

  4th November 2016

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  Salzburg, Austria

  Reno, Nevada

  5th November 2016

  Reno, Nevada

  Lake Geneva, Switzerland

  Reno, Nevada

  6th November 2016

  Reno, Nevada

  CERN, Switzerland

  Reno, Nevada

  CERN, Switzerland

  Reno, Nevada

  7th November 2016

  CERN, Switzerland

  Sarasota, Florida

  CERN, Switzerland

  8th November 2016

  New York, New York

  9th November 2016

  Elsewhere…

  Authors’ notes

  Clovenhoof and the Trump of Doom

  Heide Goody & Iain Grant

  Pigeon Park Press

  ‘Clovenhoof and the Trump of Doom’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2016

  The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9933655-7-7

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9933655-6-0

  Cover artwork and design copyright © Mike Watts 2016

  (www.bigbeano.co.uk)

  Published by Pigeon Park Press

  www.pigeonparkpress.com

  [email protected]

  Clovenhoof and the Trump of Doom

  “You know, it doesn’t really matter what they write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.”

  Donald Trump

  31st October 2016

  Sutton Coldfield, Birmingham

  It was the Toblerone which finally convinced Clovenhoof and Michael the world was about to end.

  It had, all in all, been a successful Halloween for Jeremy Clovenhoof. For his first couple of years on Earth, he had sulked on Halloween. What was the point of trying to dress up and scare people when the good folk of England (who were either too blind to notice or too polite to comment) didn’t realise that Satan himself lived among them? Then he had hit upon the marvellous idea of going out Trick or Treating as himself. Some papier-mâché horns on top of his actual horns, a pair of hairy red socks to cover his goaty legs, and a ton of red make-up over his already red face and people were all “Ooh, isn’t he scary?” and “Oh, Mr Clovenhoof, you look like the very devil himself,” to which he would then reply, in the spirit of the season, “Damn right I bloody do, now give me all your sweets, biatch!”

  This year, Clovenhoof had tried a different Halloween tactic and gone Trick or Treating at a wholesaler’s warehouse. He had knocked and demanded sweet goods and the security guard had obliged readily. Clovenhoof reflected afterwards that his tone of voice and use of a plastic but nonetheless realistic Desert Eagle water pistol might have given the security guard the wrong idea; but if the stupid old duffer thought he was being robbed rather than playfully entreated by a fun-loving local, that was his fault.

  By ten that night, Clovenhoof sat in his squalid flat, surrounded by the chocolates, sweets, seven mobile phones and two fridge freezers he had gained that evening. He sat, a refreshing glass of Lambrini at his side, and cracked open a giant tube of Toblerone chocolate. He stared in horror.

  The triangular blocks of chocolate had changed. The mountain-valley-mountain-valley pattern remained but – by Satan’s balls! – there was a lot more valley and a lot less mountain than he was expecting.

  “Damn you, you cuckoo-clock inventing, Nazi-gold hoarding chocolate-deniers!” he shouted. “This demands a strongly worded letter. Or a turd in a box.”

  Clovenhoof decided sending the Swiss chocolatiers a turd in a box would be by far the clearer message. He was all ready to make a start on it, when he paused. At first he wasn’t sure why. Something niggled at him. Something almost forgotten but deeply important. He trotted to the sofa, dug into its dark, dusty and occasionally squidgy crevices and came up with a crumpled and browning piece of paper. He scoured the four by four grid, and the phrases written in a florid and ancient hand.

  “The mountain of sweetmeats will be separated from its brothers,” he read. “That’s it. Oh, by my sweet swinging dong, that’s it!”

  There was a sharp knock at the door. It was Michael. The Archangel Michael. They had been neighbours twice in their lives (if life was even the right word for immortal beings): once when they had stood shoulder to shoulder among the glorious Host of Heaven and a second time when Michael had been exiled to Earth and forced to live in the flat downstairs. He now lived a short distance across town with the small but perfectly formed Andy and never visited Clovenhoof if he could avoid it.

  Michael was currently out of breath and waving a piece of yellowed paper identical to the one Clovenhoof held. “The mountain of sweetmeats will be separated from its brothers,” he panted.

  “I know!” said Clovenhoof.

  “That’s fifteen of them!”

  “I know!” shouted Clovenhoof.

  “This is all your doing, isn’t it?” said the fallen but immaculately tailored angel.

  “Me?” retorted Clovenhoof. “This has your sticky fingerprints all over it!”

  “Are you suggesting…?”

  “No, I’m bloody accusing!”

  “Would you both shut up!” yelled Nerys, coming down the stairs from the second floor.

  Nerys Thomas, man enthusiast and upstairs neighbour, was one of the only two on Earth who knew exactly what these otherworldly blokes were. She presently bore an expression, if not like thunder, certainly resembled rumbling black clouds gathered over the hills of her Welsh homeland.

  “It’s gone ten o’clock. I’ve got work tomorrow. And I’ve had to let Ben stay in my flat tonight because some pillock told him The Human Centipede was a nature documentary and he’s too traumatised to sleep. What’s going on?”

  “Nostradamus’ Apocalypse Bingo,” said Clovenhoof.

  “The end of the world,” said Michael.

  “Oh, good,” said Nerys. “And here was me thinking it was something important. And real.”

  “No, it is,” insisted Clovenhoof. He waggled his bit of paper in front of her face.

  Nerys held it still while she read. “All The Countries of the World will end in flame and ordeal in the year when each of the sixteen signs comes to pass.”

  “Exactly,” said Clovenhoof. “Laughing boy here is no doubt behind it. When the world ends, he goes home to the Celestial City. Boom.”

  “That’s very cynical, Jeremy,” said Michael. “You, on the other hand, are well-known for wanting God’s creation undone. It’s your raison d’etre.”

  “I haven’t raisoned anything, chum. Besides, I haven’t seen the latest series of Game of Thrones, and I’ve heard rumours they’re going to bring Topless Darts on Ice back. I’ve got too much to live for.”

  “Right. Let me make this clear.” Nerys steered the two of them back into Clovenhoof’s flat. “The world is not going to end. There’s no such thing as Nostrada
mus’ Apocalypse Lottery.”

  “Bingo,” corrected Michael.

  “Bingo, then. It’s stupid. Who came up with it anyway?”

  Clovenhoof flicked her forehead. “Nostradamus, putty brain.”

  “Never heard of it,” she said. “And if you touch me again, I’ll rip your horns off. All three of them.”

  “I like her,” smiled Michael. “But the signs are all there, Nerys. Look.” He pointed at one of the squares. “In the River of January, the divers’ pool will be as emerald.”

  “And?” she said.

  “The Rio Olympics. The swimming pool turned green. No one knew why.”

  “And this,” indicated Clovenhoof.

  “The storehouse of the Britons’ homes will be no more,” she read.

  “And BHS has just closed all its shops.”

  “The thin white duke and Major Thomas will die as one,” said Michael.

  “The motored head will sing of the ace of spades no more,” said Clovenhoof.

  “The forest ape of Cincinnatus will die with child in arms.”

  “Europe’s crown of stars will be broken by England’s decree.”

  “What?” said Nerys. “Brexit is going cause the end of the world? I mean, it has kind of scuppered my plans for a cheap Spanish holiday next year, but it can’t bring about the end of the world. Can it?”

  Michael and Clovenhoof looked at each other.

  “There’s only one prediction left to come true,” spoke Michael.

  “And what’s that?” asked Nerys, scouring Clovenhoof’s parchment. He had crossed off each of the predictions and drawn naked women in the borders.

  “The Trump of Doom will sound in victory, one week after All Hallows’ Day,” supplied Clovenhoof.

  “Trump?” she said.

  “Obviously—” said Michael, in the tones of one who believed it was obvious to no one but himself, “—we would normally take the Trump of Doom to refer to the final trumpet blast announcing the Day of Judgement and the arrival of the Almighty’s Kingdom. But in this case—”

  “Trump,” said Clovenhoof. “Eighth of October.”

  “The US election,” added Michael.

  “Oh, crap,” said Nerys. “I don’t want the world to end.”

  “Nor I,” agreed Michael.

  “Not till I see all of Game of Thrones,” said Clovenhoof.

  Nerys gave a sudden, shrill and slightly hysterical laugh. “But Trump can’t win. That’s ridiculous. He’s a buffoon.”

  “We can pray he doesn’t,” said Michael. “But that’s down to the will of the American people.”

  “We have to stop him,” said Clovenhoof. “We have to make him lose.”

  “That would be grossly underhanded and undemocratic,” said Michael.

  “You don’t have to sell it,” said Clovenhoof. “You had me at underhanded. What’s the alternative?”

  Michael pouted his perfect lips in thought. “We could undo one of the other predictions.”

  “Bring Lemmy back to life?” said a hopeful Nerys.

  “Travel back in time and dye the Olympic pools blue?” said Clovenhoof.

  The archangel looked pensive. “I will think of something.”

  “Jolly good,” said Clovenhoof. He gave Michael an uncharacteristic shrug. “Well, you plough your furrow and I’ll plough mine and we’ll see who saves the world first, eh?”

  “Well, indeed,” said Michael. “I will see you both later.” He paused. “In this world or the next, eh?”

  When Michael had left, Nerys said: “Just one question,”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are there two new fridge freezers in your flat?”

  “Trick or Treating, my shapely friend,” Clovenhoof grinned. He flicked his fingers and Michael’s credit card, deftly pinched moments before, appeared between his fingertips. “It is the season of surprises after all.”

  1st November 2016

  The next morning found Michael pacing the rug, knowing that he’d hate himself later for flattening the pile. His small but perfectly formed boyfriend Andy brought him a cup of tea and some toast.

  “You’ll flatten the pile.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s bothering you, babe?”

  “Everything,” said Michael. “Ebola outbreaks. Brexit. Syria. The changes to Toblerone.”

  “Yes, 2016 has been a git of a year. Although,” Andy gently pointed out, “some of those are obviously worse than others.”

  “But I can’t stand by and let these things happen.”

  Andy patted the sofa beside him. “You know, there are some things we just can’t fix, Michael.”

  “No, that can’t be true. We must be able to undo at least one of them. Maybe Brexit.”

  “Well, unless Bobby Ewing wakes up in the shower and discovers Nigel Farage was just a dream, I don’t see how.”

  “I can’t just sit by and watch Europe distance itself from us as if we’re an embarrassing auntie that’s turned up drunk to a party,” said Michael.

  “The Brexit vote was a shock, but there’s nothing you or I can do to reverse it.”

  “But you love Europe, don’t you? Think of the wine, the cheese, the colourful trousers.”

  “You know I love all of those things, Michael, but we can get trousers from Gap if needs be.”

  “Oh, Gap! That’s your answer to everything. That and Pilates. And sex.”

  “You’re working yourself up.”

  Michael shook his head. “Andy, I need to do something practical to bring Europe together. The Prime Minister says she will press the button on Article 50 and start the Brexit process; but she’s not pressed it yet. I know I can make a difference. I can do something to reunite all Europeans. It’s been done before, after all.”

  “Nice idea,” nodded Andy. “Maybe you could copy that.”

  Michael stood in thought for a moment. “No,” he sighed. “I don’t think a war with Germany is the way to go.” He walked over to the window and looked out at the quiet side street. Boldmere was special of course; this leafy suburb of Birmingham, one of Britain’s less glamorous cities, was home. “What unites the people of Boldmere with the people of France, Spain and Estonia? What inspires their hopes and dreams?”

  “The European Space Agency?” suggested Andy.

  “Not really going so well at the moment,” mused Michael. “Losing that Mars probe isn’t the sort of upbeat vibe we’re looking for.”

  There was a stirring from the corner. Michael glanced at the sleeping bag where their rumpled house guest Heinz Takala raised his head. Heinz – Finn, photographer, artist, occasional Dadaist philosopher and naked bon viveur – had been staying with them for nearly a week. His latest exhibition had caused quite a stir in Birmingham’s art scene. Critics suggested seeing a Finnish perspective on the life of ordinary Brummies was refreshingly disruptive; the tabloids said getting hundreds of people to take their clothes off in public for a photograph was the real reason for all of the attention. The Sutton Coldfield Recorder had perhaps captured it the best with the headline: Scandinavian Perv turns Brummies into Bummies. The exhibition launch party had been held in a Digbeth warehouse at the weekend, and Heinz had been sleeping in their lounge since then. There was a pile of promotional bottom-themed nutcrackers in the hall they’d be having words about fairly soon.

  “You should look at Eurovision my friend,” said Heinz, sitting up, his pale chest contrasting with the Osbourne & Little wallpaper. (In Michael’s view, a houseguest overstaying his welcome was only marginally worse that a houseguest who didn’t make the effort to colour co-ordinate themselves with the décor).

  “Eurovision?” said Andy sceptically.

  “Nothing brings Europeans together like it.”

  “Does it, though?” said Andy. “The assassination of an Austro-Hungarian archduke also brought Europeans together, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Heinz rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You know of course that I perfo
rmed for my country, yes?”

  “You were in a Eurovision act?” Michael said.

  “Of course. I do not joke about such things. Do you remember the Finnish entry for eighty two?” His face was alight with hope.

  His hosts both confessed that they did not.

  “Ah well. Like so many great things we were sadly overlooked. Our band was Kojo and we had the most amazing song. It challenged everyone’s beliefs. If I am honest that is probably why we scored no points at all. Too challenging.”

  “How was it challenging?” asked Andy.

  “It was called Nuku Pommiin, which means “Sleep to the bomb”. Its central message was the best way to overcome a nuclear war would be to sleep through it. Deep, huh?”

  “Deep, yes, of course,” said Michael charitably. “Did you really not get a single point?”

  “Nil point. It’s an achievement of sorts, not everyone could do that. I had the most important job of hitting the big drum. Powerful message, you see. It needed that dramatic percussion.”

  Michael was thoughtful. “A song is a great way to get a message across.” He went to his laptop and his fingers flew across the keyboard as his thoughts ordered themselves. He checked the details against the calendar on his computer. “Astonishing. The last day for registrations is today.”

  “Registration?” said Andy.

  “To enter next year’s Eurovision song contest. I think I will take that as a sign that this is what I need to do.”

  “To—? I’m sorry, I’m confused. How is entering the Eurovision contest going to fix what has been a shitty year?”