By Cooter Jackson, Editor in chief
MUD LAKE, NV—Greetings, friends. Cooter here. It’s been a while. I suppose you’ve all been wondering where your favorite desert-hermit investigative journalist got off to in the last few months, during the most contentious and bizarre presidential election of modern times. Well, that’s what I’m here to explain.
As I’m sure my readers know, I’ve long possessed incontrovertible proof that Hillary Clinton is the secret leader of the trans-dimensional Lizard People, who are working tirelessly to subvert and control our government and our very civilization. For a while there during the campaign season, it looked like she was going to win. This obviously filled me with terror and unspeakable dread.
You see, Lizard People don’t take kindly to being exposed by hard-hitting investigative journalism. As soon as those scaly bastards take power, Cooter P. Jackson is going to be one of the first warm-blooded meatbags to be kidnapped away in the dead of night and tortured for weeks, before having my thought waves extracted out of my skull by some kind of giant ice-cream scooper apparatus, after which they’ll use my body to incubate their grub children until lizard-spawn larvae burst out of my stomach and consume my still-living flesh for their first meal.
Like any reasonable person in my situation, seeing a reptilian victory on the horizon, I went into hiding.
For occasions such as this, I’ve long been preparing a secret Armageddon bunker: a massive construct of twenty foot-thick, rebar-reinforced concrete, located a thousand feet beneath the surface of the Nevada desert. It’s capable of withstanding a direct hit from a 300 megaton nuclear bomb. It’s zombie proof, death-worm reinforced, dimensionally shielded, psychically protected, with an armored floor to prevent Mole-Man incursions.
About halfway through October, it appeared that our fate was sealed. With a heavy heart, I entered my bunker and shut the hatch from the inside. I wasn’t waiting around for brutal lizard soldiers to come and snatch me away from my rusty trailer in the dead of night.
As I’m sure you’re all aware, there are four things Cooter Jackson needs to live: Food, water, the Truth . . . and booze and drugs. I stocked my Armageddon shelter accordingly.
I tell you what, it put quite a dent in my paycheck from Pharma-Barn. But I managed to stock away, according to my calculations, a ten year supply of mind-altering substances: Beer, wine, scotch, vodka, tequila, weed, hash, dabs, cocaine, crack-cocaine, high-quality meth, low-quality meth, mid-grade meth, amyl nitrate, Valium, Benzedrine, Benadryl, bath salts, codeine, morphine, Dilaudid, Diazepam, mescaline, LSD, mushrooms, salvia, DMT, ecstasy, molly, caffeine pills, silver spray-paint, model glue, adrenachrome, ether, nitrous oxide, and peppermint schnapps.
Whatever Carpenterian horrors might be inflicted upon the sheeple aboveground, I was safe, with enough drugs to keep my brain twisted like a tangled-up slinky for the next decade.
Down in my bunker, with the hum of the generators my constant companion, I sat and waited. And I waited. And I waited. I got a little bored. I decided to take the edge off. I put two shots of peppermint schnapps in my hot chocolate.
I’m not entirely sure what happened after that. All I know is that when I came to, just a few days ago, I had three new gold teeth and a tattoo in Cambodian that reads, roughly translated, don’t forget why you got this tattoo. My underwear was on backwards, and I have no recollection of purchasing them. My pockets contained a receipt for an All-Star Special ordered from a Waffle House in Tallahassee, Florida, and a parking ticket, issued to a yellow Peugeot in Antwerp, Belgium. My toenails had been painted light pink, with the exception of the big toe on my left foot, which was purple.
I also realized that I’d forgotten to stock any food in my Armageddon shelter, aside from twelve cans of cat food. And I don’t have a cat.
In addition, I’d used up my ten-year supply of drugs in a little more than a month.
As starvation and multiple drug withdrawals edged ever closer, I realized there was only one thing I could do. I had to go back above and forage through the ruined remains of our civilization, to evade roving lizard-soldier death-patrols while I scrounged what I could to survive. With deep dread and foreboding, I unsealed the hatch.
Back above ground, having regained my internet connection, I checked in on Hil-Lizard’s™ cold-blooded reign of slaughter. And, to my shock, glory of glories, I discovered that the lizard brood-queen lost the election. Donald Trump, our savior, was president-elect of these United States.
I was suspicious. How, I asked myself, was this possible? I mean, to anyone without razor-sharp perceptions like myself, finely honed over years of practicing investigative journalism, it looked like a one-sided contest. A flawed, yet overwhelmingly competent, experienced, and qualified administrator, against a bloated, narcissistic, pathologically lying, sexist, subtly racist, gasbag man-child corporatist billionaire who tweets like a thirteen year old drama-queen. How had Trump managed to show the American people the goodness and purity of his heart, through that awful woman’s smokescreen of lies? As is my calling and my profession, I had to investigate.
I prepared myself for my journey. I Triple-layered my tin foil headgear to protect my brainwaves from lizard intrusion. I applied a thick coating of lard all over my body, so the lizard soldier’s claws couldn’t find purchase. I drank a half-gallon of rancid milk and fish sauce to spoil the taste of my tender man-flesh, so the lizards wouldn’t be tempted to feast upon me. Then I sat in a bathtub full of ice for three hours, to lower my core temperature until I’d be invisible to heat-sensitive lizard eyes. I was ready.
I approached the little town of Mud Lake cautiously, fully prepared to see lizard soldiers patrolling the streets, their psychic amplifier helmets tuned to even the slightest thought of rebellion or subversion. I expected Lizard butcher shops selling tender cuts of young human, chain-gangs of human slaves mercilessly driven through the streets. Imaging my shock when I saw that none of these things had happened. Things were basically the same as normal. I had to know more.
At the Mud Lake General Store, I noticed a group of fine patriots hanging around their trucks in the parking lot, wearing the symbol of our noble protector, the red “Make America Great Again” ballcap. They eyed me warily.
Wanting to get on their good side and identify myself as one of them, I made some small talk. “How about that Donald Trump?” I said. It occurred to me that these fine fellows, having voted for The Donald, also likely knew about the threat presented by the Lizard Person conspiracy. But as you’re well aware, we can’t just say these things in public. The Lizard People have ears everywhere. You have to be subtle. So I said, “Isn’t it great that Trump is making our country safe from those people?” I winked suggestively, so they’d know I was talking about our scaly lizard enemies.
Their faces brightened. I’d broken through to them. One of them responded, “You said it, brother. It’s about time, too. We’re making America great again. For people like us,” he added, obviously referring to all of humankind. He looked around for a moment, then said to me, “White power.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. I took a chance and responded, “Better than green power,” referring to the bright-green skin of the Lizard People.
To my relief, he laughed. “Yeah, fuck those liberal hippies and their solar power! We’re making coal and diesel great again!”
I was back on safe ground. They’d accepted me as one of their own. Knowing that President Trump would do everything in his power to protect us from all enemies, not just the Lizard Kingdom, I made a subtle reference to the ever-present threat of the Mole-Men tunnelling into our country from their cities beneath the earth. “I can’t wait until he puts a stop to those invaders from down south,” I said, pointing at the ground.
“Aw, my man, we’re on the same page!” he replied, slapping me on the back. “This country was getting a little too brown for my taste, you know what I mean?”
I did. Although the Mole-Men’s fur ranges anywhere from black to a red-ochre, I understood the sentiment. Wanting to keep the conversation going, I referred to the health and vigor of our new leader. I said, “He’s hale, Trump.”
The man positively glowed. He responded, “Heil Trump!”
I have to say, this election really had me worried. But my faith in the American people has been restored. I mean, for a moment there I honestly thought that people were going to vote in a slimy, manipulative, cold-blooded monster, born into power and privilege, who is openly in cahoots with radical, subversive propaganda organizations, who is secretly working on behalf of a foreign government to undermine the very foundations of our democracy and separate us from our allies. I was terrified that we’d end up with a leader who wants to undo decades of progress, load our judicial system and executive branch with comically unqualified and ethically compromised collaborators who won’t stop until they turn our country into a regressive, oppressive wasteland where our civil rights and freedoms will be stripped away, and we will all be little more than slaves to a brutal, uncaring upper class that will savagely exploit our planet’s natural resources for their own benefit, poisoning our air and water, and destroying our climate with no thought to future consequences. For a while there, I thought that the citizens of this country were actually stupid enough to fall for it.
Thank God we got Trump instead. Good work, America.
Mud Lake, Nevada