Satire | America | Life | Politics | Humor
America under a Trump presidency.
A funny (or not) fictional account of returning to America under Trump
I’d been in this same San Francisco bar two years ago before Trump was returned to the presidency. At that point, I packed my family up and went to live in our home in Scotland, fortunate enough to have another home and dual citizenship.
The first change came about at the arrival terminal. My Green Card was only valid for a week’s stay. I queried and was informed that a Green Card was useless for staying in the country longer than a week.
The second was even more challenging to understand. I entered the bar in San Francisco and asked for a Macallan. The barman, a burly white guy, asked to see evidence of citizenship. I showed him my British passport and Green Card.
“This is a free tavern; whiskey is expensive,” he said, not politely but confrontationally.
I stared at him, saying nothing. He poured me a Macallan.
The new government has done away with taverns in the traditional sense. I suppose it was bound to happen if the elected leader doesn’t drink alcohol. Drinks are sold only in freehold taverns, with beer and liquor sold at black market prices.
Another guy entered and handed the barman a ration card, which was then stamped. Then, Barman pulled him a beer from the other end of the bar, and if I knew my beer, the guy was given rotgut.
“That’s your entire month’s ration,” the barman told the man offhandedly.
When the barman returned to this end of the bar, I asked about the rationing card.
“That guy works in the vineyards in Napa. After three months, he was laid off for not working fast enough. If you’re a craftsman and have no work, you’re sent to the wine district or the Central Valley to work in the fields. Most white Americans have no idea how to do the work, so the law is if you get into trouble for petty things, you’re sent to wine country or the Central Vallet to learn how to work in the fields. They get a ration card for food but no money.”
“Hell, so there’s no seasonal workers from Mexico?”
“Hasn’t been since the wall was finished. We got that place so tapped down, a mouse couldn’t get through without a permit,” he said.
“Give me another, please,” I said, pushing my glass toward him.
“You must have a damn good job,” he said, grabbing the bottle from the top shelf. “That’s the maximum I can serve you as a tourist,” he said, pouring my whiskey. “I’ll bring the tab.”
As he wanders to the till, I call him to give the guy a pint of beer from this end of the bar.
“That would cost me my job, sir,” he said.
“Why would that be?” I asked.
“It’s the law. Alcohol is rationed. He doesn’t have the work credits. I can’t let him have another drink,” he said, and put my tab on the bar, $300 and change.
“Since I was last here, the price of whiskey has risen 400%?”
“Market demand,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.
I handed over my credit card. “Sorry,” he said, pointing to a notice behind the bar. “No credit cards for alcohol, sir. There’s a TCD in the corner,” he said, looking over my shoulder.
“TCD?” I questioned,
“Trump Cash Dispenser,” he said.
I pushed the credit card into the machine, and a notice appeared on the screen. I will be charged 50% for any transaction in foreign currency. My $300 was going to cost me $450!
What came out were orange-colored American bills.
I paid the barman, who demanded his 35% tip. “I can’t get by without tips,” he said.
There was a din going on outside. I walked out into Union Square and observed students holding a rally against the increase in tuition fees.
Suddenly, several armored trucks came down Geary Street, marked with an orange letter, TP, which I remember being short for toilet paper. When the truck doors were opened, men wearing helmets and bibs marked Trump Peacekeepers leaped out. They carried AK-47s.
Students were first beaten, then carried off, and pushed into the trucks. I asked a woman wearing a hijab on her head where the students were being taken, expecting her to say a police station where they would be cited and let go.
“They will be taken to the Central Valley to work in the fields,” she said as if a matter of fact. Then it struck me how few women I saw in Union Square.
Having rounded up a dozen or so students, the TPs didn’t immediately leave the protest scene.
They became boisterous and destructive, shaking down everyone standing in their way, coming to the bar behind me. One of them came up and asked to see my papers. “Are you a citizen of our great country?” He asked.
The guy reeked of trouble. He was long, broad-shouldered, with gray-streaked hair below the collar of his uniform jacket. He wore a silver and turquoise bracelet on his left wrist and a gold with the letters TP engraved.
He had a scarred face, a fierce countenance, and a nose that had been broken too many times.
I showed my passport and green Card. “Where are you staying?” he asked.
“I have a home in Mendocino,” I said.
“You did have a home. Green Card holders cannot own property in America,” and scrutinizes my passport.
“I see you just returned. Things have changed; we have law and order now. This home you say you have. How long since you were last here?”
“Two years,” I answered,
“Any home owned by a Green Card holder not sold before Jan 16th, 2026, will have been put under the compulsory purchase powers of the new government. If such a home were left unsold, it would belong to the government and be held under the TRUMP act.”
“What the hell is that?”
“A new housing policy. ‘Trump Real-Estate Under Managed Protection.’ Your home would have been placed into compulsory purchase and sold to Arab families at greatly inflated prices.”
“Over my dead body,” I said.
“Yep, that’s happened,” he said, laughing. “The President has the courts locked down. You’ll feel safer if you become a citizen; we can protect you then. I’d give it some thought. You’re a white guy, speak good English, I don’t see a problem. You can become a citizen in a day under the new laws,” he said, thrusting my passport at my chest. “One last piece of advice: don’t provoke anyone wearing this uniform. Our powers are all-encompassing; there’s been a revolutionary change,” he said.
He’d seemed intimidating before, but now he was downright threatening.
An old man came around the corner of O’Farrell Street, talking brashly, and pulled out and unfurled a flag from under his coat. An American Flag with fifty white stars on a blue background and thirteen red-and-white stripes.
This brute of a TP immediately approached the frail, white-haired old man that a gust of wind would knock over. The TP grabbed the flag and broke it, stomping on it! Then, the old man was arrested for displaying the contraband flag, but the old man wouldn’t surrender.
The TP pushed him to the ground and kicked the old man, causing blood and vomit to flood the sidewalk.
“You fucking rhinos will learn there’s a new boss in town. Lucky for you, you’re too old to send to the fields.”
The TP left the old man writhing on the floor.
I ran past the brute and helped the old man. He was having trouble breathing. I bundled the old man into my car and drove him to the hospital.
In Triage, they wanted the old man’s insurance card. He pulled out a TAC card. ‘Trump Affordable Care’ level 1.
The triage nurse explained they could only give him pain medication, but on TAC level 1, they couldn’t offer any nursing care.
Without warning, the curtain was flung open, and two TPs grabbed me by my arms, marched me out of the hospital, threw me into the back of a truck, and drove to the airport. Two security guards were wearing badges with TSA (Trump Security Administration) written on them and took me to the gate wearing handcuffs.
My passport was stamped ‘Undesirable’ and put aboard a British Airways flight to London, Heathrow.
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