[Author’s note: Part 1 of this story can be found here. If you don’t read that first none of this will make any sense. Honestly, even if you do read part 1 first it’s still only 50:50 on the making sense front]
Donald was awoken from his dream, where hordes gathered outside the White House chanting, “Trump! Trump! Trump!”, by a mighty rumbling from the foot of his bed. Donald had never before seen the kilted man who stood there, but knew from his mighty frame, his stern visage and hefty claymore that it was none other than William Wallace himself.
Wallace locked his eyes onto Trump’s own, and in the voice that had unmistakably commanded an army of Scots he intoned, “G’day, mate!”
Trump found his own voice and asked, “Are you the first spirit?”
“Bloody right, mate. I’m the ghost of Hogmanay past and I’ve a load of bonza stuff to show you. Giz ya hand!”
Nervously Trump placed his own hand in Wallace’s bone-crushing grip and , instantly, was no longer sitting on his own cash-stuffed mattress, but standing on Princes Street as fire-works exploded overhead.
“D’ya know where you are, mate?” asked Wallace.
“Why of course…but this is Hogmanay from years ago! I was here that night! Look how beautiful it is, o’sprit! Look how high the oil prices are! It’s magical!”
“What about that fella over there?” asked Wallace, pointing to the left of them.
Donald followed the spirit’s direction and his jaw fell open at the sight of younger, happier version of himself strolling through the crowd towards them. The younger Trump was no more than 20 feet from them when his gait was interrupted by a cheerful and friendly looking skinhead shaking a collection tin in his direction.
“Spare penny for IRA, guv?” the collector asked in a thick Irish brogue.
“A penny? For the IRA? Certainly not!” replied the former Trump. As the young man was turning away to find another donor Trump continued, “Why, for such a splendid, republican cause you shall have [REMOVED ON LEGAL ADVICE]!”
“I was so generous!” marvelled Trump, as he watched the gleeful Irishman gaze in wonder at his overflowing tin.
“No reason for you not to be, mate,” Wallace told him, “You were a billionaire who’d only been bankrupt two or three times, you had the joy of pissing millions up the wall while singing ‘I’m a business genius!’, you’d dipped your wick in more models than any man of your physical qualities had a right to expect and you’d never yet compared a wind-farm to a major terrorist attack. Life’s pretty bonza, mate.”
“I used to love Hogmanay so much. Life was grand. Show me more, noble spirit guide!” but even as he uttered these words Trump realised they were back in his bedchamber and his eyelids were dropping faster than the SNP MP count.
Although Trump felt he had closed his eyes for only a minute he awoke feeling well rested. Standing by his bed was a man who carried the air of youth long-since squandered, spent perhaps on a noble fight against overwhelming odds. With his lank hair, imitation leather jacket and low quality t-shirt he reeked of the kind of poverty that Donald was happy to enforce on others, but personally avoided even when a billion dollars in debt. He’d also have been sporting several bullet holes had but Trump lived in a properly run country that allowed him to keep three or four loaded guns under his pillow.
“You are the second ghost?” he queried, when he’d finished searching under his pillow for an Uzi.
“Aye. I’m the ghost of Hogamanay present, Donald. And I’m here to show you how others are spending their Hogmanay in this oppressed country.” So saying he reached out and took Trump’s hand. Donald started as he found himself hundreds of feet in the air. Below him and the spirit there lay, bathed in the light of the full moon, a huge country estate, its borders encompassing mountains and rivers, and at its heart a castle of such size and opulence that Donald wondered if it was for sale.
“Who lives in such a magnificent place?” he asked his ghostly companion.
“The Queen of Scotland,” came the sombre reply, “The cold-hearted Queen who holds all of Scotland in her evil thrall. Let us observe…”
Donald and the spirit dropped rapidly towards the roof of the castle and Trump found himself shutting his eyes in anticipation of the moment they would hit it. When he reopened them, at the sounds of voices, he was startled to see they’d passed straight through the roof and were in a vast hall. A huge table, big enough to seat 50, sat in the middle of the room and, at one end of it, a group of half a dozen people were eating, drinking and making merry. His eye was drawn to the feature that dominated the room; in contrast to the expensive but mundane chairs which surrounded the rest of table at its head stood a huge and ornate throne. Carved of blackest ebony, but with highlights picked out in gold-leaf, every aspect of it depicted children’s faces captured mid-scream and on each face the eyes were represented by all of the precious jewels Donald could imagine, from diamonds to even bigger diamonds. The figure seated on the throne, holding court over the festivities, wasn’t Her Majesty as Donald had expected, but a much younger, blonde-haired woman.
“I know her!” Donald exclaimed, “She’s the one that writes those stupid books about a kid who inherits a fortune but spends his life helping people and doing good. Oh, what’s she called…”
“We do not speak her name,” intoned the spirit solemnly, “but let us listen to her conversation.”
At that point the Queen spoke, interrupting the young man who had been speaking to her.
“Boy! More champagne!” she yelled and from a dark corner of the room scuttled a lad of no more than 10, clutching a bottle. Licking his lips nervously he filled the Queen’s glass and moved to also top up her companions’. He was halted by the Queen, who had taken a sip of her fresh drink and then sprayed it all over the table.
“Show me that bottle!” she commanded the child in her clipped Etonian tones and, when he wasn’t fast enough, she snatched it roughly from his grasp and read the label.”This is the ’87, you dunderhead!” she screamed, “The ’87 is what we use to fill the bath! You were meant to bring me the ’78!”
“I…I…I’m sorry, miss,” quaked the wretch, “but because we didn’t vote for independence last year I didn’t never get to learn numbers proper at school. Please don’t hurt me!”
If the Queen was moved even the tiniest amount by the child’s pleas, or by the tears welling in his eyes, she did not show it. Instead she reached for an ebony back-scratcher that stood by her throne and struck the poor urchin heavily with it.
She looked without pity at his tiny body now lying on the floor and, tipping the champagne that had angered her so over him, quipped, “Look at that, some of his teeth seem to have gained his precious independence! He’ll be thrilled.”
She laughed and, a beat later, her dinner companions joined in. Soon the hall was filled with the braying laughter of the upper-class English.
“Not every home is so happy this Hogmanay,” said the ghost, “Let us look elsewhere.”
The scene in front of Donald faded into blackness.
Continues in part III