Work Text:
In the land of America, there reigned a President named Donald Trump. One day at his government sponsored business property in Florida, he received a message. A full armed soldier, decked out in the latest camouflage and body armor, armed with an AR-15 and battle knife, delivered a message. It said that, by order of ICE commander Mel E. Gant, Melania, the President's beloved wife, was to accompany his greatest champion into the Everglades with the challenger. If the challenger could best his champion in combat, then Melania would be his to take. If the champion won, Melania would be free and Trump’s tax returns would be safely kept from the prying eyes of the liberals and dissenters.
Though he often boasted of his great physical prowess, the President was a true coward. He despised all confrontation and fighting, contenting himself with passivity and banal threats. So, he turned to his greatest champion, and son-in-law, Jared Kushner.
“Jared,” he said, barely managing to keep his dentures in place, “go with Melania and take my finest golf cart. Armed with the weapons of my Secret Service, I know you will do a tremendous job and defeat Mini Mel. My bone spurs prevent me from going, otherwise I could totally fight him no problem. But you are my greatest champion and hugely strong. After bringing peace to the Middle East and solving the opioid crisis, I have total confidence you can do this.” Jared, with a swollen head and unearned confidence, took the job gladly. So, he borrowed a 9 mm pistol from the nearest Secret Service member, got into the president’s best golf cart, along with Melania, and the armed soldier rode in the back, rode off into the Everglades.
The other members of Trump’s cabinet, knowing how truly ineffective Jared was, mourned Melania’s leaving and knew she was going to her death. As the golf cart rode into the distance, the President’s trusted and beloved daughter admonished her father, insisting that Jared should be followed by secret service members, men who had trained for years to work in the service of protecting the President’s family. Trump agreed, though he sent only the second-best men as the best were his personal guard. And so, the second best the Secret Service had to offer rushed off in the motorcade motorcycles in pursuit of the foolish Jared.
But they were too late. When they caught up to the golf cart, the battle had already been fought. Jared had lost and laid barely alive next to the cart and Melania was gone. It was at this time that a man on a motorcycle rode onto the scene. Members of the Secret Service recognized him as a fellow member of the Secret Service but could not recall his name. He asked only for one of their motorcycles (for he was out of fuel) to pursue the soldier, whom he’d seen run off with Melania. Knowing that speed was everything at this point, and that one man could travel faster than a group, they lent him their fastest bike, as well as a government issue shotgun and bowie knife, and watched him ride off into the distance, bidding him silent prayers of good luck.
The man rode from Florida to Alabama. Finally, in Montgomery, Alabama, his cycle broke down beyond repair. As he mulled over what to do, an agent of ICE rode by in his migrant catching van.
“I know where the First Lady has been taken. Climb into the back of my van and I will take you to her.” Our hero paused for the briefest of seconds, for he knew (as I’m sure you do) of the dangers of ICE and their vans. But he swiftly overcame this two second hesitation and climbed in without a second thought. As he did, he saw many citizens pointing and jeering, taking pictures on their phones. Paying no heed, he urged the driver onward and so they went. They traveled a great distance, through the heart of Mississippi and didn’t stop until they hit Coffeeville, Mississippi. Our hero then jumped from the van and made his way on foot.
He met many people as he journeyed on foot, and all knew him as “the illegal in the Ice van” and mocked him endlessly for it. Many remarked on how his pic had gone viral and how scum like him deserved to die. Many threw rocks and trash at him as he passed, but this never deterred him. His beloved was his only goal.
After several miles, he saw a motorcycle riding towards him. He thought to try and hitch a ride, but as he was about to put out his thumb, the motorcycle suddenly stopped of his own accord. A burly man got off the bike, armed with a gun in one hand and wearing a Proud Boys vest.
“I know what you seek, boy, and I’ve been tasked with stopping you. By Mel’s orders, you will never reach his facility in Texas.” With this he took the shotgun and prepared to fire. But our hero was too quick and shot the offending weapon from his hand, taking everything from the elbow down with it. Long having given up all feeling, both emotional and physical (save for his impotent anger), the Proud Boy pulled a knife from his boot and recklessly charged forward. Expecting this, our Hero pulled out the bowie knife he had and stabbed him through the heart without missing a beat. His enemy dead, our Hero went up to the motorcycle, found it still running and replete with shotgun shells and a full tank, and thus rode off for his new destination: Texas.
He passed through Louisiana and met many more people, but their response to him had changed. Many had heard of his defeat of the Proud Boy, which had been catalogued by passersby on their phones and recognized his valor. Many others, who feared Mel and his ICE and Proud Boy goons, cheered him.
“Hero, hero, the man who can free the children and families from their inhuman detention has come.” Our Hero paid little heed to this notion, his mind so consumed with his mission to save the First Lady. Night came, and needing a place to stay, he sought the kindness of a local Hispanic family he passed in an RV camp. They happily invited him in, having heard of his deeds and quest through the Twitter sphere. The family contained a father, mother, and three kids. They were a good, hardworking family and gave to him all they could spare.
“We have heard of your exploits and they give us courage sir,” said the father. “We have long been hiding in this park, afraid to leave lest ICE discover and deport us. But your quest gives us hope that you may defeat the head of ICE, Mel E. Gant, and his men, freeing us from the dread and torment.” Properly fed, they offer him a bed for the night. In the morning, they refuel his car and, with a basket of food for the journey and a map to ICE Headquarters in Texas one of the children had stolen after escaping an attempted deportation, bid him good-bye.
He rode into Texas, following the map he was given. On his way, he was beset on his left and right by Proud Boys. They said nothing, just pulled out their guns and made ready to open fire. Sensing their intent, and noticing how they didn’t have his rear covered, he pumped the brakes and watched as they, already pulling their triggers, shot each other to death like the fools they were. He sped up and around the pile of their bodies. In doing so, he passed a bus of tourists going the opposite way. He saw them take his picture and knew they’d document his latest deed for the whole internet to see. Mel knew he was coming, and he was glad of it.
At dawn, he arrived at the last leg of his trip. It was a bridge (dubbed the ICE Ice Bridge by locals) that led to the local Embassy and the place where Mel and his ICE goons were holed up. His bike spent on fuel, he knew he’d have to make this last leg of the journey on foot. The bridge was beautiful in its way: a straight shot of a bridge, covered from beginning to end in a thick blue layer of ice, flanked by statues of their patron animal, the vulture, on either side. There were no safety railings, just unguarded edges that seemed purpose built to allow people to fall off the edge. Our hero looked over the edge and saw a vast assortment of cages where asylum seekers were housed when they inevitably fell off trying to cross to the other side, where the hope of finding safety in asylum led them. His shoes, suited for ass kicking and road walking, were unsuited for ice walking, so he took them off and held them in his hands. His socks were even worse for the task, so off they went. Now, barefoot, he set his first step on the icy bridge.
At first, the sweat of the journey which clung to his feet was a boon and helped his feet stick to the ice. But as the cold of the bridge froze the sweat, he began to feel bits of skin rip off his feet with each step. As the bleeding began, he took his first fall right on his ass. Paying no notice to his aching tailbone, he soldiered on, stepping carefully and deliberately. His next fall was full bodied and brought him face-first into the ice. He tasted blood and knew his nose had been broken. On his third fall, he landed on his back and cracked his skull against the ice. Through the daze of pain, he decided that he’d have to go on all fours, for better control and the lower sense of gravity that might reduce his chances for a fall. Soon, his sweaty hand became as damaged as his feet, but the fabric of his jean covered knees helped to compensate for his slick palms.
Eventually, after what felt like hours of crawling, he made it to the other side. He tried to stand briefly on the now properly paved road, but the pain of his flayed feet brought him to his knees and the fall brought him right to the edge of consciousness. As his world grew dim, he saw a few dozen people come out of the wooded glen that ran on either side of the road. His fear flared and he knew it may be the end, but consciousness was no longer an option. As the world fell away, he heard some quick words in Spanish that his sluggish brain could barely translate. It seemed to say, “He has come, our hero has come at last.”
When he awoke, he was in a small, warm tent. There was a young boy dabbing at his forehead and several other people tending to his feet. His clear breathing let him know his nose had been reset and, when he touched his head, he felt the bandage there and saw the bandages on his hands. He tried to stand, but a firm hand pressed him back.
“Please, lie back,” a female voice said in Spanish, “I’m a doctor and I’ve bandaged you up. You’re badly injured and need to rest.” She gave some orders to her helpers and left the tent in pursuit of some painkillers.
When she was gone, our Hero got up, ignoring the shouts from those around him. He found his socks and shoes and forced them on over the bandages. His weapons had been placed near the doorway and he stooped down to pick them up on his way out. He limped out and blinked in the sunlight. He spotted the Embassy/ICE Headquarters in the distance and immediately set out for it.
Instantly, he was beset on all sides by concerned seekers who all attempted to get him to go back to the tent. He shoved them all away and kept going forward. He eventually got to the entrance and met a guard.
“I’m here for Melania and to face your boss. You gonna get out of my way or am I gonna have to take you down too?”
“Who are you,” the guard asked.
“My name is Lance and I’m here for the women you have kidnapped.”
“Oh, you’re him,” he said, recognition tinged with fear in his eyes. He spoke into his phone and said, “Wait here, the boss is on his way down.” The guard stayed where he was, fidgeting in anticipation of his boss’s arrival. When Mel made his entrance, it was easy to see why he was so feared and obeyed: He was an immense man, muscled to the gills and well over six feet. He seemed to radiate power and rage and it was clear that he meant business. He towered over everyone, even Lance, and betrayed no emotions in his eyes as he glanced over Lance.”
“So, it is you who have come for my prize,” he asked.
“Yes, and I mean to return her to the one she loves most.”
“And how will you accomplish this, surrounded by my guards and me?” he asked, a foolhardy glint in his eye.
“Like this,” and, without further ado, pointed the shotgun at his side in Mel’s face and, without further words, pulled the trigger.
The now headless body of Mel fell to the ground, twitching and bleeding but utterly harmless. The guards at his side were too stunned to react to the gunshot and knife wounds that ended their lives. Picking up their now ownerless weapons, Lance limped his way through the compound, silently taking out those he surprised with a knife or instead with a gunshot. All told, more than thirty men fell that day before he managed to find Melania tied up in the detention center control room. He blasted the control panel, freeing all who had been unlawfully detained by ICE (their cheers could be heard even this far into the facility). He unbound Melania and helped her up.
“I’ve come to return you to the one you love most.”
“I knew you would, my love” and she planted a kiss so passionate and loving on him that he was almost floored by it. With a last glance at the controls to ensure all had been freed, they left the facility to cheers from the detainees who were now free people again. They boarded an ICE chopper and flew off into the sunset.