This book is not fiction. This book is not fake news. This book is not necessarily not fake news. This book is not non-fiction, either. This book, is however, a set of alternative facts acquired over the latter half of Donald J. Trump’s campaign for the presidency. For someone like me who writes neither fiction nor non-fiction, truth or not-truth, neither solely facts nor alternative facts, the 2016/2017 political season was a treasure trove of ill-found acts, clichés twisted beyond any semblance of recognition, realities hammered into false idols, and words stretched beyond their point of breaking. Yes, it was a beautiful thing to see the moorings of what we had for hundreds of years in The West agreed upon as tangible realities be uprooted, leaving an entire cultural tradition twisting off into the bleak horizon. So, there are elements of non-truth to this very honest book, and although I am not totally proud of everything that happened in this book, or even the things I wrote, I am definitely not un-proud of anything contained within these modest pages. I am certainly not very un-disappointed with how it all came out, but, to quote Trump himself, “We’ll see.”
It was also a time when my reality became a not-reality that was ’so real that I swore I was seeing things that may or may not have been there, but they were; at least, I thought they were. Even if they were not real, they were real enough to make me say, “Okay, Trump, you win. I lose. Screw this, I’m running away to Mexico.” Now, I’m no longer a “working writer.” No, I surrendered myself to the primitive, dusty oasis of a place in Mexico I will never reveal. I almost completely broke with reality as I interviewed Lucifer, Jesus Christ Himself and imagined political advisor Steve Bannon turning migrants in taco filling. That’s why I had to leave reality: to find it again. The insanity that was Trump’s ascent to power has been –mostly – washed away by strong mescal brewed from agave cacti and massaged away by lovely brown-skinned woman who laugh at me, the over-sized, oafish white boy from across the Gulf of Mexico. I don’t follow politicians around anymore begging for answers I know are the best lie they can offer, and I don’t chase limousines with high-profile gangsters anymore. However, I do think a sense of what I used to know as “reality” might be coming back to me, so long as I keep far away from my old homeland: ’Murica, Land of the Free and Home of the Brave. Human life can be bought for less than the price of a steak dinner in mid-town Manhattan and the price of living flesh, a lovely seniorita, is even less. Some pocket change will keep you drunk all afternoon, and everyone knows the politicians are full of shit, on the take and out to get you. In other words, it’s a purer, simpler, more honest version of America where a man’s bribe money still means something and a cocked .38 caliber pistol means more than a man’s word. The air is so hot, so heavy with sandy dust, at times that you gasp to draw a breath; the sun weakens your back and you impulsively slump forward as you struggle to get to a shady spot; water never seems to slake your thirst; your skin buns with heat as it run with salty water. It’s everything society aspires to be, and everything I’ve looked for in a country. Still, not having worked in a while, money started running short, so I thought back to my times covering The Don as he stole a presidency – all by destroying language and, along the way, reality in many ways. I don’t know if he meant to, or if he’s even that smart. He’s either a genius or an idiot savant; maybe a complete moron. The jury is still out on that one. The verdict is in on this, though, Trump won and I lost. Essentially, I needed a few bucks, so I contacted my old friend, Big Ed McCluskey, who had always saved my bacon when I needed him to. He put me in contact with one of his remaining publishing friends, and I wrote this book, which is supposed to be, if nothing else at all, the truest record of one man who fancied himself a writer who had the nerve to try to match wits with the man who “has the best words”: Donald J. Trump. As I said, he won – or I lost – however you want to look at it. Truth, when dealing with the likes of POTUS 45, is like light shot through a prism: The eye can see every shade, hue and color of the rainbow, but you can’t seem to pin down any one in particular. When the curtain finally fell after the shit-show that transpired between us, I was just another sucker who had fallen for the latest carnival barker.