Trump has disbanded the Senate and declared himself Supreme Ruler of the United States, backed by Russia.
In the UK, Parliament has been overthrown and Farage installed as Conqueror For Life.
All major cities have been walled off, and small bands of rebels fight to survive in the wastelands of the US and England.
The Story So Far: PUNCHFIST! has teamed up with his American counterpart, IRONBALLS! just as news that Donald Trump is coming to visit the area where a machine for punching genitals is being constructed to subjugate the forces of revolution.
Now read on…
A thundering of heavy wheels. The steady beat of the battle drums. High pitched cat calls and random shots. Trump was coming to town.
The convoy consisted of a tank at each end, and between them a ragtag collection of muscle cars and gas guzzlers overflowing with rednecks and angry looking men with no necks in business suits, and in the center The Trumpmobile – a mobile palace, decked out in gold, bristling with firearms and adorned with pictures of a smiling Trump helping the crippled, giving money to Jesus and punching Mexicans.
In the center of the mobile palace was a gold room, and within the gold room sat Trump in the corner, playing with a set of car keys which he jangled merrily in front of his uncomprehending face.
“This is so, so good,” he mumbled, eyes glazed over. “Shiny. Shiny light. Shiny light of Christ. Kill meskins! I did a poo in my pants. So good.”
The door opened and a gibbering, homunculus, unshaven, drooling sewer creature – leaving a trail of slime – lurched into the room.
“Bannon!” cried Trump, hefting his enormous bulk upright as his tiny hands flailed like the arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. “The machine for punching balls? Is it finished? Have we got any Muslims we can test it on?”
“All is well, Master,” drooled the creature as it dripped bile from the suppurating pores which covered its body. “Soon the world will know of how mighty your genitals are in comparison with all the flat pancakes which will be left after we let THIS fucker loose on the world.”
“Laugh at the size of my junk, will they!?” roared Trump, frothing at the mouth as his eyes started to spin in opposite directions. “Just because all the women who’ve ever seen me naked spent the entire time doubled up in screaming laughter whilst simultaneously pointing at my penis doesn’t mean I have a microscopically tiny wiener, no matter what science says!!”
“Your genitals are massive,” soothed Bannon. “But I fear we have more important matters to attend too.”
“Are you saying my dick is not the most important matter in the world?” said Trump, eyeing Bannon. “And, hey, just because the image of Putin with no shirt on gives me funny feelings in the trouser area does not make me gay. I love women.”
“Of course you do,” said Bannon obsequiously. “Shall I cancel your Putin lookalike masseur.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Trump. “Now let’s get on with these matters of state. I’m a busy man with so, so many things to do. I need to keep building this great ‘Murica and make it strong. So wonderful. How’s the border wall with Mexico coming along?”
“I fear trouble, your Extreme Wonderfulness,” said Bannon. “After the last insurgency, we built the wall from 12 foot to 23 foot, but the bastards have gotten their hands on 24 foot ladders.”
“Those sneaky darn Meskins!” simmered Trump. “Never mind! Bring me a baby to eat!”
The door burst open behind Bannon and a gibbering ginger baboon hopped in, screeching and slapping the ground with its simian hands.
“What’s that, Spicer?” asked Trump. “We’re approaching the factory?” Trump tried to rub his hands together in glee, but his arms were too short to get near each other around his gargantuan body. “Time to get sexy with the machine – I mean, time to inspect the machine.”
In the lead tank sat General Dwight D Bastardburger, Head Of All Trump Militia, eyeing the military industrial complex through the view port. The complex was a mess of smoking chimneys and featureless grey buildings, bordered by a thick steel wall.
“Careful, men,” he growled into the comms mic linked to the rest of the convoy. “If there’s gonna be trouble then this is where –“
An explosion tore through the muscle cruiser behind the lead tank, sending a fireball rolling into the air and scattering shotgun toting rednecks all over the place.
“A ding dang doo!” cried Colonel Balls T Itchynuts, the second in command. “They’s got themselves a-this here raidy thang. I married ma mother!”
Bastardburger hit the emergency alarm and the hooting sound of Trump whining in a high-pitched voice resonated throughout the convoy.
Another explosion tore through the column, blowing up the utility vehicle in front of the rear tank, scattering angry besuited right wingers to the four winds.
“The goddamn libtards have cut off our retreat!” yelled Itchynuts. He scooped up the comms unit. “Get those goldurn rootin’ tootin’ doors a-open, ya hear me, numb nuts!” He unholstered his sidearm and clambered for the turret. “No ding dang snowflakes a gonna kick ma ass, goddamn cleche it!”
Bastardburger grabbed him and hauled him down. “Ya darn fule! That ain’t no normal snowflake! That be PUNCHFIST!”
“PUNCHFIST!” A third explosion tore through the column, tearing the mobile lynching truck into smouldering parts and blasting a phalanx of hooded Klanners to the dirt.
In front of the colony the gates of the industrial complex started to creak open as the rednecks, Nazis, Klanners and Wall Street Bankers started to return fire at the unseen enemy.
Itchynuts opened a viewing port and fired off a couple of shots. “I cayn’t see th’ goddamn enemy, dammit goddamn!” he roared.
“They’s bein’ sneaky and hidin’ and not facin’ us likes real men,” said Bastardburger with a quiver of fear in his voice. “Damn them snowflakes. It just ain’t fair using PUNCHFIST! against us!”
Outside PUNCHFIST! and IRONBALLS! watched from their spider holes at the head of the convoy as the gates of the industrial complex finally juddered open and the preocession started to lurch forwards, snaking around the burning wreckage as the revolutionary forces took pop shots at the retreating caravan.
“Now is your chance!” roared IRONBALLS! “Find that machine and destroy it.”
PUNCHFIST! held up his fist. “I shall not rest until my fist has punched many of the enemy. PUNCHFIST!”
“You’d best go,” said Spodworthy from beside them.
“The virgin is right!” yelled PUNCHFIST!, and scurried out of the spider hole, keeping low and sneaking through the open gateway whilst the forces of Trump were occupied with firing randomly in odd directions.
As IRONBALLS! watched PUNCHFIST! disappear into the industrial military complex, he couldn’t help wondering if their plan would work, and why Jaffa cakes weren’t technically classed as biscuits.
CAN IRONBALLS DESTROY WITH GENITAL PUNCHING MACHINE!? WILL IRONBALLS EVER DISCOVER THE JAFFA CAKE CONUNDRUM!? DOES PAUL NUTTALL HAVE A REALLY SMALL PENIS (YES)?
Tune in next week folks for episode six of