Wrangler & The Tower


Wrangler & The Tower was written in September 2016, long before I realized the media narrative on Donald Trump was comprehensively false. Since then, I have been hugely impressed by the manner in which he has conducted his business, when faced with constant adversity from opposing forces as crooked as they come. Given that this is nothing more than satirical fiction, I have decided to leave this piece untouched, regardless of the fact that my political views have changed considerably since it was conceived. And should the great President Trump ever happen across this, well then I’m fairly assured he has a sense of humour. 

Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫

[1] Interpol “Evil”
[2] Megadeth “The World Needs A Hero”
[3] Herbie Hancock “Rockit”
[4] Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven”
[5] Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Two Tribes”
[6] Gino Latino “Welcome”
[7] Ella Fitzgerald “
I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair”


What is the big obsession with global domination anyhoots? I mean, I’m all for making a name for oneself and understand that the world needs its fair share of do-ers to function efficiently but it invariably ends up going to the head. It’s all about the power trip and, if you trace this back to its origins, I’m fairly assured that the school yard is responsible. As you open your tuck box next to Cleatus Jones from the wrong side of the tracks and discover that your Snickers Duo trumps his shop soiled whole grain cereal bar, it’s all too inviting a proposition to laugh in his sorry face and throw in a wedgie for additional mortification. Kids can be callous little bastards for sure and eventually grow up to be even bigger bastards more often than not. For the poor unfortunate ugly ducklings, it’s all change once graduation has come and passed. Legs fill out, penises and breasts pass go, and suddenly those heads begin to turn. Of course, the mental damage is already inflicted by this point, and this leads to over-compensation more often than not. That scrawny kid in home economics who resembled a jerky ends up state weightlifting champion, boasting biceps you could crack a coconut in. Meanwhile, all the mean girls have fallen foul of teenage pregnancy and let themselves go dreadfully. You know the types, standing behind you in the queue at 7-Eleven in their nightgowns and carpet slippers, scalding their similarly joyless brats for harping on about the bubblegum machine. What goes around has an uncanny knack of making a return journey. I believe it is known as karma.


Then we have the bully boys and precious little changes as these Neanderthals continue along the path to adulthood. The difference now is that, instead of making the nerds utterly miserable on a daily basis, they make their hapless wives feel like less than zero. Nobody likes a tyrant and they know it so, with the chances of making friends and influencing people looking decidedly slim, they opt for striking fear into the hearts of others instead. It’s astonishing to me that these uncouth chowderheads somehow manage to swing from vine to vine throughout their whole lives without taking the time to reflect on what utter cretins they are. Occasionally one such scourge finds a way of causing heartache on a far larger scale and Donald John Trump has done precisely that. After dropping out of school at thirteen, he enrolled in Military Academy and I guess we have them to thank for sponsoring his tyrannical rise. A career in real estate beckoned and, to his credit, he knuckled down (although they wouldn’t have had far to travel) and made a name for himself. Then, in 1983, he completed development of his fortress, a 58-story skyscraper by the name of Trump Tower. Since then he has worked on becoming ever more obnoxious and it is this high-rise hell hole that I find myself currently looking to infiltrate.


You see, while willing to overlook mild peril, I’m less forgiving when global security is threatened. It’s one thing throwing your weight around and acting without the requisite kindness, but entirely another when your thoughtless actions can cause such widespread damage and potentially march us directly into formation for World War 3. When I first heard that Trump was running for president, a wry smile was all the reaction provoked, and I figured it would amount to little more than a storm in a teacup. Given that he comprises over 75% hot air, it seemed ludicrous to believe that the great American public would get behind one so openly boorish. More the fool me then as he is presently locked in battle with none other than Hillary Clinton for that all-important hot-seat and, at this moment, there’s a gnat’s whisker between the two candidates. Now I’m not about to suggest that I know the first thing about politics but you know things are bad when Clinton is the safer bet and suddenly there is a very real possibility that Donald will end up elected to office. This is where the proposition becomes truly terrifying as he has been in metamorphosis throughout this campaign and recently burst out of his chrysalis as Trump Demon.


This vile critter has since been as hard at work as a man with a net worth of $4.5 billion needs to in order to construct a small army capable of wreaking havoc on the largest scale imaginable. Should he remain unchallenged for much longer, then the entire population of the planet could be for the high jump. Moreover, the Trumpettes are a very real threat, and the last thing we need is a thousand bad hair days in unison. This fascist miniature militia must be stopped at any cost and there appears only one conceivable way of halting the parade. Even one as seemingly imperishable as Trump Demon has weaknesses and intelligence advises that his is perched on the very top of his dome, barking its orders in typically totalitarian nature. Just like Samson before him, it has been suggested that his key strength lies here beneath the malformed moss he wears with such misplaced majesty. Like a copper crown it shines and the only way to overthrow Trump Demon is to first topple his hairpiece. Many have tried and failed up until now so the world needs a hero and somewhat desperately. Bonnie Tyler in particular is reportedly holding out for one and, while Tina Turner may conclude that we don’t need another, I’m with Megadeth dagnabbit.


So how am I to save mankind from almost certain extinction anyhoots? Well I’m the Brutal Word Wrangler no less, humanity’s last hope apparently, and more than willing to become martyr for this cause. You may know me from such famous battles as Wrangler vs. Reaper and what you have heard is true – I did dish out a telling blow or two and send him packing back to hell’s molten vat faster than Claire Danes can book a return flight from the Philippines. To be fair, The Grim One very nearly emerged in pole position but there was one notion he foolishly didn’t entertain – that I may possess a dash of what it takes to capsize a vessel or two. I battled until red in the face, then purple, and eventually painted it black in a bloody-minded bid to gain the upper-hand. To my joyous astonishment and despite losing more blood in a short period than the capacity crowd at a Justin Bieber concert (pun a happy accident), I declined his kind offer of tearing me limb from limb and administered that critical blow, in the very nick of time no less. Suddenly the job offers came rolling in and word travels fast on the back of a soaring kestrel let me tell you. I was then deemed “worth it” by L’Oreal and offered a lucrative deal the very next day but graciously declined their generous invitation to become the next poster boy for their new repair shampoo as there was skulduggery afoot elsewhere and that just seemed a smidgen more “worth it”.


However, while I remained as humble in victory as the reaper was impudent in defeat, my sidekick was a little quicker to let this minor triumph fast-track directly to his head. Have you ever seen a brain in Calvin Klein jockeys? It’s a sight to make your eyes sore and a stunt so shameless that my wing commander, Bonus Brain, was promptly suspended from active duty pending investigation. It just so happens my cranium houses a human resources department and they know their internal affairs believe me. You want the truth? Can you handle it? I washed my hands of him the very moment he took to the stand and blatantly lied under oath. In his colorful opinion, I engaged in a spot of primate thrashing just prior to insertion after my good friend Dom Woganowski (Woogie to his friends) conveyed the danger of heading into battle with a fully loaded musket. I did no such thing of course, that was merely a protracted scratch and the whole sordid affair stank like Pavarotti’s groin crease of a cunningly plotted frame-up. How could my own highly decorated copilot do me like that after all the shit we’d seen together? If there’s one thing that makes my knob rattle, then it’s mutiny in the ranks and, when I checked his bedside dresser to discover no less or more than thirty pieces of silver and a clutch of photographs of me yanking my crank on the front porch, I had this rapscallion bang to rights.


So I banished him to the dungeons right? Wrong my good people, I did nothing of the sort. You see, I’ve never been the eye for an eye type, and stubbornly believe that, while undoubtedly a long and rocky road, rehabilitation can work if all parties involved play their part well. Thus I had an electronic tagging device fitted into his miniscule frontal lobe and can now follow his movements via remote. The wonders of technology know no bounds and he’s currently a month into his community service with not a solitary hiccup to speak of. If he continues to impress, then I may just reactive his paid apprenticeship but, until that time, peanuts will just have to suffice. Free labor it is then and, needless to say, I can almost taste his bubbling vitriol as he tows the line reluctantly. The thing is, the suicide mission I’m about to embark on is so hazardous that I cannot hope to prevail without an inside man, someone who can get me past security without alerting Trump Demon of my presence. It’s a risk for sure as I’m already aware of how whimsical a pastime Bonus Brain considers shopping me in to the authorities to be. But sometimes in life you have to place your faith in the hands of another and let good old fate do the rest or else resign yourself to a “safe existence” which is another way of saying “uneventful”.


Well there’s certainly no lack of incident with Bonus Brain manning the oars and look where Ben Hur ended up thanks to a little brow and sandal sweat. In no time he was racing chariots around Roman coliseums and I still believe that Bonus Brain can clock up a significant personal best if he just commits himself to the cause and cuts back on the foul play some. I will be leaving myself wide open for treachery once I step inside Trump Tower as there are on-the-spot fines for unwarranted masturbation and I only went and forgot my fanny pack didn’t I. Something informs me that the Bank of Trump won’t be accepting I.O.U.s and, unless seventy-three cents and a half-eaten packet of Bubblicious can grant me bail, it will be straight off to the stocks for me. Bonus Brain may enjoy him some thug life but I’m not particularly fond of prison cuisine and find soap-on-a-rope incredibly troublesome not to fumble. Granted, my back passage hasn’t always been a one-way deal, but Rabbit-Gate was all in the name of science and nothing breaches these cheeks that doesn’t cum with LR-6 batteries inclusive. Too much information? My sincere apologies but this upcoming bout has me nervous see and I’m banking on a known felon to have my back in a fix. How do you think Steve McQueen felt prior to his great escape when the fellow inmates of Stalag Luft III suggested “you take the lead Steve, we’re in no great rush to get out of here”? I’d imagine that to be the longest yard ever traversed as Steve sweated on the dreaded “rear shanking”.


Anyhoots, enough of the inane chitter-chatter, I’m in like Flynn and there’s no turning back now. It thrills me to my innermost pip to report that Bonus Brain has seemingly adhered to the terms and conditions of our little tryst and the manner in which he created his diversion was actually pretty fucking marvellous. It has been over a decade since he last zipped up his track suit and popped and locked for the consumption of Joe public. Turns out that he hasn’t lost any of his B-Boy bravado, despite brief flirtations with both the Locomotion and the Mashed Potato, and his front lobby caterpillar had to be seen to be believed. The crowds soon huddled around as he took center stage and were clapping like half-witted seals by the time he bust out his one-fingered windmill. Indeed, this decoy worked such a treat that even I couldn’t resist snapping a clip and uploading it to YouTube. A few gazillion hits and I may just be able to scrape bail once Trump Demon catches whiff of my unlawful entry. The bottom line is this – I’m behind enemy lines thus one giant step for mankind closer to overthrowing this heinous empire. That’s right Donald, I’m coming for the hairpiece and won’t rest until it hangs over my mantle in pride of place next to Justin Bieber’s pummeled plums. Right then, man those cannons as here comes Bonus Brain now, fresh from setting the roof ablaze and triggering the sprinkler system. I wonder what pearls of prudence he has to impart right now.


“Bbbrup stick ’em ah to ha stick ’em”

Clearly it’s still too early. I shall need to supply him a cooling off period as that electric boogaloo is evidently one helluva hard funk to shake and bedding a dozen or so fringe loitering buffalo gals in short succession appears to have temporarily fried his circuitry. This is wretched news as one man alone against the nefarious Trump Demon equates to the tallest order outside of a Harlem Globetrotter’s Christmas list. Regardless, I shall shoot forth like Popeye’s toothpaste after a generous serving of sautéed spinach pasta and claim that horrendous hairpiece as evidence of his villainous antics. Bonus Brain or no Bonus Brain, that is the question and one I am not at liberty to answer right now as I may well be needing him by the time I scale that 58-floor strong stairwell. I would have taken the lift but it seems too obvious and, besides, elevator music makes me twitchy. Poor old Stephen from Dawn of The Dead fame knows what I’m talking about as he foolishly became seduced by its enticing jingles and let his guard down, only to wind up zombie meal as his shaft docked at the food court. If only Mrs. Deagle’s nitrous-charged chair lift design had been patented, I’d be at the summit faster before you could say “cease tampering with that fuse box Stripe” and about to face the kraken. Instead, I’ve got approximately 700 miniature mountains to climb and two agonizing heel blisters to fend off en route.


Saying that, it could be a darn sight worse right now had the Dragon’s Den got behind Freddy Krueger’s new range in stairwell marshmallow fluff. It was all going so well until he decided it was worth a shot slipping a finger inside Deborah Meaden and promptly ruptured her uterus. Needless to say, three weeks later, a new range of ultra-absorbent panty liners called Peedens hit the marketplace and her shares soared into the stratosphere but that’s another story for another day. Right now I must remain focused on the task at hand, that being reaching at least the halfway checkpoint without suffering a potentially fatal cardiac arrest. This is where it all gets a little tricky as my home boasts a mere twelve steps of resistance and I can barely make it up them without sounding like Chief Wiggam on a malfunctioning treadmill. This ascension will be required to obliterate my personal best and the odds are stacked rather precariously against the paramedics making it in time to revive me. My old chum Seth Brundle tried his level best to invent a pair of telepods in time for my expedition but came a cropper at the final testing phase and was last seen waxing his back hair with flypaper. Try as I may, I cannot think of another way other than up as heaven knows what strain of foul creatures are mincing about Trump’s sub basement. At times like these, there’s nowt aside from a hand job administered by Mr. Tickle more blissful than ignorance.


If I see Miley Cyrus I’m going to fucking throttle her. “It’s the climb” is it bitch? For the record, no one likes a smart ass and, a mere four flights up, I can assure you it most certainly isn’t the climb. To me, physical exertion is an allergy that no antihistamine can combat and I even considered taking a hiatus from masturbation recently after a recurring sports injury flared up and I ruptured a muscle in my sack on the home straight. Ligament strain may come and go but those verrucas have a tendency to skulk about for far longer than necessary, while the prospect of an athlete’s foot outbreak is truly unthinkable. Had I been shrewd during my mission briefing, then I would have gone out and invested in a pair of Skechers, but instead I plumped for Converse Hi-Tops and they’re the equivalent of walking on spam. However, I will not be beaten by this stairwell and plan to perform a little victory dance when I finally arrive at the summit. Nothing fancy as Bonus Brain will be watching and has an annoying habit of being over-critical when it comes to the shaking of tail feathers. But don’t be surprised if I break out the Charleston as I believe I would have earned myself that indignity.


Finally I have made it to the top flight and, it has to be said, I’m the Brutal Word Wrangler dagnabbit. Now about that quick-step. I have opted for celebration a little more low-key as the last thing I need while I recuperate is a hovering flock of Trump’s Level 58 Security Drones and I hear he just coughed up to have hairpieces fitted on the entire squadron. Thus a simple American Smooth will suffice and, while I expect to be penalized technically, I shined my brogues up nice and that has to count for something right? Bonus Brain is welcome to join me if he so wishes but, judging by the fact that he’s still smarting over J.R. getting shot in Dallas, I fear now may not be the time to rattle his rollcage. Come to think of it, now is hardly an appropriate juncture to get my slide on. Fuck it sideways and cum all landscape, I’m gonna bag me some tawny Trump fluff before the FTSE 100 nosedives any further. Indeed, I’m savvy as to precisely how to make my entrance and knew there was a reason I lugged that lute up 58 flights of concrete purgatory. Need to be prepared so I must remind myself how many tribes will be partaking in this evening’s skirmish and attempt to kick down the boardroom door like Dutch. Stick around Grueheads. Sorry, how does one not slide a thumbnail over a row of primed blackheads? Focus wrangler focus!


Reinforced titanium alloy. Cursed kittens and their scourge offspring, I should have thought of that one. Falling at the last hurdle after clattering the previous five is one thing but sprinting for the tape only to find it replaced with impenetrable perspex and shattering on impact is quite another entirely. If Trump Demon could see me now then he’d likely soil his diaper as gleefully as thoroughly. Whatever am I thinking? Look at the security cameras and say “cheese” as they have been closely inspecting my movements the whole time and relaying back intelligence to their master. And there was me believing I could ride this hot streak like a majestic metal stallion of menace and monstrous merkin demolition directly into the old coup de grâce without objection. More the fool wrangler for falling for the old tailpipe banana routine. Not that all hope is lost as there is a conveniently placed keypad by the side of this mechanized moon gate although it will allow for only two errors before raining down molten phosphorous on my lily whites. So here goes.


Access denied. Scrotes!



In the words of Count “Nosferatu” Orlok as he loomed over a sleeping Ellen Hutter and noticed that her nightdress had ridden up to her shoulders, “worth a shot in the dark I suppose”. That said, I have now arrived at the Last Chance Saloon and way too late to cram in a quick glass of milk before the brawl starts. One more error and I’m dog chow, and not the luxury stuff either. Kibbles-n-Bits is expensive darn it. We’re talking pure offal. Just as I ready myself for the very worst eventuality, someone decides to break their vow of silence and no prizes for guessing who that may be.

“Four words G. Mark of The Devil. Nuff said yo!”


Firstly, what’s with the Vanilla Ice shenanigans? I’m not greatly impressed with him going all Van Winkle on my raggedy ass and could place him on ice for less. Secondly, there simply isn’t time to solve one of his perplexing riddles as I can now spot the first of many Trump Drones at three-thirty and its phasers don’t appear to be set to stun. Mark of The Devil? Hmm, that’s a tricky one for one so inept at Sudoku. It once took me three days to locate the word “floccinaucinihilipilification” in a twenty-nine column word search, while my Tetris high score is borderline average at best. Hold up just a cotton-picking minute-thirty, the bird of enlightenment just swooped and has left me well and truly Gregory Pecked. The Omen spoke of that affliction and it corresponded to a particular numeral that pretty much goes without saying, for fear of being dragged straight to hell by your hair extensions. Lemme tap this shit in and see what transpires.



Well blow me down with a duck down hand fan and call me Eleanor Winkleton-Smythe, it only worked. Now where’s that pesky lute when you need it most?

Catch Me The Hairpiece of Donald Trump


Catch me the hairpiece of Donald Trump
and I’ll compensate at your leisure
as its business as usual destroying this swine
but I’m focusing more on the pleasure

Flick me the toupée of this fascist twat
and I’ll buff it up good with my cloth
then I’ll cook it up nice will taste great with white rice
or at least to those hogs by the trough

This flea-bitten mule has been known to be cruel
and thinks nothing of dressing folk down
he may buy a few votes but I loathe his bum notes
thus I’ve come here to snatch this brute’s crown

He may have fooled Clint but he’s guilty as sin
it’ll all come out soon in the wash
when it does I’ll be waiting to call time on his hating
and to give his foul hooter a bosh

Take a look at that hair tell me that’s not a dare
have you ever seen fur more pathetic
Mr. Trump I’d advise I’m aware of your lies
don’t go blaming that shit on genetics

Is it cheap to maintain does it nuzzle that brain
can it solve 6-across on my crossword
will it stop global warming ever cease its performing
or look far more at home on an ox turd

So you’ve said your piece now soundly milked that cash cow
last I heard you were sitting on billions
but you won’t let it rest ’til the whole world’s distressed
and I find it all quite crocodilian

Slink off back to your swamp or I’ll unleash my whomp
beat you well until even more senseless
I won’t hang for this crime do a lick of hard time
sheer relief will be general consensus


You really should know that we reap what we sow
it will take more than fool’s gold to save you
I’ll tell you this sonny karma don’t care for money
and you’ve squandered the gifts that God gave you

It may not be too late to call time on your fate
if you take back the harsh things you’ve said
but until that time comes I’ll keep banging my drum
’til that crude hairpiece vacates your head

When it does I’ll strike fast plant my foot in your ass
then I’ll wiggle all ten in your colon
once entrenched up that chute and with one last salute
I’ll commence to get my merry stroll on

I don’t wish to be rude but I’d say that you’re screwed
as the time has now come to destroy you
don’t try necking that spinach as by the time I am finished
McDonald’s won’t even employ you

Now here comes the boom you obnoxious baboon
prime yourself for a whole heap of sorrow
‘cos the thing with toupées is they’re not here to stay
as they say hair today gone tomorrow

You’re not even the prize it’s that wig I despise
and I must put to task this game-changer
it can run it can hide but I won’t be denied
I care not if antique or endangered

I can now feel you shaking no more time for deal making
it’s a whole heap too little and late
final words shall be mine I’d say you’ve had your time
and I have to get one more thing straight

If only you’d listened when the hot seat was christened
chances are you’d be loved and admired
but you’ve squandered your chance now you’ve danced your last dance
so to quote me the Trumpster “You’re fired!”


The Trump Demon, it stirs. It would appear that Trump Enterprises will not be offering my song their endorsement so that bright pop career will just have to remain on the back-burner for the time being. Ejecting himself from his leather recliner faster than Captain Kirk after Ahura was diagnosed with a severe case of Space Crabs, he then launches into his opening attack. His copper mop rattles towards me in a manner not dissimilar to that sphere from Phantasm and with the very same callous directive – murder, death, kill. None of this trio are particularly appealing right now so I hurl myself out of the firing line before the hairpiece can claim itself a shiny new scalp. What he fails to realize however is that, on commencement of my tenure as Brutal Word Wrangler, it was suggested that I should shave my head in a bid to make myself more aerodynamic. Thus I have myself a long-range weapon every bit as monstrous and the time has come to lose the soft-top in the name of securing an eleventh hour triumph. Even Bonus Brain didn’t see that one coming and will no doubt be green with envy if Bonus Hair reaches its intended destination and brings home that bacon.


With immense pride, I watch this bird of prey take flight, and rejoice as it unleashes its highly toxic Death ‘Druff directly into his out-tray. The Trump Demon recoils in agony as these flaky fiends kick up an almighty stench, potent enough to floor a buffalo in Doc Martens and he commences full-scale meltdown. Within seconds, this supposedly fearsome over-fiend is little more than a bubbling pool of ostrich bile and sweet victory is right there for the taking. Further snatching the initiative, I cast my eyes over the jumble of junk on his pine desk and spot a Keyboard Vacuum Cleaner amongst the bric-a-brac. Now I have two choices here: either I request that Bonus Brain lick this sub-human excretion from the silk Isfahan rug as I don’t fancy the furry tongue that comes with it or I find a USB port fast and suck it up myself. Before I can reach my decision, Bonus Brain chips in with an unexpected doozy and I’m still not altogether sure I heard him correctly as it don’t sound like the usual sardonic response to me. I smell a rat.

“Here. You can use mine”


How positively courteous. I had forgotten all about his built-in USB port, one of the precious few reasons why I didn’t kick him to the curb months ago.

“I…I don’t know what to say Bonus Brain”

“Then don’t. Just make it quick and don’t you go giving me any viruses or I’ll plant one dead centre of your nut hub”


With that, I spring into action of the most affirmative variety and remove this stubborn stain once and for all. The Trump Demon is no more and the entire free world can now breathe a collective sigh of relief as we have ourselves another ten years of trouble-free existence at least before mother nature swoops in and ends us all for fucking her shit up while she’s been away. Of course, I’m still 58 floors from ground level and relishing the downward trek about as much as ED-209 right now. But I have taken out the trash, rid mankind of this mealy-mouthed magnate once and for all, and procured myself a rather delightful paperweight in the process. Now, how about Arnie for president?


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