We were in the city now, getting another first-hand look at Trumpmerica. Oh, how things had changed.

Since driving had been outlawed unless given special clearance, the streets were disturbingly empty. The only cars around had long ago been ransacked and were covered in spray-painted pentagrams and swastikas.

Dead bodies hung from streetlights, either swinging lazily or totally still; I'm not sure which I found more unsettling. Their eyes had been eaten by birds, as had their lips and likely their tongues, too. Derogatory words had been scribbled on paper and stapled to their chests. Some had experienced further victimization, obviously serving as target practice by cocksure rednecks, while others had their dried-out guts dangling freely.

In darkened alleys, bound-and-gagged girls and boys—from children to young adults—were being used like toys by slobbering older men. One look from me and the bastards shied away, whimpering as they removed themselves and freed their victims.

Inbred morons strutted from Trump Steakhouses to Simply Ivanka Pornoplexes, their conversations consisting solely of racist catch-all phrases directed at no one in particular. As we passed them, they seemed to lose their limited vocabularies and degenerated to mindless blubbering.

"Hey, f*ck your mother!" a fat man shouted at us as he emerged from a 9-Eleven convenience store. He was decked out in all the official Trump merchandise, from the "Grab Killary By The P*ssy" T-shirt, to about twenty different hats piled on his head—"Make America Great Again," "Make America Hate Again," "Make America Straight Again," "Make America White Again," etc. He even had Trumpmas ornaments dangling from his ears, looking just like the hats. He held a genuine Trump mug, which I smelled contained genuine Trump "beer" (gasoline), as he ate his Trump hotdog (made from human lips and assholes). "F*ck you, spic. Build me a wall. Damn, I'm tired..."

I suspected he'd already been sterilized and had dangerously low testosterone, hence his enormous breasts, and because he was out of breath simply from standing around swearing at us. I recognized he was developing jug ears and thick black fur over his entire body, which meant he'd started the process of becoming a Trumpanzee. "Go home," I told him.

"Okay," he said and slept against the 9-Eleven store.

A drone swooped down to scan us. Appearing on its visor were green check marks, indicating we were A-okay.

"God modified our DNA signatures, gang," I said knowingly.

The drone whirred over to the fat guy now. "Illegal Canadian detected." It opened fire, filling him full of holes. He went up in flames as we moved forward.

A patrol of Trumpolice marched ahead of us. They'd formed lines that spanned across the entire stretch of double-lane street. Guns ready. Riot shields in the front and I'm not sure how many behind.

"Believe in yourselves," I told the gang. "Have no fear."

Making our own line, we stopped in front of the Trumpolice. We sized each other up.

"Your papers," demanded the one across from me—with a captain's star on his chest. He had his pale-white hand out, waiting.

"Check your ass," I told him, making my gang gasp.

Some of the Trumpolice tried to suppress their smirks.

A look of discomfort appeared on the captain's face. It reddened, contorted. He moaned. Suddenly he dropped his pants and pulled a wad of paper from his rear. He unfolded it and read aloud, "Every knee will bow before Me."

Then, clearly against their wishes—as they struggled to fight the voice of God inside their heads—every Trumpolicemen threw down their weapons and kneeled before us.

We walked past unaccosted, moving onward to Trump Tower. I knew Satan liked to deliver speeches from his pulpit of bones and bodies out front. What I wasn't expecting to see was Trump servicing Russian President Vladimir Putin. I knew Trump was owned by the man, but I didn't think to that degree.

Putin's eyes widened when he saw us. "Dyonald, nyot here! Cyut yit out... Dyaire are people vatching..."

Trump stood, wiping his mouth, smacking his gums. He squinted at us and pooched out his lips.

"TRUMP!" I shouted. "THIS! ENDS! HERE!"

"Who the hell're you. Wait, I remember you..." he said. "John John Smith."

"No! My name... is... JESUS!"

"Wrong."

"Yo, Donny, 'member me?" Coltrane asked, grinning while he punched his fist into his palm.

A flicker of recognition appeared in Trump's eyes. No doubt he recalled the incident, back when Coltrane was an NFL linebacker for the Atlanta Falcons. Coltrane had tackled an unaware Trump into a tour bus.

But that had been before Trump started abusing steroids and changed his name to Satan.

"You all hyaff fun nyow," Putin said, before activating his jetpack and taking off back to Russia. I knew he'd take the long way home, as Canada was still a nuclear wasteland after the great World War III.

"So how do ya want to die," Trump said, removing his suit and flexing his muscles. "Disembowelment? I hear that's really, really great. The best."

God's voice: Use the stories, my son.

"Trump, a famous writer once said that stories have power, that they can change the world."

"Wrong. Who said that? It's wrong."

"Um. I forget. But I'm pretty sure a famous writer said it. Anyway, Passionfruit! Your story!"

Passionfruit rubbed her hands together, smiled and said, "Remember me, chump?" When no recognition was given, she continued, "Try this on for size, chump. This story's called

TRANSTEMPORAL INTRODUCTIONS by CarolinaC

The door swung open, setting the small bell ringing. Zav looked up from the computer and smiled at the client. She was a young woman, both shorter and chubbier than Zav was used to. She was dressed in a green winter coat and jeans, fair hair curling on her shoulders. Her dark eyes looked Zav up and down, doubtfully. She pulled a business card out of her purse, looked at it, and looked at him again.

"Is this Transtemporal Introductions?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. She held the card up, its face towards Zav.

He didn't need to see the card, even if it had been close enough to read. Zav knew very well what it said: Transtemporal Introductions: Your key to meeting anyone, anytime. "Yup, this is Transtemporal." Zav pushed himself away from the desk. He was childishly pleased by the fact that the chair was on casters and jolted unevenly across the carpet.

"And this is— I mean, your service is for real? This is all above board?"

Zav felt indignation roiling in his guts. "What do you mean, 'Is this real, is this all above board'? Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be? I'm a client as well as an employee, you know, and I sort of resent the implication."

"Time travel isn't even possible!"

"Not with this era's technology, no," Zav explained. He could hear the dull, lecturing tone creep into his own voice. "But it isn't like we're limited to this era. That's rather the point." The woman was about to speak, but Zav held up a hand, stopping her. "We're very quiet, very discreet. It's rather dangerous, messing with timelines."

"Oh," she said, "and expensive? You honouring that coupon?"

Zav smiled, tucking an errant dark curl behind his right ear. "Not so very expensive. We only get paid following a successful introduction. And only by the downstream client. And yeah, if you mean the coupon from our website, it's valid for this century. Take a seat. I can get you set up and send you on a date right away."

"What, today? How does that— I only have a half hour left on my lunch, you know!"

"Like I said, time isn't an issue. Sit down, give it a try. I promise it'll be worth your while." Zav flashed his most winning smile at the girl.

The woman sat down, her eyes wide, a little nervous. Zav dropped the wattage of his smile just a little, trying to look professional, reassuring. The sign-up process was simple, a matter of minutes. Age. Current mailing address. Name, of course.

"Miranda Foster," she said.

Zav looked up quickly, his expression intent. That name! He knew it. He was sure of it—but he was just as sure that he had never seen her before. Miranda raised an eyebrow, and Zav felt his cheeks growing warm. He awkwardly held out his hand—that was the thing to do when meeting someone in this era, right? "Um. I'm Zavbrax Ton."

The woman looked at him in confusion, then shook the proffered hand, very solemnly. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Braxton."

Zav didn't bother to correct her. He just smiled broadly and went on to make Miranda sign the risk releases and the non-disclosure agreement. Then he polled her about her preferences. Ten minutes later, he thought he had a pretty good idea of what the woman wanted—or, at least, what she thought she wanted. It was a long but depressingly clichéd list—dark hair; taller than her, but not too tall; able to play a musical instrument; funny; able to support himself, at least in his own era; and so forth.

"And on top of all that, you want a sensitive, poetic type who's kind to children and animals, am I right?"

"Of course!" Miranda replied.

Zav frowned, but he typed something on the keyboard, then nodded decisively. "Well, here are a couple to start with. I've got an eighteenth-century French noble who's written a couple of minutes, and an honest-to-god poet drafted into the First World War. Either of those appeal?"

Miranda blinked. "There's more than one? But with the time travel thing . . . surely you know which one I'll end up with?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Zav's lips. "I'm not allowed to share anything with you that hasn't happened yet. You did read everything you signed, didn't you? Besides, it isn't satisfying if you don't decide for yourself."

Miranda's mouth formed a moue, which triggered a smile on Zav's lips. Then she shrugged. "Fine. This French guy, then. Is he cute?"

Zav spun the monitor around on the desk, wishing it had an antigrav mechanism—but it was too soon for that, now. The screen displayed a painting, a careful neoclassical study, of a man with dark eyes and brows, wearing a powdered wig and a sad expression. Zav awaited Miranda's reaction.

"He looks sweet," she murmured.

"Okay, then." Zav turned the monitor and tapped a few quick phrases on the keyboard. "Everything is all set. If you would just walk through that door"—he pointed to an ordinary, pressed-wood door at the back of the room—"we can make your introduction."

"What?" Miranda exclaimed, surprised. "Just like that? Where do I meet him?"

"I'll send you to his time, of course."

"Now? Right now?! But my clothing—"

"Oh, the machine will take care of that. It's very good at getting details of taste and social class just right—the programmer must have been a genius."

Miranda looked down at her feet. "I— I don't think I'm ready. In fact, I'm not sure I want to go through with this at all."

Zav tried his best to sound jolly and reassuring. "Now, now—and give up your chance at love? The machine hones in on a particular person, and it has to be someone that the computer thinks you'll find compatible. Foolproof."

"But, my French is—"

"Your language skills are unimportant. We take care of that." Zav held his hands open, nonthreatening. "It's all very safe, very simple. Just step through the door, and you'll see."

Miranda stood up, hesitantly, then walked over to the door. She looked over at Zav, who smiled beatifically. "I won't regret this, will I?" she asked.

"No more than any other blind date," Zav said. It sounded less reassuring than he had hoped.

Miranda opened the door, and disappeared. Zav started typing her name into his hard drive's search bar, but before he could get to the F in "Foster," she had reappeared.

Zav looked Miranda up and down, taking in her bizarre clothing. The jeans and winter coat were gone, replaced by a close-bodied cream-coloured gown, its skirt kilted up to show a pale-green petticoat and heeled cream slippers. There was a straw hat perched above a blonde chignon, and she was glaring. Zav gulped.

"I must have made a mistake on the settings. It's supposed to put you back in your own clothes," he said, starting to type instructions into the computer again.

"Clothes?!" Miranda sputtered. "I don't care about clothes! Do you have any idea where I just was?"

"Paris?" Zav suggested.

"Oh, it was definitely Paris." Miranda's face was red. "It was Paris during the Revolution! You could have gotten me killed! There was a guillotine, and, and prisoners, and a crowd of people, all— You know, I'm never going to France again. Not ever."

"Damn, the machine must be really messed up. You weren't meant to go there then! You were meant—" Zav started typing again, then announced: "You were meant to be there in 1788, before all that started. I'm— I'm so sorry. Look, I can give you a full discount, and you can keep the clothes, if you want."

"I said I didn't care about the clothes!" Miranda bellowed.

"Calm down, please! I accept that we messed up. That I messed up. Just, let's try again, please? It's the only way to get your coat back. It looks like it might snow."

Miranda glanced towards the store window, seeming to note the grey tone of the light outside. "Can't you just send me to ten minutes ago, then?"

Zav shook his head. "Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. There can't be two versions of you in the same universe at the same time, so that's right out. Mind you," he said thoughtfully. "We could set it for a few seconds in the future, and set it to hone in on me," he offered.

Miranda held her hand out in a gesture of pre-emption. "Not necessary," she said. "I'll meet your World War I guy. But you have to guarantee that I'll be nowhere near the front, not in the line of any Zeppelin bombing raids, not about to watch everyone around me get shot, not in no-man's land, not—"

Zav broke in. "A cafe two hours from the line, at a time when no attacks have been recorded? Would that be okay?"

"Ye-es," Miranda said slowly, "but only if you promise me."

"I think I messed up, last time. There's nothing wrong with the machine. I promise."

Zav held his breath as Miranda looked him up and down. Finally she nodded, and Zav breathed a sigh of relief.

"Okay," she said, standing in the doorway. "Type it in."

Zav typed, and Miranda disappeared. This time he got as far as hitting the "Search Computer" button before she flashed back into his reality. The computer displayed no results; Miranda displayed an expression of pure fury.

"Damn," Zav said, "what's wrong this time? Those are your clothes, aren't they?"

Miranda's eyes flickered down to take in her coat and jeans. They also took in the 18th century dress, shoes, and hat that were lying on the floor at her feet. She tucked a blonde curl behind one ear. "Yeah. Not the point," she said.

"I don't understand. It didn't take you to the front, did it?"

"No, oh no. We were in a cafe, like you promised." She laughed, a bitter, cold laugh, before continuing, "He bought me a cup of tea."

"So what went wrong? Wasn't he a poet?"

"Oh, he was a poet, alright. A German poet."

Zav blinked stupidly. He didn't quite see Miranda's point.

"My great-grandfather's older brother was in that war and he was killed by the Germans! Maybe by that very guy!"

"That seems very unlikely—"

"But it's possible."

"You sound unreasonably biased against 20th-Century Germans," Zav pointed out. "It isn't like this was that other world war. Maybe if you try again; I mean, the computer said you were compatible—"

"I will not try again! He probably killed my grandpa's uncle! And your computer is clearly broken. This guy was clearly not compatible, and in Paris, the guy it sent me for wasn't even there!"

Zav frowned. "No, no, my records confirm it; he most certainly was there."

"You mean he was in that crowd, baying for blood?" Miranda asked. Then her face grew pale. "Or you mean he was on the scaffold, in line for decapitation."

"Neither, I hope!" Zav's voice sounded defensive, even in his own ears. "He could have been taking a nap in one of the houses on the square, something like that."

"A nap? Not with the noise that was going on," Miranda grumbled. "Besides, it does not just hone on compatible people; you said so yourself."

"I said no such thing," retorted Zav.

"Yes, you did. You said it could be set to hone in on you."

Zav felt his cheeks burn.

"Oh, God." Miranda put a hand to her head. "You can't possibly mean—"

"I have dark hair," Zav pointed out. "I'm a little taller than you. I play the electric harpsichord. I don't write poetry, but I do like to read it. I really am good with children and animals."

"I— Yeah. Electric harpsichord?"

"I'm from . . . downstream," Zav explained with a sheepish shrug. "I'd be happy to show you."

For a solid thirty seconds, Miranda just stared at him. "Yeesh, what did you get yourself into, Miranda Jane?" she finally said to herself.

Zav raised an eyebrow. "Your middle name is Jane?"

"How is that relevant?"

Zav looked delighted. He pulled his grey messenger bag out from under the desk, began to root around in it.

"When I started here," he explained, "a colleague of mine wanted to get himself fired in the most spectacular way possible. So he looked up all his colleagues and gave us each one piece of information. I got this."

He pulled a small cube out of the bag. Handing it to Miranda, he said, "Press the button on the side." Then he held his breath.

Miranda pressed the button, and a holographic image pulsed to life. A baby sucked on a chubby fist and looked up with bright eyes. Under the baby was a scrolling line of text:

Zavbrax Ton and Miranda Jane Foster proudly announce the birth of their first child, Jennix Marie

Zav waited as Miranda slowly raised her eyes to meet his.

"So," he asked, "may I take you to dinner?"

---

A light—I like to think the light of God's love—shot down from the heavens and enveloped Trump. Due to his gold-painted body, the sight was blinding. He screamed like he was in a great deal of pain, and maybe he was... After all, there was a lot of hate and evil inside that man, and even God needs a little time to take it all out and fill it back up with love and kindness.

When God's light disappeared, all we saw before us was a withered shell of a man. An old, pale, naked man. A bald man, as the little blond boy's scalp had been returned to its original skull.

Donald J. Trump cowered before us, looking as fragile as a ceramic old-person doll, hands in front of his face as if to ward off evil. "Please, please..." he said softly. "Don't hurt me... I didn't mean to be so bad..."

"We won't hurt you," I told him, coming to his side and helping him stand. I removed my clothes and helped dress him.

Dirk gave him his beanie to keep the man's now-naked head warm. Dora-Mae quickly knitted a sweater for him.

"I-I feel like I've woken from a horrible dream," Trump told me. "Did we win? Did we kill Hitler?"

"Yes, Mr. President," I assured him.

"Good. I never liked that rotten man and his horrible way of thinking. Wait, did you call me 'President'?"

"Yes, sir." I indicated to the awful, decrepit conditions of the city. "You did all this in your first few months."

"Not me, no." He shook his head, not wanting to believe it. There was a weary kind of fear in his eyes, like this was an old horror from his worst nightmares. "But I'm really a Democrat. I would never do this... Why didn't the people put a stop to me? How could this happen? America was great, and now look at it..."

"It's okay, Mr. President. Your supporters have mostly all been sterilized, so there's hope such stupidity and ignorance won't live to see the next generation. You can make America great again. You've got God's love to guide you now."

"Did Ivana have the baby yet? I thought it would be romantic to name her Ivanka, as a tribute to the love of my life..."

---

"And that, young ones, is how we saved the world from President Donald J. Trump and ensured love could live on forever," Jesus finished, his eyes closed and his arms spread wide. When he didn't hear enthusiastic applause, he opened his eyes and saw the little kids were all sound asleep. He smiled, said softly, "It's thanks to us you have the freedom to sleep during story time."

Leaving the children to sleep peacefully in the field, Jesus went home to his wife Ruby, and their children, Zora and Thor. The other heroes in the gang had since moved on with their lives, now that normalcy had returned to America. They didn't see each other too often, but every year they would return to the cave with the waterfall—which they'd restored—and they would reminisce over candy and catch up on old times.

Not long after the events depicted in this true story, the gang would embark on a new adventure. There they would discover that Trump had been possessed by the ghost of Adolf Hitler's equally evil uncle, Randy Hitler. But that, my friends, is a story for another time.

Life was good again. Life was full of love, and every person in the world had the freedom to love whomever they desired, with no fear of persecution—as long as it didn't infringe on the inherent rights of that person, object, corpse or animal, of course.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Host's Note: Judge AYClaudy picked this story as the WINNER of Day 1: HEA Love!