Funny Picture of Rocket Blowing Up in Kim Jong Uns Face

Rocket Men

Donald Trump and Kim Jong-Un

In

Rocket Men

A few miles west of The SpaceX headquarters, in an abandoned car park between a carwash and Tandoori Restaurant, stands a grubby porta cabin. A handwritten sign nailed to its door reads 'Space X-Perience: An Experience about Space'.

"Kim!" Trump's voice bellows from within, causing the sign to drop from the bent nail holding it in place.

Rushing from the back room, wearing elbow length rubber gloves, Kim finds Trump up a ladder pinning up some decorations — paper moons and stars attached to a piece of string. Later an elderly lady walking in by mistake will compliment them for having had children do the decorations. Trump won't correct her. Instead, he'll just shield his glitter and PVA encrusted digits and charge her $50 for entering 'the attraction'.

"I'm pinned again," he says, showing his wrists stuck to the wall with thumbtacks in multiple locations. "Dammed Socialists."

"They don't let up," Kim replies, reaching up to remove the tacks. "But, at least the water closet is now unblocked."

"Every day," he sighs. "Must be the Chinese."

"Yes, they monitor everything. Must be how they know you've digested your breakfast burrito."

Outside, a Prius pulls into the car park. Its driver, a tired looking middle-aged man in a drab suit, gets out, staring at the Porta Cabin.

"Are you sure this is the right address?" he says, into his phone, "well, it's just a bit, how should I put it… down market," he listens for a moment. "I'm sure Amazon did start out of a backroom, but it probably wasn't one filled with dog excrement," he listens for a moment more. "Fine, fine, I'm going. If nothing just to shut you up."

At the front door, he notices the broken sign on the floor. Turning the fractured wood, which now reads 'Space X', over in his hands, he gives a resigned sigh. Then winces as he gets a splinter.

"Entrepreneur my arse." he says, sucking the injured digit, before pushing the door open.

The door swings into the gathered mass of Donald and Kim stationed behind it, still trying to unpin Trump from the wall. It skittles Kim across the floor. Causes the ladder under Trumps feet to wobble and fall, leaving him dangling by his wrist from the coving like a forgotten Halloween decoration.

"Hello? Anyone there?" the man enquires, stepping through the door. "Elon?"

Peering round the door, he's presented with Kim's bulbous posterior struggling to get up from the floor.

"What are you playing at?" Trump shouts at Kim. "Stop messing about and get me…" he stops, noticing the man standing at the threshold, and dials up a smile. "Welcome traveller! Welcome to Space X-Perience, the best experience about Space in town."

"Is everything ok?" the man asks, stepping forward to help Kim from the floor.

"Yes, yes, everything's fine," says Trump. "All part of the experience. Just like Jim Lovell having to make all those calculations and whatnot on the back of a cigarette packet when that rocket he was in went wrong. We like to throw our customers into a bit of peril to get everything off with a bang."

"Right, so this," he points to the fact Donald is dangling from the wall. "Is all planned?"

"Of course. So, if you'd kindly pay my assistant here," he says, gesturing to Kim, now standing and wearing a manic smile. "The paltry admission of $20 so we can get started."

Kim puts out a hand. The man hesitates. "That's great, but it's not why I'm here."

Trump snorts, annoyed. "Tell Julio he can get fucked. I've paid him enough. If he wants anything else, tell him I'll see him in court."

"No, no, no. You misunderstand. I'm from NASA," he takes a card from his inside pocket and hands it to the dangling Trump. "I'm here to see Elon."

Kim shoots Donald a confused look who examines the card.

"Excellent, you've…" he's interrupted as the thumb tacks give way to his weight and he falls to the floor. Picking himself up, he dusts down his suit, smooths out his hair and offers his hand. "You've come to the right place."

"Excellent," he says, shaking his hand. "So you're Elon?"

"How can I help you?" Trump says, changing the subject. "Busy day today, lots of Space stuff to do."

"To cut a long story short, we need help. Putting people in space is an expensive game. One we're struggling to compete in. So, we were wondering if you'd be interested in building us some rockets?"

"Rockets? Of course we can," Kim chokes in astonishment and receives a jab to his ribs from Donald's elbow. "You must learn to chew your food."

"Excellent." the man says.

"It's an expensive business though," Trump says, tipping Kim a conspiratorial wink. "How many rockets are you looking for?"

"Well, we'd need something to be our new fleet. Maybe 10 rockets?" he says.

"10 rockets," Trump says, and then forming a huddle with Kim, whispering back and forth. "That's do-able. But will cost you… two million dollars."

"Two million dollars?" the man asks.

"Yes." Tump confirms.

"For 10 rockets?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"What can I say, it's an expensive game this Space business."

"No, it's not that. It's just…," the man stops himself, instead he now steps forward to offer his hand. "If that's the price, then that's the price. You've got a deal. Pleasure doing business you. I'll be in touch."

As he departs Donald pats Kim on the back. "Did you see him? He couldn't believe how much we'd charged him, but he still went for it. We had him by the short and curlies."

"Yeah, he crawled out of here knowing he was a beta outdone by two alphas."

"Now we need to build these rockets. Although it shouldn't take long."

"What do we need then?" Kim asks.

"The most explosive materials known to man."

The bottles of diet coke were the biggest that Kim could find, and he'd raided the local shops for all the Mentos on offer. Sat in the middle of their office surrounded by these bottles and packets, Trump looks confused.

"This stuff is explosive?"

"Yeah. I saw this video on the YouTube. Must have been some top secret leak because the way it erupted." Kim motions an enormous explosion with his hands.

"What do you with these things then?"

"Not sure, I only watched the end of the video. But it can't be difficult."

"Well, get some rocket shaped stuff," Trump says, filling his mouth with a fistful of Mentos before then swigging from a bottle. "We'll work out the rest from there."

The reaction is almost instantaneous. Donald's eyes widen. His cheeks swell. Foam bubbles from every available orifice. He races around the room like a scolded cat. Kim's instant reaction is to help his friend and throws more soda over him causing yet more eruption and he's enveloped by Tsunami of fizz.

Soon the fizzing mountain of foam sits in the middle of the room. Two hands emerge and claw the liquid from Trumps eyes.

"Clean me off, you nitwit."

Kim scuttles off. Then a bucket of water washes over Donald.

"Our problem was that we were trying to harness the un-harnessable," Trump says, talking to the closed door of the Porta Cabin toilet. "That stuff was too powerful, no one can control it. I looked into it. Even the top scientists can't. So, we need something simpler. Something to give us the same boost. Just in a simpler way. Fortunately, I have just the plan."

The toilet door unbolts, and Kim shuffles from the cubicle wearing a space suit. Not a real space suit, or a decent replica. He's wearing a tight (at least 2 sizes too small, meaning his chubby midriff oozes its way out) silvery costume with a 50s style glass bowl helmet. He stands, like a child being forced into an awful handmade knitted sweater from Granny. But Trump is elated. He knocks his heels together and salutes.

"Sergent Kim, follow me."

"What's this?" he enquires, stepping outside.

"They used to spend all this money on jet fuel. What if there was another, cheaper solution?"

Outside, a huge inflatable pillow sits in the car park. Trump leads Kim round to one side and helps him down so he's lying on an edge, before ascending in a cherry picker on the opposite side.

"So, what do I do?" Kim shouts.

"Say hello to those little green men for me." Trump bellows, before stepping off the platform and belly flopping onto the pillow.

It propels Kim up into the air. Trump watches this doughy silver blob spin through the air. He's elated. Success has come. Easy money. Until Kim's trajectory takes him into a tree on the car park's periphery.

"What are you doing?" he calls up whilst rushing over.

"Houston, we have a problem."

"Damn right we do. Your space pants have split and I can see right up Mission Control."

"Request an emergency Evac."

"I'm on it." Trump says, going to get a big stick.

As night falls, with Kim still stuck, Trump stands shaking the tree trunk. What begins as a vigorous jiggling of the sycamore becomes a frustrated throttle.

"What's the matter?" Kim asks.

"It's typical," Trump says, kicking the troublesome perennial. "Just when we're close to making a few bucks, something comes to yank it away from us. The guys coming by tomorrow and if we've got nothing to show him he'll go elsewhere."

Defeated, Trump slumps to the floor and pitches a pebble across the tarmac in frustration. Then, in the distance, at the actual Space X, a single fireworks races across the night sky, followed by others that converge and develop into an elaborate display. For a moment they just watch.

"Donald. I have an idea."

"I'm not ordering another pizza."

"No. About the rockets."

"Just forget about it. I'll tell him not to come. No point in stringing this out."

"Don't do that yet. Not until I've spoken with my guy in Chinatown."

"Your guy in Chinatown?"

The morning chorus is joined by the sound of industry. A crescendo of fevered hammering and sawing is building from the rear of the little Porta cabin.

Dawn drifts into morning, and as commuters being their travels Trump and Kim emerge, tired and filthy but with a look of relief and contentment.

They sit, sipping on water, in peaceful contemplation as the Prius pulls into the car park once more.

"Gentlemen," the man in the drab suit says, approaching them with an excited step. "What have you got for me?"

Trump and Kim exchange pleased smiles. "Just wait there," Trump says. "You'll see."

Kim emerges from around the back of the Porta cabin wheeling a rocket shaped object under a tarpaulin. The man in the drab suit fidgets excitedly as they approach.

"I give you, Trump says, wanting to give this a little ceremony. "The Supreme Leader." before whipping the sheet off.

On a plinth stands a rocket. The wooden and metal rocket Wile E Coyote may cobble together to catch Roadrunner. The man in the drab suit is unimpressed.

"Granted this may not look very slick," Trump intervenes, sensing the man's concern. "But, the fuselage is merely a prototype. The cover wrapped around the book. Which is why you want to see more, isn't it? What you want to see is a launch."

These words seem to do the job in buoying the excitement, and the man in the drab suit rubs his hands together.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he says.

Trump gathers Kim in a huddle next to the rocket. "Do you think it's enough?" he asks, nervous.

"There's at least 1000 professional grade rockets packed into the fuselage. If that doesn't do it, nothing will."

"Absolutely sure?"

Kim hesitates. Clearly he's not. "There are a few packets left over. We could put them in, just for good measure?"

"Do it," Trump says, leaving Kim to pack in the remaining rockets. "If you'd kindly stand back over here, we'll commence the countdown."

After shepherding the man back a few paces, Trump turns and gives Kim the signal to launch, who lights a match and holds it to a protruding fuse.

"5… 4… 3… 2…"

Ignition occurs before they reach the one count. A sparkling, multi-coloured mushroom cloud is visible from a few blocks away.

As the dust settles, Trump — his face blackened, his clothes ripped — looks over at Kim. Frozen in shock, his hair standing on end and still clutching the burnt spindle of a match he'd used to light the fuse. "Did it work?" he whimpers.

Donald turns to the man, he too is frozen with shock. "I think we agreed the price at two million dollars?"

Without saying a word, the man turns on his heels and shuffles away. Dragging his torn trousers behind him.

"What did he say?" Kim asks, rushing over.

"Maybe he's going to get cash." Trump says, hopefully.

The End

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Source: https://medium.com/the-haven/rocket-men-b3ccf636f2e

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