Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Forty.

In which Lorinda and Stimpy tour the President Donald J. Trump Memorial Christian Golf Resort and Beautiful Residences.

“Would you like me to wrap up the clothes you wore?” asked the friendly, helpful cashier of the Trump Memorial Golf Shoppe. She was pretty, perky, and just about Lorinda’s age, wearing red and black plaid golf slacks and a light green cardigan. Stimpy wore a turquoise polo shirt tucked into white baggy trousers over a pair of white leather walking shoes, while Lorinda showcased a pink mini-skirt, a cardigan like the cashier’s but in white, plaid sneakers, a matching plaid baseball cap with an extra-long brim, and oversized sunglasses.

“No, thanks,” said Stimpy. “You can just toss them. Or donate them. We’re through with those old things.”

“I understand,” the cashier said. “Should I put this bill on your room or would you like to pay here?”

“Oh, you can just put it on the room,” Stimpy said. “It’s room ten-oh-one, upstairs.”

The young woman, blushing, couldn’t help but look from Stimpy to Lorinda and back. She’d heard about that room. Lorinda, who just then was adjusting her hatband, completely missed the cashier’s embarrassment. “Do you play?” she asked as she put her hat back on her head and looked up at the cashier.

“Play?” The cashier gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, dear, no. I’m married!”

Lorinda’s mouth fell open but nothing came out. Stimpy laughed, saying, “She’s just asking if you play golf?”

The cashier visibly relaxed. “Oh, golf, no. You’re not allowed to play here if you’re not a member. But I know it’s a great game. Sport. Whatever it is. And golf clothes, they’re the best.”

Agreeing that golf clothes were indeed the best, Stimpy and Lorinda exited the shop in their golf-adjacent attire and walked arm-in-arm through the hotel’s mall. Stimpy checked the time on his device. “We have almost an hour until the facilities tour.”

“Do we really have to do that?” Lorinda asked. “All I want to do is eat. I’m starving.” They passed a store called Guns ‘n Ammo ‘n Such and arrived at the restaurant section of the mall.

“Me too,” he said. “But we’ve got to do the tour. We don’t want them to think we’re weird. What about this?” They stopped in front of a big plate-glass window under a sign reading BugeRama Restaurant & Casino.

“Booj-rama?” Lorinda was confused.

“I think they want you to pronounce it “burger-rama.”

“That’s stupid,” Lorinda said. “But they do serve breakfast. Look.” Sure enough, about half the tables were occupied — mainly by men but there were a number of women and a smattering of kids — forking up eggs or French toast with one hand, while playing video poker or pulling the handle of a slot machine with the other.

“Ahh,” said Stimpy. “I can’t … I just can’t.” He peered down the corridor and brightened. “But look at that!” He pointed.

“Holy shit!” Lorinda said. “It’s a PumpJack's!”

“It looks closed,” Stimpy said.

“Yeah, if it’s anything like mine it doesn’t open till noon. And you can’t get breakfast there anyway. Let’s eat here and we’ll have lunch there after the tour.”

“Oh, all right. But don’t make me gamble.”

Fifteen or twenty people — mostly middle-aged men, three accompanying women, one couple with their two kids, everyone in golf attire — were puttering about in the hotel lobby when Lorinda and Stimpy arrived. A moment later their guide came in the front door, a twentyish young man in a baggy business suit, an overly long red tie, and an ill-fitting orange-gold wig — apparently the official uniform of tour guides at the President Donald J. Trump Memorial Christian Golf Resort and Beautiful Residences.

“Hi, y’all,” the guide said cheerily. “I’m guessing you’re all here for the facilities tour. My name is Jared and I’ll be your guide today. The tour takes about two hours, and I’ll show you all around our miraculous luxury Christian golf community. And I should know, ‘cause I grew up here. I’m a proud grad of Donald J. Trump High School. I even played on the junior varsity football team and our national-championship varsity golf team. I’m gonna try to give you such a great tour that by the end of it you’ll want to move here and buy a villa. Or a condo. Or at least join the golf club as an associate member. Or maybe just a bunch of clothes and commemorative tee-shirts and whatnot. So let’s go!”

“I think this ‘facilities tour’ is just about selling stuff,” Lorinda whispered.

“That’s the thing about billionaires,” Stimpy whispered. “They always need more money.”

The guide led the way out to the porte cochère, where ten gleaming white golf carts were parked, each emblazoned, in gold, with “Tesla” above the initials “P.D.J.T.M.C.G.R.A.B.R.”

“Just find yourselves a golf cart,” said Jared the guide, “four folks in each, max. These are Teslas with Infallible Autopilot, and they’re all programmed to follow mine, so you don’t have to do a thing, just sit back and enjoy. I’ll be talking to you through the speaker in your cart. If you have trouble hearing me just give a shout. Okay, climb aboard.”

Lorinda and Stimpy sat in the last cart. Jared made sure everyone was in place, then hopped into the first cart. “Can y’all hear me?” he said into his microphone. His voice, coming through the air as well as from nine tiny speakers, was slightly surreal, but everyone waved and nodded happily. “All right, then.” He tapped a button next to the base of his microphone and all the golf carts roared to life, their small gasoline engines sputtering and hiccupping black smoke for several seconds until they smoothed themselves out.

As the lead cart pulled away, the others fell in line behind it, two-by-two, other than Lorinda’s and Stimpy’s, which was a singleton at the end of the queue. A half-minute later the guide veered off the street and onto a narrow, golf-carts-only path beside a lush fairway. “You know,” Stimpy said into Lorinda’s ear, “Tesla started out making real cars in the USA. Nice electric cars. It was the most valuable automobile company in the world for a while.”

“You’re kidding. And now?”

“Now they’re a joke, All they make are these internal-combustion golf carts, for sale only in the CCSA.”

“Bizarre,” Lorinda said. “What happened?”

“The guy who used to own the company was such a reptile-dick that everyone stopped buying his cars. And the people who liked him? They hated electric cars.”

“Reptile-dick?”

“I just made that up. How about gator-dick? Crocadick?”

Lorinda laughed. “Is he the one who died on the way to Mars?”

“Very good!”

“I vaguely remember hearing that story. He built his own rocket? It exploded or something?”

“Actually, it got lost and veered off into deep space. He might still be alive out there somewhere.”

“I guess you gotta give him credit for flying in his own rocket.”

“Well,” Stimpy said, “he tried for years to get other people to go first, but no one —”

“Here we have the world’s greatest driving range,” the guide interrupted. When he hit his brakes, the nine carts tailing his abruptly slammed on theirs, causing several of the riders to gasp and one to hit his forehead on the steering wheel. After a short, rote lecture about the driving range, and how great it was, the entourage churred on to the next attraction.

“You probably already know,” said Jared, as the carts halted abruptly behind his, “that we have three famous golf courses here, the Blond, the Brunette, and the Redhead. Here we are at tee number-one of the Blond, the shortest and easiest of our links, with seven par-threes. It’s the only one that ladies and children under fourteen are allowed on. Are there any lady golfers here?”

As all three women raised their hands, Lorinda whispered, “How nice that they allow ladies to play golf.”

“Shh. They’ll hear you.”

“I’m sure you gals will love playing The Blond,” said Jared the guide. “And remember, you get a complimentary thirty-six holes and a free lesson, because this is your first visit here.” As he described the rare and expensive constituent ingredients of the sand in the bunkers, the autonomous-golf-cart train took off again. The next stop was in front of an elaborate miniature golf course filled with eerily quiet little kids and their teachers. The “hazards” of the course were scaled-down, highly detailed versions of stately old office buildings and hotels — except for the 18th hole, which featured a model of the White House in Washington DC, USA, with the glowing neon letters “DJT” filling the pediment above its stately portico.

“Miniature golf is a required course in our elementary school,” the guide said, proudly. “We were the first school district in the whole country to make it a requirement. Every kid in this enclave plays golf, starting on our beautiful miniature courses!” His cart started moving again, followed by the others. “What do you say we check out some condos and villas?” A rush of giddy anticipation swept through the carts ahead of Lorinda and Stimpy.

According to the guide, this slice of domiciles formed a several-block-deep semicircle behind the thirteenth green of the Brunette course. The vast ground-floor picture window of one of the houses, Lorinda noticed, was covered by unsightly sheets of plywood. In the middle of the house’s lawn, which was contiguous with the apron of the golf green, several construction workers were putting the finishing touches on a tall fence of poultry netting, obviously meant to keep golf balls from smashing any more windows. “I should mention,” said Jared, expertly ducking a small white sphere that was coming straight at his orange wig, “that there are villas available here for as little as nine-point-five million dollars, this week only! For the two-bed, one-bath.” The carts came around a bend and halted in front of a twenty-five-foot-high faux-marble statue of Donald J. Trump caressing a pair of golden tablets with glowing Roman numerals I through X on them. “I just want to stop here for a second for my own personal tribute to the man — the god, really — that this enclave and everything in it is named after. He was the inspiration behind The Split, and without The Split the CCSA wouldn’t exist, and without the CCSA we wouldn’t have —” he gestured expansively “— all this. Thank you, President Trump.”

As he bowed his head, the guests in the golf carts clapped and cheered. Stimpy elbowed Lorinda. They joined in, even more enthusiastically than the others.

“I always get emotional around this statue,” Jared said. “It’s called ‘The Ten Numbers.’” He sighed. “All right. Now, about the villas and condos. Did I mention that prices will never be lower than they are today? When we get back to the hotel at the end of this tour, there will be some great, terrific real estate people who will be happy to help you find the permanent or vacation home of your dreams, subject of course to board approval and a complete financial workup. Some terms and conditions may apply.”

The visitors’ golf carts trailed Jared’s into a short stretch lined with mansions — each with a big golden cross (topped by an oversized golf ball) on its lawn, and with a front-row view of the third tee of the Redhead Course. A foursome of older men who were preparing to tee off paused their bantering to watch the little motorcade drone past them. “This,” said the guide in a low, confidential voice, “is some of the most primo real estate in the entire enclave. In the entire country! Sixty-five million and up! And worth it — for the best views of the best golf course in the world!” He sighed in admiration. “Look at them! They’re castles!” As much as his audience wished he would stop so they could ogle the huge, turreted-and-crenelated residences, he took the first turn out of there, and they were back to looking at more conventional — though still enormous — houses.

The last villa they passed before emerging from this cluster was a big white one. On its lawn was a discreet sign reading “Dr. Jonas McFarland, Medical Doctor, By Appointment Only.”

“Huh!” Lorinda said.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen that,” she marveled. “A doctor in a private house.”

“That doctor,” Stimpy whispered, “is the billionaires’ abortionist.”

“What?!”

“Shhh.”

She kept her eyes on the house as they chugged past it. “How do you know that?”

Stimpy paused to consider his answer. “Let’s just say,” he began in a near-whisper, “that we have friends and supporters among the people who work … in the various enclaves of the CCSA.”

“That was nice and vague.”

Stimpy smiled and continued. “And some of those members of the servant class have, let’s say, been sent to this doctor by their billionaire boyfriends to avail themselves ... of his medical specialty.”

“So why don’t I just go there? For my … problem?”

“You know what would happen if you walked in there and asked for a … reset? First, the receptionist or nurse or whoever works for him would say she didn’t know what you were talking about. Then a minute later you’d be hauled away by the local blue boys and sent right back to what’s-her-name. Your friend —”

“Janelle Stark. Fake-doctor Janelle Stark.”

“Yeah. This Doc McFarland is definitely not for you,” Stimpy said. “As far as you’re concerned, he doesn’t exist.”

Lorinda looked away and digested this fresh piece of bitter news. Finally she whispered, “I hate this place.”

“This enclave? Yeah, it’s —"

“This whole fucking nation.” She practically spat the last word.

Stimpy grinned and smacked her lightly on the thigh in congratulations. “That’s the spirit!”

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PREVIOUSLY in THE SPLIT!

Chapter One. In which we meet our heroine and her dainty little gun.

Chapter Two. In which Lorinda demonstrates her bartending virtuosity.

Chapter Three. In which our heroine receives a promotion and prepares to celebrate.

Chapter Four. In which our heroine proves herself an immoral citizen of the CCSA.

Chapter Five. In which our heroine goes to church.

Chapter Six. In which Lorinda contemplates her future, ignores Pastor Doug, and gets something unexpected from Emmie.

Chapter Seven. In which Lorinda learns something that threatens her big dream.

Chapter Eight. In which our heroine freaks out.

Chapter Nine. In which our heroine says the forbidden word as an unwelcome visitor arrives.

Chapter Ten. In which two unpleasant men perturb our heroine.

Chapter Eleven. In which our heroine seems to have found a solution to her problem.

Chapter Twelve. In which that black truck follows our heroine all the way to Austin.

Chapter Thirteen. In which Lorinda lashes out.

Chapter Fourteen. In which our heroine gets a taste of life in the big city.

Chapter Fifteen. In which our heroine meets a fellow bartender and has a drink.

Chapter Sixteen. In which Lorinda once again takes a swing with her little pink gun.

Chapter Seventeen. In which our heroine prepares to escape.

Chapter Eighteen. In which our heroine gets in a truck with a couple of slightly scary strangers.

Chapter Nineteen. In which our heroine learns that she’s got a long way to go.

Chapter Twenty. In which our heroine spends a night in a gas station.

Chapter Twenty-One. In which our heroine learns about the enclaves of the CCSA.

Chapter Twenty-Two. In which our heroine learns way too much about the enclaves of the CCSA.

Chapter Twenty-Three. In which our heroine experiences liberty run amok.

Chapter Twenty-Four. In which our heroine’s escape is disastrously derailed.

Chapter Twenty-Five. In which our heroine finds herself back at the gas station.

Chapter Twenty-Six. In which Stimpy, on the road to Revelation, reveals Ren’s real name.

Chapter Twenty-Seven. In which our heroine manages not to crash the car as she learns more about CCSA enclaves.

Chapter Twenty-Eight. In which Lorinda and Stimpy enter Revelation.

Chapter Twenty-Nine. In which our heroine has pizza for the first time and readies herself to be an old fogie.

Chapter Thirty. In which our heroine finally gets to experience the Rapture Ride.

Chapter Thirty-One. In which our heroine’s long-awaited Rapture Ride experience is interrupted by some unwelcome visitors.

Chapter Thirty-Two. In which our heroine triggers the Rapture…or something.

Chapter Thirty-Three. In which Lorinda and Stimpy slip out of Revelation under cover of pandemonium.

Chapter Thirty-Four. In which our heroine trades arms for freedom.

Chapter Thirty-Five. In which our heroine does a bit of tactical shooting.

Chapter Thirty-Six. In which our heroine heads for the greens in a chartreuse truck.

Chapter Thirty-Seven. In which our heroine hears a ghastly story on the way to the enclave of golf.

Chapter Thirty-Eight. In which our heroine begins a crash course in the plutocratic lifestyle.

Chapter Thirty-Nine. In which our heroine continues her crash course in the plutocratic lifestyle, then crashes.

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