President Robert Leon Trump

Meanwhile, back in the cult...I dreamed I was following my ex-cult leader again, who was somehow both Robert Leon and Donald Trump at the same time. One moment he was wearing presidential attire, giving press conferences and holding rallies in his own honor, and the next he would be counseling someone, one on one, using his low, smooth bedroom voice, a voice that had lured many a young female into said bedroom.  

Although his status as president was suspect, he was still wildly popular, and his core of devoted followers were committed to doing his bidding. Mostly, that bidding involved following him around on his errands, opening every door and lifting every latch, or toting about his enormous arsenal of audio equipment, which was necessary to project his nearly sub-audible, hypnotic intonations to the masses. 

Complete adoration was required and enforced among the followers. Every bit of lighting and stage preparation at the rallies was designed to project the perfect image: the loving, gentle leader, sage and saintly but possessing an aura of virility, a sex appeal which should have expired long ago, had it not been for the efforts of his faithful entourage of make-up artists, tailors and video editors. I was apparently one of the inner circle, or at least I was trying to be. 

I was at one of his rallies, trying to position myself in the crowd as one of his plants. There always needed to be a smattering of enthused worshipers peppered among the members of the audience to liven up the crowd and give the illusion of complete obeyance. Every spot upon which his eye fell during a press conference or a rally needed to have at least one face which radiated pure affection for Dear Leader. I feigned such adoration, partly out of fear, but also because I was somewhat under his spell.

"Is this spot ok?" I asked President Robert Leon Trump.

After much jockeying, I'd finally picked a spot up front, almost next to the podium. If something happened, I'd be right there, as his right hand man, to step in. At least, that was the perception; I was far from his right hand man. That job was taken by Jim Turnbough, someone whose value as a sound engineer exceeded mine and whose talent for obsequious flattery was unrivaled. 

"Yeah, that's OK for now," he told me, but it was understood that I might be asked to move at a moment's notice to make room for one of his more camera-ready female supporters.

I sat and watched as the crowd assembled and packed the venue to capacity. It was an outdoor arena that was also set up as a dining hall for some kind of honorary banquet. For an aging charlatan, he could still draw them in. The event was just getting underway, and after the whistles and cheers subsided, the ex-President and cult leader gave a few words of self-congratulatory thanks to his fans. A "you are all great, but I made you who you are, so thank you, but really, thank me" kind of a thing, if that makes any sense.

I don't remember much of after that. The rallies were all the same, unmemorable as far as content; the message was transmitted almost below the level of conscious perception. Like a hypnotist so skilled that he can induce a trance without the subject being aware that they were falling under it, the transition was completely seamless. One minute you're awake and autonomous, the next minute you have being programmed for service. Like when the anesthesiologist begins his countdown and you black out, only to awaken later with a missing liver. In the case of Robert Leon Trump, it was your wallet he was after, but he would take your heart in trade, if you were strapped for cash.

The rest of the dream was spent following him around to various shopping malls. He always needed to have a large entourage of well-trained bots in tow to perform the necessary duties of flattery and bag carrying. "Oh, that hat looks great on you, Bobby." "Can I carry that amp for you, Bobby?" "Your hair plugs look great today, Bobby..." Blah, blah, blah. The stream of bullshit we had to spout was unending. Being a member of the elect wasn't all it was advertised to be in the brochure. 

Since I'm running low on details, I'm filling in with my perceptions of the actual dynamic of the Bible Study turned sex cult that I attended in the mid '80s. I didn't dream that stuff up. Robert really did, and probably still does, have an ego as large as our disgraced, disgusting ex-President. And his core of true followers, though by now completely soulless and drained of financial assets, still follow him around and would sanctify bits of toilet paper as holy relics if Bobby had wiped his ass with them.