Waulkmill Tempandy and the case against Donald Trump

There is a low glow in the sky, overcast, as we wait to get in. The queue is orderly, with a smattering of middle-aged black women tending to stick together, coats bright and pretty as flags and talking in low muttering voices. Inside the Western Division of the United States Court House, Los Angeles, the City of Angels, the Honourable Keller Percy leans over and the microphone splutters into life. Without preamble, or a perfunctory greeting he calls the court to order in the $125 million lawsuit against Donald Trump brought by Waulkmill Tempandy. What is at stake is not only the Republican candidates Presidential ambitions, but twelve other similar lawsuits that have also been filed—success here and others would follow—that would leave the accused struggling to stay solvent and out of jail.

Cameras pans in on the face of Waulkmill Tempandy.  They won’t show how small she is, petite, chestnut skin, finely wrought features. Simple black jacket and matching pants. She’s dressed for a funeral.  She talks fast, too fast, in her eagerness to get it all out she sometimes stutters, which she covers with a high-pitched falsetto laugh and a ‘yeh, know’ added with a sweet smile to soften the exchange.

Tears and it’s a little girl’s voice that comes through very clearly. Call it what you will, hypnosis, which she claims helped her remember in detail textures and tastes, but there’s something in the way she speaks that makes the hairs on the back of your neck hackle.

‘Felt it was a punishment for being pretty, yeh know, with boys always fixing and fussing at you. It got worse when mum split from dad and moved us to the other side of city. With no place to go we ended up in detached house split up into units. We were in the upper one. I was in the fourth grade. Mum sometimes had to keep me off school to watch my younger sisters. The landlord was mean. We sure scared of him, but his wife was even worse. He didn’t fix anything. More cockroaches than you could shake a stick at and we didn’t have a bath or sink. But for us that was normal. We were behind with rent. Behind with food. Behind with most everything. Behind with utilities. Caught stealing electricity.  Got a notice of eviction, with all kind of shit added on for damages. Old woman used to offer me shoes to wear, but I didn’t want them old-woman shoes, it was the only freedom I had walking barefoot in the neighbourhood. ’ She laughs, looks at the packed benches. ‘Damages, to a door and mould on the window, yeh know burning down that place couldn’t have damaged it.’

Waulkmill is reminded by her lawyer, Mr Whelan, who smiles at her, why she is here. Shrug of the shoulders and she’s quickly back on track.

‘It was Mum’s boyfriend Mikey that done it. He told me how it was up to me to get the rent and he knew somebody that could arrange things, yeh know. After that, things moved real fast. I met Donald Trump when I was thirteen. There were other girls my age in other rooms with other men. I guess, I get the short straw. He was standing by the bed waiting for me, impatient, wearing a blue silk gown tied at the front. I’ve a nice jacket and dress, stylish, but I can see he’s not interested in those. I peel them off and leave them lying on the floor and slide across the bed, away from him. The sheets are black and mighty fine and I lie naked with my head on the bolster. He’s watching me and I’m not sure what to do, so I tried making conversation. But he doesn’t answer. Drop the robe from his shoulders, bloated white belly, sticks his hand down his muck and motions me across. His cock is an angry, red, stubby, like him, which I’m glad of because it ain’t big enough to hurt me. He motions that I should put it in my mouth. And he grabs the back of my hair and jerks my head up and down as I masturbate him with my mouth. I choke on that angry little thing. And when I stop and look up at him, he slaps me hard across the face, so I know not to do that. He lies on top of me and puts his cock inside me, but after a few jerks he grunts and goes soft.

‘That’s us done,’ he says, rolling off me and going into the bathroom.

I quickly gather my stuff up and leave.

‘Did Mr Trump suggest using a condom?’ asks Mr Whelan.

‘No, he did not.’ Waulkmill stands up straight, honey-coloured eyes blazing. ‘Was too scared to ask.’

‘And when you fell pregnant?’ asks Mr Whelan.


house invasion – and the curse that follows

I can only sympathise with Lily Allen. We too had somebody invade our house on Friday night. Bit of a kerfuffle and the front door banging open and shut. I thought it was Alan,  (not Lily Allen) Mary’s son, playing funny buggers. He does that sometimes and thinks he’s funny. He’s got a beard now, so it’s perhaps not the best time to tell him it isnae. And he’s off work, probably suffering from low self-esteem, which makes a wee change from suffering from epileptic fits and his ongoing anger issues. But listen, we’ve all got problems.

The guy that had broken into our house was clearly terrified. He’d locked the door and said there was a guy outside with a knife going to stab him. Obviously the right thing to do was to (a) phone the police.

(b) grab him by the scruff of the neck, fling him out and tell the guy with the knife, and his mates, if he was going to stab anybody to go and do it outside his own front door – and going fuck off. Which they did.  Because they were very reasonable and personable young men. That had obviously taken the wrong route with Buckfast wine and keeping bad company. They did insist on shaking my hand. I don’t mind that, as long as they did fuck off.

But the story doesn’t end there. Because the last person to invade our house was Ian Betty’s wife. You’ll probably remember her as a wraith like figure with a drink in her hand. She’d taken the wrong turning, the wrong street, walked over a bridge and ended up completely blootered and lost and wandered upstairs into our bedroom where we were sleeping. That’s a lot of wrong turns. Even for the wife of Ian Betty.

‘I thought I was in my house,’ she said in explanation.

‘No,’ I said, very reasonably, because she didn’t have a knife. ‘I’ll think you’ll find this is our house. And you live in Trafalgar Street.’

She was quite happy about that. And  I deposited her outside like a bin bag in the lane. And even in the rain. But she’d made a terrible mistake, because like the seal on Tutankhamun’s tomb those that break the seal on Mary’s front door end up cursed as Lord Cardavon and his fellow travellers in Egyptology. Ian Betty’s wife died first, ate by her dog. Then shortly afterwards Ian Betty swallowed one glass eye too many and was found face down in his own vomit, a bag of Wotsits beside him. He’d overdosed on cheesy crisps. So those young men that have taken a wrong turn in life may find the Glendevon curse takes no prisoners and they better check the hieroglyphics for a suitable cure.