Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a land not far away enough, there lived a man named Donald Trump. Trump was famous, very rich and, though not exactly a king, was certainly a czar of finance. Man and beast alike, including the mighty Griffin, envied him for his incredible money-making ability. It was even said that he had the golden touch, metaphorically speaking.
Trump's summer palace was in a marvelous ocean-side city where people came daily to make large offerings to the gods in hopes of good luck. He lived there with his beautiful wife, who, like everything connected to the man, was called Trump, though the nickname Ivana had been adopted for convenience's sake. She was Divine, a queen among queens, a...ah, but she is not the focus of our story, is she? In any case, Trump led a lifestyle which, if not exactly Dionysian, was surely hedonistic and relatively carefree.
At this time, there was an old man of indifferent health and means living on the steps of one of Trumps's palaces (or casino, as it was known in that country's strange language). Though virtually no-one knew it, including the decrepit one himself, he was Cap Ital, the senior advisor to the great god Adam Smith. Cap, unfortunately, had fallen on evil times, and had wandered away from Smith's celestial palace. Most people going into the holy grounds ignored the unfortunate gentleman, figuring from his ragged wild-eyed appearance that he was a lunatic, pervert or tax collector.
Trump was the first person to show Cap any kindness. The tenth time Trump passed by, he thought that he vaguely recognized the aged fool from somewhere, perhaps from his prominent appearances in oracular dreams sent by Adam Smith. Inviting him into his home, he had Cap given a long shower/delousing, a new set of polyester clothes and a quick dental inspection to see if those slightly dulled fillings were real gold (they were). Against Ivana's wishes, he even had Cap fed a (mostly cereal-filled) hamburger and given a (lumpy, loose-legged) army cot in the darkest corner of the sub-basement. Such was Trump's little-known but selfless hospitality!
The next day, a man dressed in the garb of an eighteenth-century dandy, complete with powdered wig, long white stockings and buckled shoes, knocked at the service entrance to the palace. Ivana answered and had two reactions. Firstly, she was sent into a sneezing fit by the powerfully perfumed perruque. Secondly, she was awed in the presence of what she had the feeling was a God, though the angelic music coming from the boombox on the step and the golden aura surrounding the visitor were subtle hints inclining her to that theory. Ignoring the woman, Adam Smith (for indeed it was he) proceeded into the palace, trailed far behind by Ivana.
The doors to Trump's inner chambers burst open, startling him in the process of removing a bandage from his paper-cut, money-counting finger (his skill at ripping things off was also admired). "Trump!" Smith boomed, in a majestic, reverberating voice of a quality rarely heard outside of a Shure-microphone-equipped echo chamber. "Thou has sheltered my beloved advisor in his time of need! Thou hast only to name thy reward and it shall be given thee!"
Trump thought for a moment, a truly fearsome sight to see, and then smiled. "Everyone around here says I have the golden touch, which is a lovely figure of speech, but sadly not literal. I want you to make it so! Give that boon to me, Lord Adam Smith! Let me have it!"
Smith smiled, with an ironic twitch concealed by shadows cast from a nearby towering pile of money. "Thou hast had this coming to thee for a long time, Trump!" He then waved his Invisible Hand of Self-Interest, nodded, and disappeared in a bright flash almost rivalled in brilliance by the glare of the utterly tasteless jewels around Ivana's neck as she entered the chamber at last.
Trump turned to his wife and grabbed her by the shoulders in glee. "Oh, man! Oh, man!" he cackled. "Now our few remaining, misguided dreams will all come true! All I have to do is touch that bloated Griffin and it will be turned into a statue suitable for our front lawn or for one of our temples!" It need hardly be said that Ivana did not respond at all.
Actually, one of her fondest dreams had been realized. She now really was the girl with the heart of gold. Of course, every other surgically altered inch of her was also gold, but it doesn't do to be too fussy with gifts from the gods.
Trump cursed lightly under his breath and ran quickly from the room. He returned with a wheelbarrow and carted Ivana over to an alcove in the corner.
He could not help but reflect on the one poem he had read in business college. Browning was right, he concluded; an artistic representation of your beloved, especially a valuable one, was just as good as, if not better than, the real thing. Of course, he would have to explain the mysterious disappearance of his wife, but, given the difference in their ages and the fact that he had no emotional warmth, he could always claim that she had had an affair with her butler and ran off with him. This sort of thing happened all the time among the rich families of this country; in fact, it was almost expected, and the subjects became edgy and concerned if a marriage for money's sake seemed to be too friendly.
For a while, then, Trump lived a happy life, converting everything to gold and then selling it off slowly so as not to glut the Free Market and thereby offend Adam Smith.
Inevitably, however, it happened. Trump got bored of gold. he wanted to diversify his investments; perhaps platinum was a wiser choice. However, every time he got some of it, he ended up fondly stroking the stuff, and it was naturally converted into sickening, ugly gold. By this point, Trump was also experiencing a problem getting at his liquid assets.
His bankbooks were all gold. Not wafer-thin gold with gilded pages, either; nosiree! genuine, solid, 24-K gold. At least his gift was confined to his hands, so he was able to eat by having people feed him. Of course, he had been fed by the toil of the little people for years, so this had not changed. Nevertheless, after only ten years of golden bliss, Trump wanted out.
"What!?" Adam Smith roared. "Thou wouldst return my gift? Thou wouldst refuse to follow the course of thine own self-interest? Very well - thou shalt have thy wish, Trump! From now on, naught that thou touch shall turn to gold!"
The rest, of course, is history. Trump's spectacular fall from grace and solvency is accounted in the newspapers, the magazines and the People of the times. Today, he is working in a cheap leisure suit factory in the cloistered factories of Des Moines. His ability to change everything he touches to polyester is not entirely useless, however; given the huge market for the stuff, it is entirely possible that, in roughly twenty years, he will achieve his old status again.
At the moment, though, he
has made his Procrustean bed, and he shall have to lie in it.