Scene- The interior of the White House.
In the empty corridors and quiet offices, of a dysfunctional government, the grandfather clock in the West Wing hallway struck midnight. A sleeping lump, sprawled in a recliner, basked in a bank of glowing screens with chyrons announcing the ”President’s Shutdown”. His face remained contorted in rage, even in slumber.
The silence broken by a faint rustling in the hallway. The ghost of number 37* appeared. A figure weighted down with miles of magnetic tape, the sins of his past, hovered over The Occupant in repose.
“LISTEN YOU STUPID SON OF A B*****," The tricky specter shouted, "You ridiculous *******, this is your last chance” The sputtering, mango-hued, dolt awakened, hissed “No collusion!” And cowered behind the Lay-Z-Boy, joining wrappers from the golden arches. The spirit ignored the ignobility of the scene and continued. “You will be visited by three ghosts tonight. Your past debts shall be paid, your present acts exposed, and your future place in history confirmed.” The ghost vanished into infamy with a hands-raised double victory sign.
The man-child, unable to fathom being interrupted during executive time, turns to his only friend. The small blue bird icon reacts under his diminutive digit as he rages “Brought down by a second rate break-in. Sad. #fakenews #lyingwapo #wimpwardandberstain #notillegalifthepresidentfoesit” A look of smug satisfaction crossed his face, knowing that he will never take the coward's way out by resigning.
The Covfefe-in-chief began to hear the strains of a military band. “My parade," he thought, “this must be the country's Christmas present to me" as he waddled to the balcony ready for his deserved adulation. He burst through the door, and found a semi-transparent former Arizona Senator standing there….
“No! I am rid of you,” The resident squeaked. “There is a debt you owe..." the maverick began. "Oh no, I never pay my debts, five bankruptcies...see...no debts.” 45* stammered as he retreated to his room...only to find the former pilot standing in his way. “You have never thought of anyone but yourself," the ghost explained, "so now you will see what others think of you.” The narcissist was overjoyed, he had thought this ghost might be some kind of punishment.
Over the next hour, the popular vote loser was shown what people said about him just after he left the room. As it began, Lord High Oompa Loompa dismissed those questioning his abilities and intelligence as haters and losers. Some of them were even (gasp) Democrats.The vulgarity of the Crooked Candidate was expected and deserved, even he had to admit to himself. But from childhood through business, the minute he exited, the words of both rivals and colleagues were never kind. “But, they always talk about me, right. I am the most important person, even after I leave a room" he explained to his guide. Realizing that this was not having the desired effect, the Senator allowed the Deal Maker to alo hear the thoughts of others he interacted with. The duplicity of his cabinet surprised him. The overarching theme was “How much can I cash out before this guy gets the boot?” This betrayal would not stand, when he returned from this journey he would have to have his current, soon-to-be-fired-too Chief of Staff fire them all. When the spirit showed him a room with his running mate, two adult sons, and wife 3.0, he feared their thoughts. The Con stepped in and heard only a light static, like an old TV left on in an adjacent room. After more staff hostility and a glimpse of fired former advisers thoughts, the walking ego was shaken. Finally, the Vietnam Vet had a brilliant idea. He brought the father to his beloved daughter. This broke the reality star's spirit. Her betrayal was a thing he could not survive. He stepped to the door and was excited, perhaps inappropriately, at what he might discover. Before he could hear the fashionista/diplomat's deepest parental thoughts, the ADHD meds he ingested two hours ago kicked in and he found himself, robe open, laying like a chalk outline on the West Wing floor.
Number 45 slowly sat up, happy to find himself in a reality where he was still the resident. He steadied himself, went and washed his face and turned on the news channel which fed his id. After an hour, his pupils had returned to their unmedicated size. The only news organization he trusted seemed to be speaking directly to him. Until the moment it was.
“Hey, sir..." the title character on the "news” station says. “We haven't had one of our late night phone chats recently.” The bleary-eyed individual with the best words grunted his agreement. “Well, sir, what can we do for you tonight, sir, you know my show only exists for your approval,” The disheveled combover considered the last hour. “Would you like conspiracy theories, false equivalencies, fever dream of leftist violence,” the over eager conservative responded. “I need loyalty, Sean. I need to see someone who still supports me 100%. What are they doing to bring about my vision for America?” Suddenly, the screen flickered to a scene of what looked like a security camera. The room looked bleak, the chain link arranged too tight for housing people, that was because it was not for adults. A man entered the frame. Although his back is to the camera, the painted-on hair make him easy to distinguish. This image soothed the Latinx-phobe “Yes, thank you Sean, my young apprentice knows the need for strong borders” The on screen loyalist crossed to a child about nine or ten years old. The young boy stood on one foot and a crutch, the result of injuries sustained when agents separated him from his parents. “¿Sabes por que estoy aqui?” the terrified child asked a senior advisor to the president. " What is your name?" responded the Man too young, it seemed, to harbor this hate. “Timoteo, por que estoy aqui?” The ball of grievance snatched away the crutch and started beating on the chain link shouting, “THE... PRESIDENT...WILL…NOT...BE... QUESTIONED…PERIOD.” The screen returned to the news desk, where the anchor asked, “Have you seen enough, sir?" There was, however, no one watching. The figure had left less than a minute into the scene when no one was speaking about him. “Well,” the carefully crafted media personality deadpanned, “I guess, nevermind."
The self-proclaimed greatest (fill in the blank) found himself, like he often was, alone. In an unfamiliar hallway, Diet Coke in hand, and unsure of where he was supposed to be. He had become annoyed with all the pesky ghosts. These, so-called, paranormal guides. He knew, in his gut, what people thought of him. He knew what his legacy would be. The Unpresidented Leader of the Free World shouted, “I'm ready...show me the future...show me the honors the country has bestowed upon me.” Immediately, the world blinked away. 45* found himself sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair in dark room with only a single light high above.
“What is this?" 45* asked. “Your legacy." Replied a voice unknown, but familiar to the seated man. “What about my wall?" “Never built, never even started." “What about the economic prosperity?" “2019 was...rough." “That...that was Obama's fault.” "No, it wasn't.” Responded a voice with such cold authority that all dissent died in the petty man's throat. He sat, then he recognized the voice, “Did you bring your 17 angry Democrats with you, Bob?” “No, sir. Just facts" The orange one prattled on, " Thank you, now I know this whole night has been a #hoax, a #witchhunt. None of it true or real. “If that's what you believe, just keep doing what you have been...sir.” " I WILL. By the way NO COLLUSION.”
45 thought he may have heard the briefest of laughs before he found himself back in his recliner. The clock told him it was time to start work. He reached for the screen and tapped the little blue bird. “Once I take care of this," he mused, “I can go back to bed for five hours before heading into the office.”
@realdonaldtrump lots of people (and ghosts) talking about the amazing job I'm doing as president. #maga #fakeghosts
