The man with the orange spray tan stepped into the elevator, his gigantic red tie hanging far below the belt. He wanted to go up to the highest level, so he pressed the “Dictator” button, but nothing happened.
His thumb was too small.
So he pressed it again — again, and again — and each time he pressed it he became angrier and more desperate. The grifting, the tax evasion, and the bully pulpit of the presidency were no longer enough to satisfy the cravings of his pathological ego. Like a drug, he needed more.
As the door of the elevator closed in his face, he began pounding his tiny fists at the “Dictator” button. He pounded and pounded, but no matter how hard he pounded, he couldn’t get the incredible high he craved.
And then, something happened: “Going down,” said a mechanical sounding voice with finality. The elevator went into freefall.
Buttons began to light up as the occupant fell and his stomach jumped into his throat. “You’re Fired!” … then “Bankruptcy” … then “Prison.” He had grabbed karma by the pussy one too many times, and she was foreclosing on the debt.
A wail could be heard like a shrieking falsetto as he plunged down a seemingly bottomless shaft.