(Apologies to William Shakespeare)
Trump is tossing and turning in his Presidential bed. He’s alone. No surprise there. He hears a noise. His eyes fly open. He sits up. Standing at the foot of his bed are three rather vague forms, the likes of which he’s never seen before. Their skin is translucent, their bodies adorned in long, flowing robes, and they’re staring down at him, unsmiling.
“Wh-who are you?” Trump says and reaches for his emergency button.
“Don’t bother. No one will hear you,” the forms say in unison.
“Get out! Get out! How did you get in here?” Trump shouts and runs his fingers through his excited yellow hair. He scoots back in the bed.
“Through the door,” they say and snicker.
“Impossible. I have security.”
“They’re asleep,” the forms say.
“What? I’ll fire the bastards. Now get out.”
“No, you won’t,” the forms say. “They’re defenseless against our powers. You have been using our name in vain, and yet you do not know who we are? Fie upon the house of Trump! We are the witches ‘twer burned at the stake, lo these many centuries ago. We have heard you take our names in vain, crying “Witch Hunt Witch Hunt” at whomever does not bend to your bidding.
“You are making a mockery of witch hunts. We were all murdered for no crimes at all, while you, you big blob of flaxen fat, are guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors against your country. Your country which gave you the freedom to pillage and plunder like never before, you spit on it and its people. The greatest democracy the world has ever known, and this is how you give thanks?”
“I did nothing wrong, no worse than Obama or Biden or other presidents,” he says and waves his arms in the air. “I’m a stable genius didn’t you know that? I do what others are too chicken to do!”
“We’re back from history to tell you to knock it off. You know nothing of witch hunts. We don’t like you appropriating our history.”
“You don’t … what?” says Trump.
“We don’t like you using the term witch hunt to slander anyone who doesn’t agree with you. Are we clear now?”
“Well, good for you, but I’m President, don’t you know that? I can do whatever I want.”
“No, you can’t,” they say, their eyes glowing scarlet. They stoop over, point at Trump and chant:
“Double, double toil and trouble,
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
… Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”
“Double, double toil and trouble,
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
“Omigod! Who even talks like that?” cries Trump who grabs a lamp and throws it at the witches. It slides right through them.
“Are you putting a curse on me or something? That’s against the law. You ugly bitches don’t even rate a one on the Trump scale! I’m gonna have Rudy sue your asses, I swear!”
“We were burned at the stake over nothing. And you, you filthy moron, you devour your own democracy and think you can get away with it?”
“News flash, you old hags. I’ve been getting away with it for years. Whaddya gonna do, call Ghostbusters?” he says and laughs.
“You will resign be ere the set of sun.”
“What the f**k? Resign? Me? No way.”
“You will. Resign. If not, you will be transformed into a toad, and you know how Melania hates toads. She will loose the exterminator to set his foot upon thee. So you see, resignation is your best deal.”
The first witch turns to the others and says, “When shall we three meet again with Trump?”
Second witch: “When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”
Third witch: “That will be ere the set of sun.”
In unison, they say, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.”
“Who writes like that?” yells Trump. “Does that mean you will let me go?”
“Hell no.”
Rosie Sorenson is a humor writer in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can contact her at: RosieSorenson29@yahoo.com.
From The Progressive Populist, November 15, 2019
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