Wasteland, What Will Become Of Them?
The Trump Regime See Their Days Numbered, What Comes Next Is Truly Terrifying
W e can feel it, can’t we? There is a shift happening. The rumbling beneath our feet is the seismic shifting of the gargantuan plates of power. As we near the election just a scant few days from now, we read the near dystopian headlines like a beaten and tired captive audience.
Trump appears to be a sick old man, flushed, stressed, impassioned with a mad desire to hold on to the last vestiges of his cult and fading power. Any lucidity he may have had is vastly disappearing under the veil of medications used to try to keep COVID at bay in the body of an unhealthy septuagenarian.
Trump's house of cards within the Whitehouse walls are beginning to fall. Former McCain Campaign Strategist Steve Schmidt, the head of The Lincoln Project tells us that the Whitehouse appears to be a sinking ship; “It’s Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner vs. Donald Trump Jr., and Kimberly Guilfoyle on the inside. They are at war over scraps and who gets to command what will be the remnants of your rancid cult.” [sic]
Do we wonder what is to become of them? For Trump, the last of his decidedly meager liquid cash will go to defending himself in the long line of indictments. Creditors of whom are currently entitled to a piece of the $500 million in personally guaranteed loans will find a bright green light to go after their due sum now that Trump is no longer protected by the power of POTUS. They will begin to get creative in ways we’ve yet to imagine in their collections efforts. But where does this dark beast hide in the days and weeks before true calamity befalls them?
I keep envisioning this post-apocalyptic wasteland, a deteriorating Mar A Lago resort in grave disrepair. Inside, a failed Donald J Trump, having just lost the election, hunkers down with a few of his comrades to ride out the impending storm of a weary nation hell-bent on their destruction and cancelation. His resources for his own protection are dwindling. He no longer has the nation’s DHS at his disposal. His ‘millions’, well, that which are not tied up in audits and being sought after by creditors are ebbing away quickly with no chance at replenishment. No one will buy his assets, no one will loan him money.
Outside, the facia of Mar A Lago suffers defacement and tagging to likes which make Portland’s federal courthouse look like child’s play. The security guards swear they don’t know where it comes from, it seems to appear magically, they could swear they are watching the place with eagle eyes!
The sweltering heat beats on Mar A Lago’s dying landscaping. The sun beats down as if on a mission to kill. It’s now, that the sad inhabitants of the resort huddled around the last room with decent air conditioning think back to the environmental rollbacks they enacted.
There is a rumor that the delivery service that delivers food and sundries to resort has been found out, and so now yet another service must be found, if one can be found at all. Perhaps it will become every man for himself, for these are a people who never learned to assist one another in community, rely on one another, operate without cash.
The inhabitants of the resort meet time and time again in ‘situation rooms’, but every time they do, they seem to come up with strategies that would require the cooperation of the citizens of the U.S., or it would require money. They find themselves back to zero in a hopeless go round. Despite going over, and over and over their present scenario, they cannot seem to grasp the fact that theirs is an inescapable repeating purgatory, they still attempt to check out and return to life as they know it. They find that they cannot.
The air becomes thin, oxygen seems to disperse quicker than usual. Here there is no longer reason for airs. The thousands of dollars spent on personal upkeep seems to become as futile as their strategies.
The line staff that held on for a mere paycheck has not been paid in a few days. They’ve abandoned premises leaving their access cards and codes strewn about for whoever would use it. No one will serve the resort, what if someone cuts power?
The inhabitants experience an intense doom as they realize that avenues they felt could be passages for escape are indeed, avenues for their victims to encroach. The resort becomes a boarded up locked and cladded bunker.
A deep, thick encompassing panic sets in along with a stifling claustrophobia. Somewhere over the sound system, Hotel California plays on repeat.