The Trump Plaza Massacre

Chicago witches, along with witches across the nation, are gathering to cast a “binding spell” on the Trump Administration. This is true. But what happened after the first ceremony is a darker tale, one that is officially being called FAKE NEWS.

witches-against-trump

The President realized immediately that he was being constrained. His Executive Order-signing pens kept running out of ink, and he found himself unable to utter complete sentences — which in itself was not unusual, but now, his staff could not decipher his commands. “Steve,” he called out. “I need you.” The shadow the President cast on the Oval Office wall detached itself, slithered along the floor, and wrapped itself like a snake around the Leader of the Free World. Its head stretched over the President’s left shoulder, and pressed a phantom ear to his lips. “I’m being attacked,” the President whispered. The shadow flowed away and snaked its way into the greater shadows at the far side of the room, where it vanished.

In his sanctum at the top of Trump Tower, Steve Bannon chuckled without mirth as a tendril of shadow entered his nostril. For a moment, his eyes clouded with darkness, and he nodded. “Witches and hedge magicians, thinking they know power…” He went to the window, and opened it with a gesture. Outside, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. He frowned. Something passed in front of the sun, rippling as it ate the light. Rising from the far horizon, black vapors streaked up into the sky. As the darkness grew, so did Bannon’s power. The shadows cocooned him, and he transformed. A huge, shapeless, pale thing rose into the darkening sky like a misshapen balloon, and then sped westward.

The Chicago witches swayed in their circle in Trump Plaza. There was a stench on the wind from the east, and waves of nausea hit them. The witch Kloë looked up at the darkening sky, and said to her Sister, “Is… is that us?”

“No,” Breeannaugh said. “There’s someone… else…” She cast her mind skyward, and braving the ethereal miasma that tainted the air, she quested for the source of the disturbance. Her mind met something formless, terrifying, and radiating hideous power. Her body burst like rotten fruit dropped from a height. The witches’ hex snapped and recoiled, hitting the coven with a backlash of magic. With a single voice, they screamed.

A mass of pale flesh slopped onto the ground in the witches’ broken circle. It rose on tendon and sinew from its amorphous roiling. Steve Bannon’s face emerged from a sheath of quivering skin. It grinned. Qaitlynn vomited noisily.

“Hello Snowflakes,” said the thing with Bannon’s face. I still have plans for the President. You will not meddle in matters so far beyond you.”

Elyyzah’s fingers closed on her knife hilt and she whispered a curse, the strongest she knew. Then she leaped at the Alt-Right horror. Her blade sunk to the hilt in Steve Bannon’s gelatin-soft forehead. He smiled. “Nevertheless you persist?” he whispered. She herd mockery in the thing’s voice. And… admiration? She recoiled from the thought of being admired by this thing.

“FLY YOU FOOLS!” Elyyzah screamed to her coven as Bannon slithered over her and began to feed.

Far to the east, from his golden toilet, the President tweeted that the Left, still unable to get over his landslide victory, had resorted to witchcraft to defy the will of the people. Sad!

Hours later, a furious Sean Spicer condemned the dishonest media for its lies about the Administration’s dealings with dark forces, and about the very existence of the Massacre at Trump Plaza.

 

From 1984 to 2017

(An excerpt from the novel 2017, by Steve Bannon.)

Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of people seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out of the National Mall, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between 1.5 million and 250 thousand. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable crowds, like moving trees, were still streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again.

“How many people attended the inauguration, Winston?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. You will kill me if you do that again. 1.5 million, 250 thousand, 7 billion — in all honesty I don’t know.”

“Better,” said Sean Spicer.