Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever
about that – believe me! The register of his burial was signed by the
clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Trump signed it.
And, depending quite heavily on whether the bank was foreign or domestic, Trump’s
name was good upon ‘change, for anything he chose to put his tiny little hand
to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. This must be distinctly understood,
or nothing absolutely tremendous and really terrific can come of the story I am
going to relate.
Oh! But he was an itsy-bitsy-fisted hand at the grindstone,
Trump! A squeezing, wrenching, pussy-grabbing, scraping, clutching, covetous
old sinner! Hard and sharp as Sharper Image, back in the 80s, when that company
was really something let me tell you; self-Tweeting, and solitary as an oyster.
Some kind of possibly-sentient Orange Julius was on his head, and on his
eyebrows. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; and didn’t
thaw it one degree at Christmas.
Once upon a time – of all the good days in the year, on
Christmas Eve – old Trump sat busy in his golden tower. It was cold bleak,
biting weather: foggy withal, and he could hear the people in the court outside
go protesting up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping
their feet upon the pavement stones, shouting “Not my President!” and a bunch
of other stuff he couldn’t possibly actually hear, given the insulating effect
of living in solid gold rooms, but the knowledge of them nonetheless stirred
his ire.
At length the hour of shutting up the golden Tower arrives.
With an ill-will Trump dismounted from his very expensive golden
chair/throne/obnoxiously open critique of the excesses of capitalism, and addressed
the expectant clerk , Bob Crachit.
“You’ll want all day
tomorrow, I suppose?” said Trump.
“If quite convenient,
Mr. Trump.”
“Fuck convenient,”
said Trump. “If I docked your pay for
wasting my time with this Christmas nonsense, the government’d sue me. Luckily,
I’ll be the government soon. So we’ll
just see about this day-off business, going forward.”
Crachit smiled, faintly.
II.
“You are fettered,”
said Trump, who didn’t actually know what the word ‘fettered’ meant, and didn’t
care that he didn’t know, because books are for eggheads and learning is for
losers. “Tell me why?”
“I wear the chain I
forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I
made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and
of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?”
“Don’t go in for
chains, myself,” replied Trump. “Not
my thing. I do know a guy who could do it for you in gold, though. Very classy.”
“Would you know,”
pursued the Ghost, “the weight and
length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long
as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have labored on it, since. It is a
ponderous chain!”
“What the fuck are
you talking about?” asked Trump. “I
don’t see any chain around me. Who sent you? The Washington Post? Bezos is in
trouble, come January. What’s your business here?”
“Business!” cried
the Ghost, wringing its hands . “Mankind
was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy,
forbearance, and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade
were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”
“This is all very
sad,”
said Trump. “Very uninteresting.”
``You will be
haunted,''
proclaimed the Ghost, ``by Three
Spirits. Without their visits,'' said the Ghost, ``you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow,
when the bell tolls One.''
“One is very bad for
me. I’m scheduled to meet Kanye again at one. Call my secretary and speak to
her about setting up an appointment. I’m very busy right now.”
III.
When Trump awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed,
he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of
his chamber. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand;
and Trump, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to
face with the unearthly visitor who drew them. At the spirit’s appearance Trump
turned white as a sheet, which but for a moment gave him the aspect of his enthusiastic
booster, David Duke.
``Who, and what are
you?''
Trump demanded.
``I am the Ghost of
Christmas Past.''
“I don’t do the past,”
said Trump. “Very unrewarding.”
“Learning from the
past prevents one from repeating it,” intoned the spirit.
“Very. Unrewarding.”
emphasized Trump.
Despite his many protestations, the Ghost of Christmas Past
spirited old Trump away to revisit his past actions, returning him to his
godawfully gaudy quarters as if in the blink of an eye.
“And now you see the
ways in which your actions – your greed and your selfishness – have harmed
others, Donald.” The Ghost of Christmas Past turned its infinitely sad and
knowing eyes to Trump.
“Those were some very
good deals,” said Trump.
IV.
“And now you see the
ways in which your actions – your greed and your selfishness – have harmed
others, Donald.” The Ghost of Christmas Present turned its wise and shining
eyes to Trump.
“Those were some very
good deals,” said Trump.
V.
Silently, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come raised its
boney finger and pointed at old Trump. The grim darkness that filled its dread
hood was the color of unquestionable judgment; its pitiless gaze oppressed the
comfortable and comforted the oppressed.
“Those were some very
good deals,” said Trump.
VI.
Outside it was Christmas morning. The bells of St. Patrick’s
cathedral rang out their song of peace on earth, good will toward men. Trump
lay abed, smart phone in his teensy weensy hands, furiously tweeting.
Ghost of Christmas Past: Very bad! No regrets! Will sue!
Ghost of Christmas Present: Failing, just like NYTimes! I will make
Christmas great again! Believe me!
Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come: Very unattractive! Will ignore!
Trump
was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim,
who totally died, he gave not a second thought. He stayed as fair-weather a
friend, as pitiless a master, and as amoral a man, as the city which has always
hated him ever knew – or any other city, town, or borough, in the world. Some
people laughed to see the lack of alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and
little heeded them. He had no further intercourse with Spirits, because they
were too busy afterward seeing to his incipient chains; and it was always said
of him, that he knew how to use Christmas like the soulless, opportunistic,
unrepentant huckster he truly was. May that never be said of us! And so, as
Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One.
…We’re
going to need it.
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