It began, as all collapsing dynasties do, in silence.
No banners. No bugles. Just the sound of golf cleats tapping out a death march on imported marble, echoing through the tomb-turned-palace called Mar-a-Lago.
Donald lay supine in what had once been his bed and now looked suspiciously like a tanning sarcophagus. The sheets were silk, gold-threaded, and damp with mystery fluids. His robe was monogrammed W.I.N.N.E.R. and smelled faintly of Velveeta and regret. Around him buzzed the final shreds of a family that had been circling the throne like bored vultures for decades. The kingdom was crumbling, the court had scattered, but the old king clung to the mattress like it was the nuclear football.
His breathing was labored. His lips moved, forming fragments of expired slogans:
“Covfefe… perfect call… bigger than Lincoln…”
His final wish had been to be embalmed with a Diet Coke IV and buried clutching a Sharpie. But first, the heirs would feast.
The Departure of Queen Melania and Prince Barron the Tall
Melania didn’t say goodbye. She never did.
She floated through the halls like a well-funded ghost, trailed by white-gloved staffers and an aura of vaguely Eastern European disapproval. Her bags were Louis Vuitton. Her sunglasses covered most of her expression. She paused only once—to glance at the life-size oil painting of Donald bare-chested on a tank, holding a taco bowl and running over Greta Thunberg.
“Leave it,” she said.
Barron, now a 7’4” rail-thin anomaly dressed in cyberpunk racing gear, followed behind carrying only a titanium suitcase and the same blank stare he’d worn since he turned thirteen and realized he was in hell. He said nothing. Some believed he no longer spoke English—only engine diagnostics and silent judgment.
They boarded a jet bound for Dubai, where Melania had opened a spa called Stillness, specializing in chakra facials using diamond dust and crushed endangered beetles. Barron, meanwhile, had entered the illegal Formula Zero circuit, where cars hit 400 mph and spectators signed waivers to die watching.
They were done with the American experiment.
The Idiot Prince and the Heir of Nothing
That left the sons. The war of the failsons.
Eric—soft, entitled, and thick as a brick soaked in Monster Energy—had taken to wearing tactical gear around the estate “just in case the libs try something.” He spent his days in the koi pond, trying to teach the fish to salute.
He had a startup. He wouldn’t say what it did.
Don Jr., twitchy and sun-scorched, was the spiritual successor. Coke residue permanently dusted his upper lip. His eyes darted like they were trying to escape. He carried an ancient Japanese sword, a katana, and posted shirtless conspiracy videos, and referred to himself as “the real president” on OnlyFans.
They hated each other the way broken mirrors hate reflections.
At dinner, Eric would pitch NFT steaks that changed flavor depending on your blood sugar. Don Jr. would respond by doing a bump off his fork and whispering, “You’re weak, bro. You’re built like tofu. Dad always said you cried during Home Alone 2.”
They once came to blows over who got to inherit the Gold Toilet Throne, a literal 24-karat commode Donald had installed in 2006 and referred to as “Oval 2.” It had its own social media account.
The Sisters and the Subtle Knives
Ivanka hovered like the smell of expired perfume. She wore white linen, spoke in mantras, and ran a spiritual startup called IN-VANKA, which sold artisanal soundbaths and crystal-encrusted yoni eggs to women named Skylar.
She claimed to have transcended “ego structures” and now identified as “post-human.”
Tiffany, however, had returned with a degree in law from a Caribbean certificate mill, a Qatari fiancé named Ozymandias (probably not his real name), and a chip on her shoulder the size of a classified document at Bedminster.
Their feud was quiet, surgical, and vicious.
Tiffany mentioned being invited to Davos.
Ivanka smiled and said she was retreating to the Andes for a solo ayahuasca cleanse.
Tiffany fired back that her Qatari husband had already invested in something called “post-nation real estate.”
Ivanka replied, “That’s cute. Daddy used to say you were the third-best mistake he ever made.”
Silverware trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere in the billiards room, a Reagan bust cracked diagonally.
Mar-a-Lago, Now Fully Haunted
Mar-a-Lago was no longer a residence. It had become an ecosystem of psychic trauma.
The ghosts had moved in permanently.
Not weeping specters or tragic souls. These were aggressive poltergeists: disgraced CEOs, dead lobbyists, the soul of Steve Bannon’s pancreas. They drifted down the corridors shouting “HOLD THE LINE” and flickering through closed circuit TVs.
The piano in the Palm Court played itself nightly—always “My Way,” always off-key.
The chandelier in the Grand Ballroom wept tears of motor oil.
The ghost of Roy Cohn ran a blackjack table in the wine cellar, dealing exclusively to fallen televangelists and cursed hedge fund managers.
Staff quit in waves. The remaining ones burned sage, prayed loudly, and refused to go near the golf cart tunnel after midnight, where a phantom known only as The Mooch circled endlessly, muttering, “I was on The Apprentice too…”
The Great Blackout and the Night of Madness
At exactly 3:33 AM, the power went out.
Security footage later showed the house vibrating, not from an earthquake, but from laughter—deep, cosmic laughter, as if the universe itself finally got the joke.
Eric was discovered naked in the koi pond, demanding the fish elect him president.
Don Jr. live-streamed a shirtless katana dance while screaming at the moon. TikTok banned him. OnlyFans promoted it.
Ivanka hosted a séance in the Lincoln Bathroom, summoning the spirit of her father’s brand. A golden mist appeared, whispered “Tell Elon I forgive him,” then dissolved into red dust.
Tiffany barricaded herself in the spa with her fiancé and four lawyers, citing imminent spiritual war.
The staff fled. The press was locked out. Florida, sensing the vortex, began to detach itself from the continent—coastline first.
The Last Breath
Then it happened.
On the day of a partial eclipse, Donald sat up.
He looked out over the estate, saw the chaos, and smiled like a man who mistook Armageddon for a brand launch.
“Beautiful,” he croaked.
The heirs gathered. The room smelled like dollar-store cologne.
Eric with a MAGA helmet. Don Jr. with a taxidermied hawk on his shoulder. Ivanka humming mantras. Tiffany in pearls. No one spoke.
He looked at them all, nodded once, and said:
“You’re fired.”
Then he exhaled a long, greasy sigh—and died.
The Broken Deal
The body was buried beneath the ninth hole, in a pyramid made of rejected ballots and expired Diet Cokes. The embalmer had trouble draining him—too much tanning spray in the bloodstream. The priest wore a MAGA hat and sobbed through a pre-written eulogy lifted from old Trump rally speeches.
But death was just a soft reboot.
His spirit rose like a humid balloon full of Big Mac wrappers. He expected heaven to look like a casino grand opening. He expected angels with Fox News cleavage.
Instead: fog.
He found himself lying again in the bed of the ailing king, now in the afterlife. The sheets were soaked with flop sweat and ego. There were no ratings. No polls. Just a mirror.
He looked.
It showed everything.
The disinfectant rants. The porn star payoffs. The kids-in-cages photo ops. The sharpie hurricane. The bleach. The Bible upside down. The joyless sex. The roaring crowds. The hollow silence after.
He tried to tweet.
The phone melted.
Jack Dorsey’s ghost just shrugged and whispered, “You’re shadowbanned, bro.”
Judgment from the Forgotten
A tribunal formed—not of saints or demons, but the people he ignored.
A janitor from Queens. A nurse who died in a parking lot. A teacher with bullet scars. A soldier he used for a photo op, then ghosted.
“You promised us greatness,” they said.
“I gave you ratings,” he muttered.
The silence that followed cracked his soul.
The Sentence
He was condemned—not to fire, but to a cosmic Mar-a-Lago, where every wall was a mirror and every hallway led nowhere.
The Gold Toilet flushed up.
The golf balls screamed.
The cable only played Frontline.
Every time he reached for a cheeseburger, it turned into a book.
Every time he tried to speak, only wind came out.
Every time he called for Ivanka, she was on Earth selling Goop knockoffs and blocking his calls.
Each night, he lay again in the bed of the ailing king. The sheets were stiffer now, embroidered with the phrase:
“I ALONE CAN FIX IT.”
He whispered old slogans to the shadows like prayer beads:
“No collusion… so unfair… person, woman, man, camera, TV…”
And sometimes, just sometimes, the void whispered back:
“No cameras.
No crowd.
Just you.”
This is not a prediction. This is not even fiction. This is the ghost of America as it was, whispering back from the ninth hole, hoping we’ll wake up before the next king tries to tweet from the afterlife.
One Last Breath — Now What?
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Because this? This ain’t fiction. It’s the news—just wearing better clothes.
Deserves a Nobel Prize. Brilliant.
Memento Mori was definitely invented for a reason.