“Tucker, we’re back in three, two, one . . .” came the whisper over his earpiece.

“Welcome back. On the line from Mar-A-Lago is our great President, and still our President, and always our President, Donald J. Trump. It’s a great privilege to have you on my show, Mr. President.”

“Thank you, Tucker, and what a great show you have. Ya know, you’re ratings are so huge. What is it now? Thirty million viewers?”

“Close.” Tucker knew better than to correct his idol in front of his three million viewers.

“Well, I love your millions of viewers and I know they love me, and I just felt like calling in and telling them what great people they are and thank you all for supporting me in throwing Sleepy Joe Biden out of the White House and putting myself, your legally elected President, back in office. But I still need your help. So, please send your contributions to stopthesteal.com tonight, and . . . and”

There was a long pause, which finally prompted Tucker to ask, “Did we lose our audio? Are you still there Mr. President?”

A few moments later Trump slurred, “Shorry, Tucker, I jush got thish terrible head . . .” Then came the sound of a sharp thud followed by a muffled thud.

“Mr. President, are you still there?” Seconds later three million viewers heard urgent voices shouting, “Mr. President, Mr. President! Call 911. Get his doctor. He’s unconscious!”

“Tucker, take us out to commercial, now!” screamed the producer into his earpiece.

“We’re going to step aside. We’ll be back after these messages.”

“Where the hell am I?” Trump shouts as he regains consciousness. His surroundings look nothing like his luxurious bedroom suite at Mar-A-Lago. It’s dark, dank and dreary; shades of gray all around him. Looking around he notices he is sitting in a small skiff in which some of the wood appears to be rotting. At the stern he spots an ancient, gaunt man, dressed in a baggy tunic and wearing a conical cap. He is poling the skiff through dark, foul-smelling water.

“What an ironic statement,” said the old man. “That’s precisely where you’re headed.”

“What are you saying? Who are you, old man?”

“Charon’s my name. Spelled C-h-a-r-o-n, but pronounced Karen, like the woman’s name. And you, sir, are traversing the River Styx. Over there is your final destination, Hades, as the ancient Greeks called it, Sheol, as the ancient Hebrews called it, but better known to you Americans as Hell.”

“Bullshit! Do you know who I am, old man? I am Donald J. Trump and I live at Mar-A-Logo, which is gorgeous. I own it, ya know. I’m very rich. I’d never visit a shithole like this place. Besides, you’re not real, and I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

The old man continues poling the murky waters toward the far shore of the river, saying nothing.

The silence angers Trump. “Look at me you sick bastard, I’m President Donald Trump, the illegally deposed President of the United States, and I was on Fox News just moments ago, and I don’t know how I wound up in this dump, so get me outta here this second.”

“Correction, sir, you were the former President of the United States, and I emphasize the word ‘were’ because you are dead. By the way, everyone down here loves how you told your Big Lie. But that’s all beside the point. Now, you’re just another dead soul on his way to Hell.”

“You’re lying!” Trump bellows. “I’m not dead. I blacked out because of a terrible headache. I’m unconscious, that’s all. I’ll regain consciousness soon, and won’t have to look at your ugly face.”

“Not a chance. You had a massive ischemic stroke due to a clot about the size of one of those popcorn chicken nuggets you like so much. Seconds later you got a double whammy from heart failure. A Secret Service agent found you slumped over your desk in your bedroom. They gave you CPR. When your doctor arrived, all he could do was pronounce you dead. They tried desperately to save you, but all those pizzas and cheeseburgers finally caught up with you.”

“You’re a goddam liar!” exclaimed Trump.

“That’s the problem with you narcissists. You only believe what you want to hear. Everything else are just lies told by liars. I wish I could see the look on your face when you reach the fraud circle. Boy are you in for a surprise!”

“Fraud circle? What are you talking about?”

“You see, here in the underworld, there are nine regions, or circles where all different types of condemned souls dwell. You will visit each one. Then you will be assigned your very own personal place in Hell where you will spend eternity.”

“I’m not going to any of these stupid circles because I’m not dead. I’ve got a country to run. Millions of adoring followers – my MAGA people – they’re counting on me. They love me. They’re going to help me stop the steal and put me back in office.”

“Believe me, sir, the Boss wanted you to stay up there longer. He was counting on you to destroy democracy, but the Higher Power decided to take you now, and the Boss couldn’t do anything about it.

“Boss? What boss? I’m the boss!”

“Not here. Satan’s the boss here. Well, here we are. Watch your step getting out.”

“And who the hell are you?” Trump snarls at another old, gray-faced man, also dressed in a tunic, as he helps Trump disembark the wobbly skiff. Trump looks along the banks of the River Styx, strewn with dozens of sad, moaning souls.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Virgil, I am your escort. The Boss asked me to give you special treatment. You know, we don’t get former Presidents every day.”

“I’m not a former President, you pathetic creature. I am the President of the United States, and I don’t belong here, so take me back to Mar-A-Lago. Now!”

“I can’t do that. You are a dead former President. You lost re-election by about seven million votes. You’re standing on the banks of the River Styx, preparing to tour the nine circles of Hell. Now, please, come with me.”

“No. You’re lying. I won the election by millions of votes. There was massive voter fraud . . . except, of course, in the states I won.”

Virgil takes Trump by the arm. Trump resists, but discovers he has no physical strength, and is forced to go where Virgil pulls him. As they walk along, they came to a tunnel-like passageway with a sign above it that reads “First Circle: Limbo.” Trump asks, “What the hell is Limbo?”

“Ironically put,” says Virgil with a smile. “Think of Limbo as a halfway house. The souls here are waiting for the end times on up Earth to find out whether the Higher Power is going to resurrect them to Heaven or condemn them to one of the other eight circles of Hell.”

“Higher Power? That other creepy guy also said Higher Power. He didn’t know that’s me. I’m the Commander in Chief, ya know. The best ever.”

“I know you can’t avoid praising yourself, but you are most certainly not the Higher Power. In your vernacular, the Higher Power is the Lord God. The Boss naturally loathes the Higher Power and won’t let us use names like God, Lord, Jehovah, or Allah. We compromised on “Higher Power” because it sounds less reverential.

“By the way,” continues Virgil, “I live here in Limbo when I’m not out guiding tours.”

Ignoring Virgil’s response, Trump asks, “You said something a moment ago about end times? What the hell are end times?”

“At some time in the future the Higher Power will bring everything to an end and all human life on Earth will vanish forever. At that moment all of us in Limbo will learn out fate – Heaven or Hell.”

“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard,” said Trump. “Do you believe that shit?”

“I have to. I was a virtuous Roman pagan who lived before the time of Christ, so I’m still eligible for Heaven . . . So, if you will, please follow me.” Again, Trump could not break free from Virgil’s grasp.

At the end of the passageway, they arrive at a ledge overlooking a large well-lit open space. Color is restored and the souls down below are in bright white tunics either reading, watching lectures, or meditating. Unlike the banks of the River Styx, these surroundings are neither gloomy nor ominous. Yet there was nothing of beauty about it either.

“If this is Hell, it ain’t so bad. It’s no Mar-A-Lago, but still . . .”

“This isn’t Hell. It’s Limbo. In time Limbo will empty out and all those souls down there will be headed to a permanent home. Thanks to you, Limbo is beginning to overflow. The Boss is having to construct massive new accommodations.”

“What do you mean ‘thanks to me?’ What have I done?”

“A lot. You see, throughout Earth, and especially in the United States, there is a very large population of people who identify themselves as Evangelical Christians. Normally, when they die, almost all of them go straight to Heaven. But not long ago, hundreds of thousands of these Evangelicals began pouring into Limbo, singing your praises. They are your followers, and by following you, they’ve placed their souls in jeopardy of losing what was once assured salvation.”

“Fake news! Another CNN hoax.”

“You see, Evangelicals know their Bibles preach the core virtues of truth, justice, righteousness, mercy, humility, charity, and especially love. Then you came along. Some Evangelical Movement leaders, bent on transforming America into their vision of an ultra-right, Protestant theocracy, found in you just what they needed: a zealous self-promoter holding a completely empty policy portfolio. Knowing you would say and do anything to get into the White House, they promised to use their charisma and rhetorical skills to indoctrinate and deliver tens of millions of votes plus hundreds of millions in campaign donations. In exchange you would give them the legislation, regulations, judges and other officials they want. Inexplicably, they actually fooled their flocks into believing that you were anointed by the Higher Power to be their President and savior of the United States! Can you believe it?” Virgil could not help but chuckle and shake his head in disbelief.

“Yeah, those people really love me. Personally, I can’t stand them, but their loyalty to me is huge. Got me elected . . . and re-elected.”

Vigil again shakes his head in disbelief and says, “How incredibly incongruous it is that millions of Bible-thumping, Halleluiah-shouting, old time religion Christians would put their faith and trust in an unchurched, unrepentant, chronically recidivating sinner like you, so notorious for lying, cheating and womanizing.”

“Now hold on! I may not go to church but everything else you just said is a damn lie!”

“They were duped, plain and simple. They gave you the presidency and then stood by in silent acquiescence as you systematically denigrated their Biblical teachings. Incredibly they still adored you because you nominated the judges they wanted, gave them the tax cuts they wanted, condemned Black Lives Matter, stopped Muslim immigration, stopped asylum seekers at the border and promised them a border wall. You detoured them off their path to glory and onto the road to hypocrisy and apostasy. Now, their dead are here to Limbo being tested to determine whether or not they will humbly repent and be saved, or keep their hard hearts and be tossed into the heresy circle. . . By the way, the Boss is delighted!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Virgil. Vurr—geel. Sounds like a fag name to me.”

Unprovoked, Virgil takes Trump by the arm and escorts him out of Limbo. “Take a good look at this place, Mr. Trump. You’ll never see it or anything close to it again.”

Virgil leads Trump down another narrow passageway marked “Second Circle: Lust.” Trump notices that all color has again vanished. Virgil says, “This place is self-evident. Here are the adulterers, seductresses, Lotharios, Johns, hedonists, pornography actors, and anyone who would not control their decadent sexual desires and habits. As you can see, every soul here has been given gorgeous naked bodies, but their feet are stuck in plaster and they are spaced just far enough apart that they cannot touch one another no matter how hard they reach. The atmosphere here is filled with powerful pheromones to boost their already heightened sexual drive. Listen to their moaning and groaning. They will spend eternity desperately yearning in vain for sexual gratification.”

“This place is horrible!” exclaimed Trump. Yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off the voluptuous female bodies strewn everywhere. Look at all of the beautiful bodies on those women, he thought to himself with a wistful sigh. What a waste of gorgeous flesh.

Virgil continues, “If you closely, you’ll see some familiar faces. There’s Cleopatra off to your left. Oh, look over there. It’s your old pal, Jeffrey Epstein!”

Despite his yearning to grope the women, especially Cleopatra, the sight of Jeffrey Epstein’s pained expression was more than Trump could bear. “Get me out of here, Virgil. Quick!”

“As you wish.” As they headed for the third circle, Virgil comments, “Just so you know, you were a top candidate for this circle, but the Board of Overseers had other plans.”

“Board of Overseers?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention our Board of Overseers. It consists of the superintendents of each of the nine circles. The Boss chairs the meetings at which they recommend which circle each soul should be permanently assigned to. However, the Boss makes the final decision, except, of course, in the Limbo cases. Those are left to the judgment of the Higher Power.”

As they enter the third circle, Trump smells mouth-watering food mixed with putrid odors. He sees many souls gathered around a large round table stuffing themselves with food and drink. Occasionally they turn aside and vomit from overeating, but they immediately go back to the food and eat ravenously.

Virgil tells Trump, “By now you must have guessed this is the circle for gluttons. What you see before you are the food gluttons. You know, the Gluttony Overseer is also really anxious to place you here.”

“I like the idea of unlimited amounts of my favorite food. The puking I could do without.”

“But here’s what you don’t know. Starting out, each soul can fully smell and taste the delicious food, but as each cycle of eating and purging progresses, their sense of smell and taste in the food gradually dissipates to the point where all they can smell is their own vomit.”

“So, if all they smell is their own barf, why do they keep eating?”

“That’s their curse. They keep eating because they believe their sense of smell and taste will be restored. In time they will start eating their own vomit just to have something to taste.”

“That would never happen to me,” Trump replied. “I have the greatest sense of taste and smell in all the world. These people down there just don’t how to enjoy their KFC.”

“Is that so? Okay, then, let’s move on.” Once more Trump is helpless to resist.

“We’re now in the Fourth Circle: Greed.” Trump looks down into one of the pits and observes about a hundred souls in a no-holds-barred fight over several bags labeled “Lucre.” As they fight, some of bags split open and lucre spills out onto the ground. Half of the souls begin clawing and scratching for the loose lucre while the rest still focus on the intact bags. Once someone acquires some lucre, others try to steal it from their pockets. Pretty soon all of the bags are split open and the grabbing and stealing escalates into total mayhem. Just off to the side of the pit is a comfortable oasis from the chaos designated “Satisfaction Zone.” It is totally deserted.

Virgil begins, “You’re looking into one of the many “Greed for Money” trenches. There are “Greed for Power” and “Greed for Fame” trenches here as well, but we only have time to visit the one I thought would appeal you most. In this particular trench you’ll find inside-stock traders, market manipulators, oligarchs, monopolists, unscrupulous hedge fund traders, and crooked real estate developers, just to name a few.”

Virgil, with a subtle smile, watches Trump’s face twitch when he hears “crooked real estate developers.” “As you can see, there is a limited amount of lucre in the trench, and everyone down there is trying to get it all for themselves, and every single one of them is determined never to give up until they have it all.”

“What’s with this place called Satisfaction Zone? It looks really nice.”

“It is, and I’m glad you asked. The Satisfaction Zone is a place where any one of those souls could go and rest comfortably forever on whatever they could grab and remove from the pit, but none of them will ever leave there until they’ve taken all the lucre for themselves. Since no one will ever gather up all the lucre, that place remains eternally vacant. They all want to be there, but having it all is more important to them than going there with only a fair portion of the lucre. Their Hell is never getting there. It’s sad, but such is the nature of greed. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Trump?”

“Shut up!’ growled Trump. “Get me outta here.” Virgil complies.

“Oh, you’re going love this place. Satan, in your honor, has opened a brand-new zone here at the Fifth Circle: Anger. It’s called the ‘January 6^th Sector.’ It’s under construction and won’t open until all the insurrectionists from the January 6^th riot are dead. The sector will be a mock-up of the White House Ellipse, Pennsylvania Avenue running from the Ellipse to Capitol Hill and the Capitol Building itself. Inhabitants of this sector first gather at the Ellipse to hear your January 6^th speech. They become increasingly angry and, as a mob, march down Pennsylvania Avenue, chanting slogans and brandishing weapons, to storm the Capitol. But down here the outcome is a little different. The rioters are met at the Capitol steps by Capitol Police officers whose faces are exact replications of Nancy Pelosi’s. Though greatly outnumbered by the seditionists, they easily prevent even one of them from reaching the Capitol doors. In retreat, the defeated mob is arrested by the Metro Police, all bearing Joe Biden’s likeness, and hauled off to jail. While in jail they’re forced to watch news reports on television of their dismal failure to breach the Capitol, followed by videos of the Congressional vote certifying the electoral college vote for Joe Biden, all of it running in a perpetual loop. As they are about to become catatonic with rage, they are suddenly released. When they walk across the threshold of their cell, they find themselves back at the Ellipse watching your speech again, getting lathered up all over again and marching back to the Capitol with high hopes of blocking the certification and stopping the so-called steal. As usual, they fail, go to jail, get sprung and the process repeats itself – for eternity. Their rage is off the charts, but they will never have the opportunity to blow off steam and placate their anger.”

“Well, I see Pelosi, Biden and the lackey police are also in Hell. That’s good.”

“Actually, they’re not real. They’re all holograms. Though mere shadows of reality, they easily manhandle all of your supporters because, down here, even a hologram has more strength, intelligence and courage than an insurrectionist. The very experience of helplessness at the hands of their perceived enemies, of course, is just another goad at their pride and another source of their unrequited anger.

“This is a crock. The demonstration was a big success, and it’s just the first step in my plan to take back the presidency Joe Biden stole from me. And Pelosi and Biden ARE going to Hell. I’ll see to that personally.”

“Mr. Trump, your reelection failed. Your insurrection failed. Even the Boss is now calling you a loser. You are indisputably beyond the River Styx, and Pelosi, Biden and the police are still walking the Earth – and you are absolutely helpless to do anything about it . . . deal with it.”

“This whole thing is really pissing me off.”

“Touché, Mr. Trump, touché.”

 

“Well, here we are, Mr. Trump, the Sixth Circle: Heresy. Here is where the millions of Evangelicals currently up in Limbo will likely wind up if they don’t repent. The repentant will again find favor with the Higher Power and make it up to Heaven. The Overseer, Fra Pelagius, wasn’t sure if he wanted you here or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems you are hard to pin down as a heretic. First, it was difficult to determine whether you ever gave the first thought to any religious beliefs. It seems you have a reputation for avoiding deep thought. Second, if you have religious views, because you lie so much, it was too difficult to determine whether they are pro-religion or contra-religion.”

“Don’t think? That’s bullshit! I am the smartest person alive. Just ask my followers.”

“Because your followers down here are some of the most dimwitted people we’ve ever encountered, going to them with questions about your intellectual capacity is a fool’s errand.”

“More fake news. Anyway, my followers are smart people, especially my Evangelicals. They love me!”

“Mr. Trump, following you has become their existential problem. For so many of them, their salvation is in jeopardy and they have lost all awareness of that fact. The Boss loves nothing more than seeing people once seemingly out of his grasp committing heresy for senseless reasons, all through the deception of his agents on Earth. That’s why he was saddened that you died. You were one of his best recruiters for Hell.

“You can’t blame all that on me.”

“Not entirely. Only in part. We’re blaming them for being remarkably foolish and gullible. They had enough sense to realize that you were a narcissist, a non-believer and a charlatan, but they overlooked that and chose to believe the breathtakingly silly lie that you were chosen by the Higher Power to save the world from Muslims, Jews, Christians they don’t agree with, and secular humanists. Your part in it was that you were too wicked to tell them it wasn’t true, and instead went along with it.”

“You’re full of it, Virgil . . . Hey, what’s going on down there? All I can see is smoke. And what’s that awful odor? Smells like rotten eggs.”

“Remember the old maxim ‘You’re gonna burn in Hell for that’? Well, for heretics that’s exactly what they are getting. Beneath the cloud of smoke is burning brimstone, but, because the souls of the dead down here have no physical bodies, the heretics are not consumed by the flames. In life they expected to spend eternity in paradise. Instead, they are here, left only with the sense of touch to feel the burning flames, of sight to see nothing but flames, of hearing to hear nothing but the crackling fire and the groans of their neighbors, and, of course, the sense to smell the sulfur dioxide. They cry out to the angels in Heaven, asking them to warn their loved ones still alive on Earth, but their voices can’t reach higher than the flames.”

“More hoaxes. Let’s get outta here. You’re boring me.”

“As you wish.”

 

Looking around the next circle, Trump asks, “Oh, what now, Virgil? More fake crap to scare me?”

“This is the Seventh Circle: Violence, the most populous circle of them all. The notable thing about this place is that so many souls in other circles could easily belong here, and many of souls here could easily belong in another circle. For example, a lot of the participants in the January 6^th insurrection, normally bound for the Anger Circle, will end up here. And although many child sex traffickers are here, many are up in the Lust or Greed Circle. Satan certainly has his fill of paradoxes.

“In addition, people who incite others to violence are also here. I’ll give you an example you can easily relate to. At one of your campaign rallies, you told some people standing near a heckler in the audience to ‘Beat the crap out of that guy. I’ll even pay your legal fees.’”

“You’re telling me I could go to Hell for that stupid little statement?”

“It’s just an example. By the way, would you really have paid their legal fees? You know, you had quite a reputation for stiffing your own lawyers.” Virgil chuckled with delight at his little poke at Trump.

“Very funny, asshole,” Trump grumbles.

Virgil continues. “To be assigned to this circle, the Board of Overseers decided that the use of violence had to be at the core of their damnable lives on Earth. Naturally serial killers, assassins, school shooters, rapists, spouse abusers, child abusers, and torturers are just some of the many souls down in the ditches below.”

“Naturally,” Trump concurs.

“There are many other kinds of violent souls here: emperors, kings, queens, dictators, tyrants, soldiers, conquerors, bishops, cardinals . . . even a pope! We have slave owners, slave traders, ethnic cleansers, genocide sponsors, gangsters, gang bangers, kidnappers, family separators, lynch mob leaders, pirates, extortionists, even pimps . . . Safe to say this place is full of disgusting souls. I get the creeps every time I pass by here.”

“So, what’s happening with them? They just seem to be walking around bumping into one another.”

“That’s because they can’t see, hear or speak. Their arms hang limp and powerless. In fact, they are in a state of sensory deprivation, except for the sense of touch. And their minds also function. Whenever they bump into one another, their minds want to destroy the son of a bitch that impinged upon their helpless bodies, but they can’t lift their arms or even make a fist. In life they relied heavily upon their senses and physical abilities to exert power and control, but now they are totally helpless to do anything. You can’t tell by looking at them, but they are in extreme despair. Their mental voices are crying out for mercy as they beg Satan to destroy their minds also, so they can return to the nothingness they were before they were born, but Satan always answers with the same word: ‘Never.’ It’s a pretty fitting retribution for these souls, don’t you think? Once they used violence as a means of power and control. Now they have no power and no control over anything. All they feel is victimization without retribution.”

“I think Satan must be some kind of sadist.”

“You’re catching on.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be here or in any of your silly, little circles. I won’t let it happen.”

“Wow. By this point, our new arrivals are usually very apprehensive and plenty scared.”

“That’s because they’re all wussies. Not me. I’ll be outta here as soon you finish this idiotic tour.”

“Interesting. Attila the Hun said the same thing . . . By the way, he’s over there. He’s the ugly one with the hairy eyebrows and the furry helmet.”

“C’mon, Virgil, move on. Haven’t got all day. I’ve got a nation to re-capture.”

 

“Very well . . . We’re now arriving at the Eight Circle: Fraud, the home of liars, cheaters and all manner of larcenists. Unlike the greedy up in Circle Four, these souls believed they needed to lie, cheat and steal just to get by or get ahead. They lie to advance their status or stature. They cheat because they lack the ability or confidence to get where they want to be by honest enterprise. When they steal, they typically take from the weak, the careless, and the gullible, both rich and poor alike. The souls here often seek to gain trust from others and then betray it. Lying, cheating and stealing were their choice. They simply cannot live in their own skin by being honest and humble. So, look down upon the betrayers, two-timers, double-crossers, four flushers, grifters, con-men, Ponzi schemers, backstabbers, beguilers, deceivers, slanderers, perjurers, and tricksters. We even have pickpockets here.”

“Sounds like a bunch of common crooks to me. Why are they here.”

“Trust, Mr. Trump, trust. Civilization was founded on faith and trust in one another. Trusting that no one will lie to them, cheat them, or steal from them. Natural law dictates that everyone ought to be secure in their homes and property, and no one, whether it be the victim of a pickpocket on a crowded street, the senior citizen duped out their life savings, the family whose home was burglarized, or the tradesman whose hard work is not compensated should be victimized by their neighbor. They not only lose what is rightfully theirs, their personal security and integrity are also violated. Perhaps it meant nothing to you, Mr. Trump, but trust – faith – matters a lot to the Higher Power. Without it, our species would ultimately descend into chaos. Those responsible must pay dearly for what they took from others.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, what’s going on down there?”

“More despair. Satan allows them to retain the means and motive to lie, cheat and steal, but has denied them of the opportunity because there is nothing anyone here can take from anyone else. They perpetually wander around in despair, waiting and hoping for something to happen, but nothing ever does. That is, until . . .”

“Until what?”

“Follow me.” Virgil leads him to another huge chamber. “From time to time, souls wander into this chamber. If you look over there you will see one of Satan’s demons calling souls to gather in front of it. Now he’s speaking to them.” When finished, Trump hears the crowd roar with approval.

Virgil continues, “The demon has just announced that they are about to go on a journey and points to two trailheads. One leads them out of the Fraud Circle and up to Limbo with the promise of escaping their misery in Hell. That raises their hopes. Even though they once thought Heaven would be a drag, but now, having experienced Hell, the prospect of Heaven sounds, well . . .  heavenly. However, the other path, they are told, ultimately leads back to the Fraud Circle. They’re told the first path is long and arduous, filled with dense thickets, mucky swamps and steep climbs up and over loose boulders. The second is a short, level path, and all they have to do is say ‘I repent’ seven times while on their journey.”

“Why seven?”

“Don’t know, but I hear it’s one of the Higher Power’s favorite numbers.”

“Seven, eh. That’s my golf handicap, ya know.”

Virgil knows that is a lie because Trump habitually cheats at golf, but he decides not to comment. “Now they are lining up. As usual, all of them are lining up at the trailhead of the easier second path. It seems that laziness is a common trait of liars, cheats and thieves.”

As they head out, Trump and Virgil hear them practically choking on the words “I repent.”

“So, are they on their way to Limbo, or will they end up back here.”

“I see that you, Mr. Trump, like them, don’t understand what’s about to happen. On Earth, you sir were one of the most prolific, pathological liars of all time, but down here you’ve met your match with Satan. He is the ultimate, consummate liar and deceiver. You’re a mere dilletante compared to him.”

“Shut up, Vigil. I wanna see if they made the right choice.”

“You’ve been fooled, Mr. Trump. You see, both paths lead right back here. Satan was lying from the start. He has no authority to place anyone in Limbo, and he certainly has no authority to release them into Heaven at the end of Earth time. Satan had them believing he controlled Limbo and also believing the promise that he could grant salvation. Soon all of them will be standing side by side along a ledge, their backs to a huge abyss. Satan will address them, telling them it was all a hoax. He will gleefully bask in their overwhelming disappointment, and then he will yell ‘Gotcha,’ and his mighty breath will blow them all off the ledge. As they hurtle down the gorge, they will hear Satan laughing and shouting ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’ They will tumble back into the Eighth Circle, whereupon they will arise and wander once more in aimless despair, feeling disgust and humiliation at being duped. After a century or two, they will wander back into this chamber, and, having forgotten all previous experiences, they will be duped all over again. They never abandon hope, but they also never get what they hope for – over and over again. Like every soul here and in the Circles Two through Seven, Satan knows exactly what they want, and then denies it to them – for eternity!”

“That Satan’s one treacherous son of a bitch!” Trump murmured.

“Speaking of treachery, we’re now approaching the final circle, the deepest pit in all of Hell. And it is here I take my leave and return to the River Styx. Good bye, Mr. Trump, and prepare to abandon all hope.”

Trump watches as Virgil quickly disappears into the mist.

 

“Welcome to the Ninth Circle of Hell,” comes a deep bass voice from behind. Trump turns to see another soul, this one wearing a blood-soaked tunic, his hands also covered in blood. “I am Judas Iscariot, Overseer of the Ninth Circle, eternal home for the treacherous.”

“Oh, really?” retorts Trump. “Well, I’m the Easter Bunny. Now stop this nonsense and take me back to Mar-A-Lago.”

“I don’t understand,” replies Judas. “What’s an Easter Bunny and what is Marylogo?”

“Mar-A, as in “ah,” Lago. That’s where I’m now living, but soon I’ll be back in the White House.”

“White House? Which white house? There were so many of them in Judah and Galilee.”

“You don’t get around much, do you fella? Say, you look like a Muslim to me. Were you a member of Isis? You know I single-handedly kicked Isis’ ass while I was President.”

“Quite the contrary. I was a Jew, Mr. Trump. I’m guilty of committing the most abominable act ever perpetrated on Earth. I betrayed the Higher Power’s only son which led to the death of the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, etc., etc. My treachery earned me overseer of this circle.”

“Oh, now I remember you. Your name came up when I was in prep school. Boy, people really hated your ass . . . Well, okay Judas, give me the tour, so I can get back to Palm Beach. I’m hosting a big fundraiser tonight.”

“You still don’t understand. You’re not going anywhere. While on your tour, the Board of Overseers recommended the Ninth Circle as your eternal home. At first, every board member except the Limbo Overseer nominated you for their particular circle, but after discussion the vote to consign you here was unanimous, the Limbo Overseer abstaining, as usual. Satan agreed with the recommendation, and, to borrow one of your American idioms, ‘the die is cast.’ Now, shall we begin the tour?”

Trump reaches into his pockets for his panic button to summon his Secret Service protection detail, but discovers all of his pockets are empty, even his wallet and cell phone are gone. He turns to Judas and demands their return.

“Sorry, Mr. Trump, all those items were taken away by your Secret Service when you were pronounced dead on the floor of your bedroom.”

“I can’t die. I am America’s chosen savior and my work isn’t finished. Yet everybody keeps telling me I’m dead. Why is that?”

“Because you are. Most of our clients realize they are dead when they meet Charon on the River Styx, but we occasionally get souls like yours, cursed with a savior complex and believe they’re immortal. I’m told to expect the same from Vladimir Putin when he arrives.”

“Putin? What a savvy genius!”

“That savvy genius, as you call him, will spend eternity right here in this circle for crimes against humanity. That’s no savvy genius – that’s a mad fool.”

“Ya know, at Helsinki we promised to get together. He and I are really tight.”

“For that to happen, he will have to die first, because, and I must repeat, you are dead. I’ve already noticed you exhibiting the first two stages of your grieving process. You’ve been in both denial and anger since you arrived. Soon bargaining will set in, then depression. But that’s as far as you go. You will never receive the peace of mind that comes from acceptance, because in Hell no one is at peace.”

“I’m not dead, you blood-splattered camel jockey! Look at me. I’m still wearing my signature navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie, not those silly nightgowns all you creeps are wearing. Also, I can still feel the industrial strength hairspray on my beautiful head.”

“Those, sir, are the clothes you were buried in. Now that you’ve arrived at your permanent home, it’s time to change into your new clothes.”

“Never! I’m not wearing those ugly things.”

“Mr. Trump, as we speak, your body is beginning to rot in your grave. As the body decomposes, your clothes will be eaten by worms and maggots. If you don’t change into this tunic, your suit will begin to disappear before your eyes.”

“You’re lying! I’m not changing clothes. That’s final.”

“Have it your way.” Within seconds maggots and worms were crawling all over his suit.

Shuddering with fright, Trump screams, “Get them off of me!”

Judas holds out a standard issue tunic. “It’s a 2XL. It should fit you nicely.”

Once clad in the tunic, Trump looks worried. “Say, Judas, what will it take to get me out of here. I’ve got hotels, casinos, office buildings, and, of course, Mar-A-Lago. I’ll give you all my Atlantic City casinos. Just get me out of here. How about it?”

“Didn’t all of your casinos go belly up?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll throw in Trump International Hotel. Whataya say?”

“Well, I see you’ve arrived at the bargaining stage. The answer is ‘no.’ Mr. Trump, you have nothing to offer. All your worldly possessions now belong to someone else, and I might add, burdened with crippling debt. In one blink of the eye after your died, both you and that homeless man who used to panhandle in front of Trump Tower have the exact same net worth – zero.”

“What an awful thought! You’re telling me that old nuisance of a panhandler and I both own nothing?”

“That’s right, but with one important difference. He’s up in Heaven in the company of the saints, enjoying his reward, and you’re in the Ninth Circle of Hell, where you will soon join Abel’s brother, Cain, King Ahab and his wife, Jezebel, Cassius and Brutus, Nero, Aaron Burr, Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and Osama Bin Laden, just to name a few of our celebrity residents.”

“You’re lying! I deserve much more than that loitering old bum.”

“Not according to the Higher Power. His judgment trumps yours. Please forgive the pun.”

“That’s not justice.”

“Oh, speaking of justice, remember all those Muslim extremists who blew themselves up and murdering innocent people on the promise of eternity in paradise with seventy-two virgins? Well guess what? They’re all down here being harassed by seventy-two of the nastiest demons you ever laid eyes on. I have to hand it to the Higher Power: he truly is the supreme master of karma.

“But I digress. It’s time you met your fellow dwellers. Follow me.”

Judas leads Trump through yet another dark, damp, narrow passageway covered with gnarly vines until they came to an opening. Instantly, an icy blast hits him head on. Before him is a large body of water stretching to the horizon, completely frozen over. In the distance Trump could barely make out what looked like bodies stuck waist deep in the frozen ice. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

“Another one of the Higher Power’s homages to irony. The deepest hole in Hell is not burning sulfur but an icy lake, just as Dante foretold, except this is just a staging area where you will be while your permanent dwelling is under construction. The Higher Power caught us off guard and ended your life sooner than we anticipated.”

“So, what is he building for me? I was in construction, ya know. Built some of the most gorgeous buildings on Earth.” Trump is no longer bragging with the same gusto as when he was with Virgil earlier.

“You’ll find out in due time, but be assured, it will totally befit your treachery.”

Trump begins to feel depression setting in, his confidence at returning to Mar-a-Lago is waning as he gazes forlornly out over the frozen lake. Suddenly, he finds himself in the lake up to his waist in ice. Trump yells at Judas, “Get me outta here!”

“Sorry, Mr. Trump, I can’t. I got other business to attend to. Satan will be by later to escort you to your permanent accommodations.”

After a while a shrill voice from behind him says, “Meanwhile, enjoy the view.”

Trump turns his head from side to side and sees nothing but dense fog. Then comes the voice again, this time menacingly laughing at Trump’s frustration. Then silence.

Finally, Satan appears.

“Where have you been?” Trump asks. “I’ve been waiting here for what seems like years.”

“Actually,” Satan replies, “it was a millennium. Time flies down here, but it doesn’t matter because you’re here for an infinity of millennia. Anyway, it’s time to take you to your new home. I’m really excited about it. I personally designed it.”

Instantly, Trump is out of the lake and standing with Satan at the rear of the balcony of a huge auditorium looking down at a stage adorned with American flags and red, white and blue bunting. Behind the podium with the presidential seal attached to its front is a makeshift grandstand full of people. The auditorium is jammed packed. Loud music pours out of huge speakers. The crowd, all dressed in endless varieties of MAGA gear, are clapping, moving to the music, holding up signs, placards and posters filled with pro-Trump slogans, and chanting for the speaker to appear.

“Recognize this?” Satan asks. “It’s one of your rallies and the crowd is anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

His mood suddenly elevates and Trump exclaims, “This is great! Ya know, I love these rallies. Those people adore me and couldn’t get enough of my speeches. If this is my eternal home, I’m going to love it here.”

“Think so? Well then watch the monitor off to your right and get a preview of the rest of your eternity.”

A large television screen turns on. Within seconds he is on screen walking out on the stage to a deafening roar from the crowd. He walks around the stage clapping and pumping his fist for nearly ten minutes as the crowd cheers, chants and goes wild. As Trump watches, his soul fills with ecstasy. Finally, the on-screen image takes the podium and asks for quiet. After another three minutes the crowd finally settles down.

“Watch this, Satan,” gushes Trump. “You’re gonna love what you’re about to see.”

“Oh, I am, Mr. Trump. I truly am.”

The speech begins and the typical, toxic Trump rhetoric is blasting from his mouth. The audience cheers wildly, waving their signs and chanting “Four more years, four more years.” Trump goes on and on, but he notices the cheering and gesticulations are gradually subsiding. He decides to ratchet up the rhetoric, but instead the crowd grows even more quiet and less demonstrative. Eventually, they stop paying attention altogether. The phones stop recording, the signs drop to the floor. They look bored as they yawn, look at their watches and check their phones for social media postings.

Trump sweats profusely as he struggles to win back the crowd. His hair is now soaked in sweat and his hairdo collapses into wet, limp orange strands as hairspray runs into his eyes causing a painful sting. The crowd’s silence is then broken with sardonic laughter and pointing at his disheveled countenance. Trump ramps up the rhetoric even higher only to hear an ever-increasing crescendo of grumbling, boos and catcalls. Trump gear suddenly disappears, replaced with t-shirts showing grotesque caricatures of his orange head and ridiculous coiffure. New signs appear with slogans like “You Lost, Biden Won,” “Stop the Big Liar,” and “Fat Seditious Loser.” Those not holding signs are either throwing rotten vegetables at him or flipping him the middle finger. Trump is forced to retreat offstage in utter humiliation. The audience roars with approval at his departure, chanting “Hang Donald Trump, hang Donald Trump.” Then the screen goes dark.

“What the fuck was that!?” Trump asks in horror.

“It’s a preview of every rally you will conduct from now on. I designed this scenario because I know what autocrats, like you, desire most: adoration, blind loyalty and absolute obedience. My job is to deny all of that to you and make you pay the price for your treachery with failure, disgrace and humiliation. Every time you walk off a stage in total ignominy, you’ll vow never again to hold another rally, but the moment you say it, you find yourself walking onstage to face a new adoring crowd. You will walk around in fear of being humiliated once again, but after a while your confidence is fully restored, and it starts all over again, with the same result every time. For every moment of ecstasy, you will experience a thousand-fold moments of feeling like a total loser. I bid you farewell.”

Trump shouts after him, “Wait!” but Satan disappears. At that moment Trump finds himself walking out on the stage of a packed, cheering auditorium, dressed in his signature dark blue suit, white shirt, red tie and a MAGA cap, clapping and waving his fist, filled with elation, and expecting another hugely successful rally.