“Mr. Peach and the Witch Hunt”
Mr. Peach’s skin turned darker, the color of freshly harvested covfefe, as the door creaked open with a tremendous haunted sound, the sound of dead Russians trying to speak from the grave. Something unspeakable began to emerge through the darkness into the room, and Mr. Peach was filled with fear. It had caught up to him at last, after all his bigly attempts to evade it. Even making the entire Earth warmer hadn’t distracted them enough.
“I know the best spooks in the business, let me tell you,” he said, shoving the crucifix–labeled FAKE NEWS in orange Sharpie–at the intruder. “Miyuns and miyuns of spooks.” But the icon had no effect for he had faked his belief in it, and the figure loomed, shuffling into the light. It was the ultimate spook, a government spook. It was the dread Witch Hunter, its face leaking with deadly classified intelligence that Mr. Peach could not bear to touch with his short fingers, lest it burn him and expose his insides.
The creature opened its horrible mouth and the word “Traitor” crawled out. Its finger—long and full of authority, unlike his own—reached out to find him.
Mr. Peach fell to the floor and inched himself backward along the opulent gold carpet, screaming, “I’m no traitor! Fake news! I’m making America great again! Let’s talk the art of the deal.”
But the Witch Hunter stepped forward, closer, towering over the fallen man. “Traitor,” it said again. “No deal. Unpresidented traitor.”
“I’m Peach!” he screamed, crawling toward his wall safe to burn his tax returns in a final effort of concealment. The portrait of Andrew Jackson leered down at him from the wall. “I’m Peach! I’mPeach I’mpeach Impeach impeach impeach impeachimpeachimpeach! IMPEACH…”
Then dark. A deep breath, waiting for the light we have left to come back into the world.