by Elias Kulukundis
The year is 2024. The president of the United States is a Minotaur. Improbably, he is named Trump, a hybrid King Lear and Richard the Third, who has survived the Battle of Bosworth Field, first by claiming exemption for bone-spurs, then fleeing the field, crying, “A whore, a whore, my kingdom for a whore.” In the Minotaur’s sunset years, his sons Donald Jr, and Eric squabble and connive like King Lear’s evil daughters Regan and Goneril, while behind the scenes Jared the Stone Face tries to use mind control on his wife, their sister, Ivanka, to make her less like Goneril’s and Regan’s virtuous sister Cordelia and more like the Minotaur’s daughter he married and knows she truly is. Meanwhile, amassing an army across the Channel, a variety of opposition politicos—Charles Scumer, Elizabeth Lapelousa, and Joseph ForBiden—all vie to see who will be the Henry Richmond of the piece and end the Rose Wars in time to save the nation.
Previously their party was usurped by MacLint and Lady MacLint who took advantage of the previous King Baracko’s visit to their castle in the Ozarks, to slip a potion into the trustful King’s drink so that from then on Baracko couldn’t stop repeating, “I trust her, I trust her,” over and over as though saying it would make it true. In the process, Baracko became a kind of Manchurian relic, who would do anything to swing the succession to Lady MacLint. But in the heat of the struggle, during a Labor-Day memorial for the 9/11 dead, Lady MacLint apparently fell ill. Near to collapse, she rolled her eyes at the ceiling, seeing a sight hovering over the proceedings as terrible as Banquo’s ghost. She was whisked away in an ambulance that was disguised as a monster black SUV; and later when she emerged, word went round that she had actually been replaced by an avatar, like the sex robots presently being marketed to hi-end users but minus the element of sexual attraction. With this Avatar Doll, who talked and breathed like MacLint, political deviousness was substituted for physical vitality, and a sense of ennui and confusion in the beholder took the place of climax and release.
But it was all for naught—the 2016 election passed like a dream— the adoring crowds who expressed their adulation for Lady Avatar did so in a bubble that had no connection to the rest of the country where the Minotaur, Richard Combover, confidently trading his kingdom for a whorse wherever and whenever he could, garnered a majority of the electoral college. For eight years since then, a Minotaur held the American nation in thrall, despite the efforts of special prosecutors and Attorneys General who have attempted to prove that he was installed in power not by the electoral college, but by a Slavic-Mongol tribe, native to the Aleutian Islands—the Aleuts—who somehow remained in their native habitat after the Russians sold Alaska to the U.S. in 1867, so that for a time the future 49th State was known as Seward’s Ice-box, named for President Lincoln’s Secretary of State Seward, who concluded the deal by colluding with the ever-wily Russians. Miraculously, this little-known people “meddled” in the U.S. election to elect a minotaur as president—so that at the time of this writing, the Minotaur with his two sons and one daughter are making the second attempt in a generation to establish an American dynasty, (after the recent failure of MacLint and Lady MacLint who have left nothing of their multi-decades-long domination of American politics but the Avatar Doll that blinks her eyes and speaks like MiLady, and of course an enormous pile of MacLinton cash. Now we’re in the run-up to 2024. On the one side the aged Minotaur, still singing a carol to the First Nobel (“Dammit, Baracko got one! Why can’t I?”) observes the contest from the Towers, having bestowed the succession on his daughter Cordivanka, with Jared the Quiet at her side. Predictably, the opposition is in disarray, with DNC conspiring to keep the Sandiman faction out for a second time. Debbie Rosencrantz-Schultz and Donna Guilderstern-Brazil may be brought in as consultants to manipulate the primaries, and James the Clapper will be there to spin the intel on CNN.
But in the midst of this melée, the octogenarian Sandiman may yet have the last word. (Yes, he’s over 80. Remember it’s 2024.) Knowing he cannot win, and being forever protective of the interests of the 99%, he may swing his vote to a surprise candidate— the second one in a decade to have a chance to be the first woman president as well as simultaneously one who has the chance to be the second president of mixed race in as many years—HRH the Duchess of Sussex, Meghan Markle, a native-born American. Though a member of the British Royal family, she embodies all the virtues of the last two American candidates, without any of their baggage. When she sets foot on the country’s conflicted soil why would she not assert the peace-making powers of Henry Richmond, later Henry VII, the founder of the House of Tudor? She’s married to another Henry, Henry Windsor. The English Queen signed her acceptance of her, and when Oprah Winfrey accepts her too, she will then have the endorsement of two queens, one on either side of the Atlantic, for as we know, Oprah is America’s Queen, and with her endorsement, M.M. will emerge as the candidate likeliest to defeat the Minotaur’s daughter. For that to happen, the Silver Sage will clear the way, declining to run himself and challenging everyone with the following question, “Can Our Revolution dare to have so much trust in the future of the republic as to turn down the chance for a back-channel connection to an A-list monarchy? “Our Revolution?” the Bern will say, “Tell me another. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I’m with her. And you know who I mean by her. Meghan HRH For President.”
copyright by Elias Kulukundis All rights reserved.