Night of the Living Dreads

There he lies. Caked in bronzer, hair like a rogue ferret fleeing a barn fire, nostrils fluttering with each Adderall-fueled whimper. A man-child mid-snore, the bloated king of gripes lost in the polyester sheets of Mar-a-Lago. And above him—like some terrible Macy’s Day parade balloon drifting just beyond consciousness—floats the vaporous spectre of one Jeffrey Epstein, the eternal frat brother of the damned.

“If only Jeffrey were here,” he mumbles, phlegm clinging to each vowel like a dying GOP donor. “Those were the real days. The big-haired girls, the mirrored ceilings, the TAB cola bubbling like youthful innocence before the lawsuits. We laughed. We lounged. We rated.” He pronounces it like a Nielsen survey.

In the dream, he’s back at Studio 54, sweaty polyester gripping his thighs like karma overdue. Jeffrey’s in sequins, whirling like a degenerate disco ball. Trump is showing him the “special dance,” a move part Elaine Benes, part wounded moose.

“I gave him the Village People’s greatest hits,” he purrs. “All of them. Even the deep cuts. 'In the Navy'? I lived it. I dodged it. But I lived it.”

Toast is served. Always toast. Dry, white, unsalted—just like the crowd at CPAC.

But even dreams decay. The clouds shift. Jeffrey’s grin sours. “He’s gone,” Trump mutters, “but not gone.” A shadow in the jacuzzi jets. A whisper in the golf cart.

That’s when the panic sets in. He bolts upright in his dream bed; face stuck to a pillow embroidered with “TACO Tits.” He begins to chant: “Tariffs! Tariffs! Tariffs!”—like some spoiled magician screaming “abracadabra” after sawing through the box and finding Joy Behar’s shoes instead of applause.

And there it is. The instinct. The twitch. The call to chaos.

“Get Steven. Tell him to round up all the brown people, especially the ones who speak French or have empathy. I need a win. Bring Rudy. Ground Zero. Microphone. Meltdown. Let's bomb something. Iran? Or maybe California?”

But the ghost lingers. Jeffrey floats, spinning slowly like a surveillance drone with blackmail footage.

“Listen, Jeffrey,” Trump hisses, voice raw with exhaustion and Diet Coke reflux. “Go the fuck away. I’m trying to sleep. I must tweet in the morning and golf in the afternoon.”

The room is still. Somewhere, a golden toilet flushes itself.