A TRUMP XMAS CAROL

By Ken Sheetz

It’s Christmas Eve 2024 in another universe — a universe where Trump has been put under house arrest at what the press has dubbed “Mar-a-Lago Prison.” In this alternate reality Dark Brandon has locked up Trump on suspicion of rigging his 50 state sweeping vicotry 2024 election with the help of Putin. Ho-ho-ho.

Across the room, his Black bodyman, Robert Tulsa, jots down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Yes sir! Um, Sir, it’s Christmas Eve,” Tulsa says, glancing up warily.

Trump sits brooding on a gold-plated, yet worn, chair in his private prison suite in the gold-molding-adorned master bedroom wing.

Across the room, Tulsa continues scribbling on his pad, his wiry frame tense with fatigue. “Sir, it’s Christmas Eve,” Tulsa repeats, eyes darting upward with caution.

Trump grunts, his face a permanent scowl. “Christmas is for losers, Tulsa. Winners work. Besides, what’s Christmas ever done for me? Look where I am.” He gestures at the cracked plaster ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his fate.

“Yes, sir,” Tulsa replies, lips pursed. “But… I was wondering if… maybe I could leave early tonight? My son—he’s got that… you know, the…” He can’t bring himself to say it. “The… the surgery. On his leg.”

Trump’s eyes flicker to Tulsa—not with compassion, but calculation. “You’re lucky you’ve got a leg, Tulsa. When I’m back in charge, I’ll make sure whiners like you don’t get a dime. Get back to work. You’re lucky to be here.”

The Ghost of Mike Lindell — My Pillow Guy’s Warning

Later that night, Trump’s snoring echoes through Mar-a-Lago’s quiet halls like a foghorn. The dull hum of fluorescent lights flickers overhead, matching the rhythm of his breath. Suddenly, the temperature in his suite drops to a wintry chill. The glow from his big-screen TV—perpetually tuned to a muted Fox News rerun—flickers like a candle in a storm.

“Donald…” The voice is gravelly and familiar.

Trump’s eyes flutter open. “Who’s there?” he barks, sitting upright, the gold threads of his prison-issued robe catching the faint blue glow of the television.

“It’s me, Mike,” comes the hoarse reply.

“Mike who?” gouses Trump

“The pillow guy!” Emerging from the shadows is Mike Lindell wrapped in chains made of tarnished cryptocurrency medallions, broken legal contracts, and used heroine needles.

“Mike? What… you look terrible.” Trump rubs his eyes. “You’re glowing like a Chernobyl nightlight.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re condemned to wander the Earth for eternity. Bad Wi-Fi too,” Lindell sneers, his eyes hollow as if he’s seen every horror from Dante’s Inferno and rated it one star on Yelp. “I’m here to warn you, Don. You’re gonna be visited by three ghosts tonight. They’re gonna show you things you don’t wanna see.”

“Three ghosts?” Trump sniffs. “Tell them I’m booked. Maybe next week.”

“No deal, Don. This train’s rolling whether you’re on it or not,” Lindell growls, and with that, he vanishes in a swirl of vape smoke and regret.

Trump sits in silence for a long moment, his eyes darting around the room, expecting something—anything—to jump out. “Stupid dreams,” he mutters, pulling the blanket over his head.

The Ghost of Christmas Past — Stephen Colbert’s Sarcastic Rewind

“Wakey wakey, Donnie Boy!” The voice is sing-song, snide, and cutting. Trump’s eyes snap open to find himself in the middle of his old Trump Tower penthouse—all the gold and mirrors, back when it was still “classy.”

There, in front of him, is Stephen Colbert, wearing an elf costume. “Oh, you’re awake! Good, because we’re doing a rerun of your greatest hits,” Colbert announces, hands on his hips, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You?” Trump groans. “You’re not even funny.”

“Right, coming from the guy whose punchlines are policy,” Colbert deadpans. “Take a look, Donnie.” He snaps his fingers, and suddenly, they’re watching a younger Trump stiff a contractor. “Look familiar?”

“Smart business,” Trump grumbles.

“Smart? Nah, just slimy,” Colbert counters, dragging Trump through a whirlwind of moments—the Access Hollywood tape, January 6th, every time he’s mocked a disabled reporter. “But hey, it’s all in good fun, right? Except… now we’re here.” They stand in Mar-a-Lago’s prison. “Who’s laughing now, buddy?”

Trump tries to argue, but his voice feels small. “This is fake news.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present — AOC’s Global Tour of Suffering

A harsh clang of bells fills the room. Trump opens his eyes to find Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, glowing with vibrant green energy, dressed in flowing robes that swirl like ivy in the wind.

“Rise and shine, Mr. President-for-life,” AOC says with a smirk. “Time to see the present you’re ignoring.” She grabs his arm and yanks him through space and time.

They land in Gaza. Bombs explode in the distance. A child weeps over his mother’s lifeless body.

“Why am I here?” Trump recoils, turning away.

“Because you’re part of this,” AOC replies. “This is what happens when you secretly support a war criminal. This is now.”

They flash to a migrant detention center. Children cry behind metal fences.

“These kids remember everything, Don,” AOC says, voice steely.

Trump falls to hsi knees, “I will end this suffering within 24 hours once Biden fails to pin hacking the 2024 elections on me and I take power January 2025!”

“24 hours huh?” sneers AOC. “Bullshit!”

With a wave of her hand AOC sends Trump rocketing for the sky.

The Ghost of Christmas Future — The Nuclear Wasteland

His pajamas in flames, Trump screams as he rockets from the night sky for the bustling city of New York. He crashes into the Trump tower igniting a nuclear fire storm.

Darkness. Silence. Then, the rumble of distant thunder.

“Where… where am I?” Trump’s voice shakes as he’s stumbles from a pile rubble, a bit singed but almost unscathed.

The figure of Death — with the face of Joe Biden complete with his trademark aviator sunglasses — love over  Trump, pointing to the ruined skyline. It’s New York, a wasteland of rubble. The ruins of Trump Tower lie ahead, its golden letters shattered on the ground.

“No…” Trump’s breath quickens. “Not my Trump Tower!”

The shadowy specter points a bony finger and the rubble shifts to a sad little graveyard where a statue of Trump beckons. Don Jr. and Eric, dressed in tatters, are the only funeral goers. “I miss, Dad, sniffles Eric.

“Shut the fuck up!” grunts Don Jr as he tosses dirt onto Trump’s casket.

“What a crappy funeral for one so great as –” Trump stops mid sentence at a smack to the back of his smoldering but perfectly coifed hair by the Ghost Biden Christmas Future.

“Please, Joe, I mean, Spirit of Christmas Future. Tell me I can change this American carnage!” Trump drops to his knees. “I’ll be a better man! I swear!” The Ghost Biden of Christmas Future rolls his eyes in disbelief and swings his scythe like a golf club. The screaming Trump is sent soaring high above the nuclear wasteland.

Xmas Morning in Mar-a-Lago Prison

Trump wakes screaming, heart pounding. “I’m alive!” he gasps, eyes wild with relief. He looks around the cell, the peeling walls, the flickering fluorescent light.

“Robert!” shouts Trump. “What day is this?”

“Why. It’s Christmas Day, sir,” Tulsa replies.

“Christmas!” Trump grins. “Then I haven’t missed it. I’ve learned from the spirits, Robert. I’m going to be a better man. On January 20th, when I take power, you’ll see. The whole world will see.”

A knock at the door. It’s his housemaid, Maria. She holds a steaming cup of coffee.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Trump,” she says with a smile holding the tray forward.

He stares at her, then at the small spill coffee on a Trump monogrammed napkin.

“You’re fired!” Trump snarls. “You spilled it! Now get lost before I have you deported to Gaza!”

As Maria races off in tears, Robert mutters to himself, “White people.”

THE END

This has been an excerpt from the new science fiction satire novel and audio book MAR-A-PRISON coming soon. Subscribe to be sure to get notified when the book drops.