The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Trump stretched again to his full height with all the dignity he could muster for his favorite Il Duce pose despite in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.
The Spirit was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
Trump felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.
“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” asked Trump.
The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.
“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Trump pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?”
The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.
Well used to ghostly company by this time, Trump pulled a driver from a nearby golf bag. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, shook his head in despair of saving this man.
But Trump was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague glib joy, to know that behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, swung his golf club in a practice swing.
“Ghost of Christmas Future!” he exclaimed, “I know you claim your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be proven right, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a friendlly heart. Will you not speak to me?”
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.
“Lead on!” said Trump. “Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!”
That night Trump viewed more scenes of the future than is possible to record here. As he stood triumphant, Trump witnessed nuclear explosions destroying cities on the west coast of the USA and along the other side of the Pacific. He witnessed starvation on the streets of New York and in the states of Alabama, Oklahoma and Kansas. He visited children suffering horrible diseases without the help of doctors or hospitals, but with too few volunteer nurses and neighborhood “do-gooders” to pity them. He witnessed black oil coating the fields of the Midwest and deep black scars across the land formerly set aside as sacred to the memory of a pristine America.
“Fake News,” grumbled Trump as he teed up a golf ball.
Trump was better than his word. And it was always said of him, that he knew how to call anything, “Fake News” as he relentlessly abused the Spirit of Christmas, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that never be said of us, any of us. Instead, as Tiny Tim, a character otherwise left out of this story due to its horror story rating, observed, God bless Us, Every One! And God bless the United States of America.
THE END
Mary wasn’t your ordinary unmarried pregnant teenager. This kid had moxie and connections in extremely high places.
In Fulfillment, the secret concerning the baby in Mary’s womb attracts evil spirits, a woman-hating ancient Israeli monster named Lilith, a king, soldiers and a would-be lover all bent on destroying her. Mary’s journey, while steeped with betrayal and the foul stench of the ultimate demon, is a setup for an even bigger story. She discovers a lost love found, the promise of a newborn king, and a wealth of new friends from a dwarf with the heart of a warrior to the young mother who loses her husband and children in a bloody massacre. Laugh, cry and gain new insights into the Christmas story as you read Fulfillment.
“The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth so that he might devour her child the moment it was born.”
Revelation 12:4b
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