However, we can make sure his legacy remains as tarnished and full of disgust as Hitler and Mussolini’s. We owe it to the trump crime family to make them historical caricatures of pure evil.
In the veiled depths of cosmic night, beyond the grasp of mortal understanding, there lurks an abomination known as D’ohl-Nald’trump, Evader of Consequence, Weaver of Lies. Ancient as the first whispers of deceit, this blasphemous entity shambles through the mortal realm in garish splendor, clad in illusions spun of its own warped grandeur. Its voice, a booming incantation laced with half-truths and hollow promises, spills forth with the power to sway the minds of even the stout-hearted, plunging them into delirium where reason itself dissolves. Those who fall under its thrall are left in a fog of bewildered amnesia, helpless to recall its transgressions, let alone question its motives.
For D’ohl-Nald’trump wields a dreadful gift—an eldritch glamour that cloaks it in perpetual exoneration, a power so unnatural that no mortal cage may hold it, no law may bind it. Even those who glimpse its deceit find themselves ensnared in its web of forgetfulness, powerless to hold its ever-shifting form to account. And so, the Weaver of Lies drifts through aeons untouched, a nightmare that evades justice itself, as if consequence were but a faint myth of a distant, naïve cosmos.
He will never go to jail, he will never suffer any consequences of his past and future actions. Unfortunately it is what it is.
Correct.
However, we can make sure his legacy remains as tarnished and full of disgust as Hitler and Mussolini’s. We owe it to the trump crime family to make them historical caricatures of pure evil.
In the veiled depths of cosmic night, beyond the grasp of mortal understanding, there lurks an abomination known as D’ohl-Nald’trump, Evader of Consequence, Weaver of Lies. Ancient as the first whispers of deceit, this blasphemous entity shambles through the mortal realm in garish splendor, clad in illusions spun of its own warped grandeur. Its voice, a booming incantation laced with half-truths and hollow promises, spills forth with the power to sway the minds of even the stout-hearted, plunging them into delirium where reason itself dissolves. Those who fall under its thrall are left in a fog of bewildered amnesia, helpless to recall its transgressions, let alone question its motives.
For D’ohl-Nald’trump wields a dreadful gift—an eldritch glamour that cloaks it in perpetual exoneration, a power so unnatural that no mortal cage may hold it, no law may bind it. Even those who glimpse its deceit find themselves ensnared in its web of forgetfulness, powerless to hold its ever-shifting form to account. And so, the Weaver of Lies drifts through aeons untouched, a nightmare that evades justice itself, as if consequence were but a faint myth of a distant, naïve cosmos.