The last moments of #45. A cautionary tale. #45 having abolished the Constitution, and exterminated all the Queers negros, and trouble makers ascends to his golden throne. This in his new National Palace on Trump Island.
Vast choirs sing his praises. 100k doves are released hundreds of jet bombers fly past, and thousands of tanks roll by to glorify him. As he waddles to his bejeweled golden throne he's struck down by the g-ds,...mostly for having such bad taste.
He falls over backwards pissing, and shitting himself,...on live worldwide 3-D TV. He rolling down the long stairway from his throne clutching his balls screaming in blinding agony, and crying for his favorite whore he used to rape at Studio 54 back in the early 70's.
He then dies rolling down the pearl steps from his throne. A bloody meatball of shit wrapped in a tacky Emperors outfit. He wakes up in Hell. Which for him is just over the border on the American side of Del Rio.
He's stomped kicked, and dragged to a holding cell by border guards in Kluxer, and Nazi uniforms. They throw him into a holding cell where he's raped beaten, and generally has the shit tortured out him for the next 348 years.
After this them same guards still enthusiastic with their work drags the ex-#45 to the celestial probation office.
The bored civil servants there decide this jerk as leaned his lesson. ...more or less. So they release the former #45 as a sub-Angel. He's dumped in the slummy part of heaven.
There he lives on food stamps, and sleeps in an abandoned taxi in a vacant lot.
His Karma has him scheduled to be reborn as a can of spam several dozen times. If he's good he'll promoted to a toaster.
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