Chapter Text
President Trump was dead to begin with. Old Trump was as dead as a doornail; he knew how to be deader than anyone, nobody could be as dead as Trump. It was a big, beautiful death on that day, with a heart attack that hit bigly as he ate a McDonald’s meal with five cans of Diet Coke.
Mr Musk remembered Trump fondly. In the closing days of the United States of America, then the Great American Technate Empire, trillionare Elon Musk had absorbed the entire holdings of the Trump family and renamed it the Musk/Trump Global Corporation. Everything went under it, the real estate, Elon’s companies, plus the city Elon was allowed to build, X City. But Elon didn’t bother to remove Trump’s name from the company, even though he had cut the entire family away from it.
X City was Elon’s personal cyberpunk dystopia, one of the few “Freedom Cities”. Everything ran on AI, all the humans were chipped and old South African apartheid was back. Oh! And he was still as tight-fisted as ever, the city ran on a constant skeleton crew, people working long hours to the bone, somehow disappearing once they got too exhausted. Immigrants on H1-B visas would usually suffer this fate. Yet Elon was convinced that this was the best-run city on the planet, talking about the millions of poor Americans hoping to get in.
He liked to tour his X City, his pride and joy. Beggars did dare not approach him, for he had no Dogecoin – the official currency of X City – to give, despite being by far the richest man on Earth. The destitute did not dare look at his cubic head. Not even the poor dogs would approach him. Even the vegetables don’t like him.
Lately it was even worse. Climate change, accelerated by the sprawling AI centers, had caused a snowstorm to fall on X City. In time for the Christmas season, but not comfortable for the many homeless living on the streets.
Elon returned to his office in the middle of the city, the center of government and where he managed his many companies from, X Tower. This was a huge, dark spire, pushing to the heavens with a giant foreboding neon X blazing from it.
His nephew met him as he reached the entrance.
“A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!”
“Um, ah, so basically, bah humbug!”
“There’s no need to be such a scrooge, uncle! Surely you have time for Christmas and not making more money! How about time for charity?”
“But I will have less money. I want to be a quadrillionare.”
“But surely enough is enough at some point. I mean Christmas has never put a dollar, or even a dogecoin in my pocket, but I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good!”
“Humbug! Good afternoon!”
“Well, I never! Merry Christmas to you!”
“Good afternoon!”
“And a Happy New Year!”
“Good afternoon!”
Mr Musk strolled into the lobby where he saw a throng of people asking for charity donations. Amidst the hubbub, he called up.
“Grok! Tell these money grabbers where the poor can go!”
A voice spoke over them.
“Of course, citizens without dogecoin have perfectly suitable accommodation in the city. Citizens can relax in luxurious surroundings in the newly-opened X Prison as well as the X Workhouses around the city. You have five minutes to leave the office before the auto-turrets activate.”
Elon stepped into the elevator as the charity collectors screamed and jostled to get out.
"That should deal with the surplus population!"
“Welcome back, Mr Musk,” said the elevator. “You are looking more handsome today.”
Elon had a pot belly, greying hair and in a dire need to correct his ever-receding hairline. While travelling up, he took another dose of ketamine. It lifted the spirits.
He exited the elevator into his penthouse office. His assistant, Bob Patel, was there to meet him, who was shivering.
“And I, um, suppose you want the day off tomorrow?” said Musk.
“If it is convenient, sir.”
“Aren’t you Hindu? I will have to take it from your pay packet. I, um, don’t pay people to not, um, work.”
“And would it, sir, be too much to ask to turn the heat up. This cold spell is freezing us.”
“Then work harder and warm yourselves up! Now, I have meetings to tell all my companies to do the same.”
After his five minute meetings, Elon finished work for the day while Mr Patel and his workers worked until midnight before going home to rest for Christmas Day.
Elon Musk returned home. It was a meager apartment, what he preferred. Spartan, with a kitchen, a bed and a bathroom.
After his dinner of chicken Cup Noodles by candlelight, he blew out the candle to get ready for bed. Darkness was cheap and got him even closer to quadrillionare status.
He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
“Whhoooooaaaa!” he heard from behind. The years of chronic ketamine use nearly made him piss himself.
He turned around and the ghostly visage met him.
“Hello ELAAAAAAN!”
The bad hair and red tie. He still had the bad breath and the fecal smell hung in the air.
“ELAAAAN!”
“Wh-who are you?”
“Do you not remember me?”
“Wh-who were you then?”
“It’s me, it’s Trump! Your best buddy. The best President of these great United States. Don’t say you forgot. I was the best, and I say, most handsome President there ever was.”
It clicked. Elon remembered the hand movements. It really was Trump as a ghost.
“Why are you covered in chains?”
“I was judged. Unfairly judged. I was before GAHD himself, the Lord Almighty as he describes himself, up there in Heaven. And Gahd said I was to be judged. I was to wear these chains, these very heavy chains, it was unfair that I had these chains by the way, and I was to wear these chains as long as it takes. So very unfair. All these years I have had them, and there are many more years I will wear them.”
“But why are you here?”
“I am here to tell you, we are both men of business. I did so much business. The hotels, the luxury real estate, the casinos. Trump Vodka. Trump steaks… THE best steaks. You know it all. I made so much money. Then I sued people for more money. They sued me. I did some bad things. My business was people, ELAAAN, people. And look what it got me!”
Trump shook a chain at Elon, who gulped.
“When this is over, I’m gonna sue Gahd. I’ll get the best lawyer in the afterlife, his name’s Lucifer, he’s a really great guy. Works pro bono, ELAAAN, pro bono. Sue Gahd for all his heaven bucks. But I’m here to give you a message. You have one chance to avoid my fate, one chance. You have one chance only. One chance. You will be haunted by three spirits.”
“Like in A Christmas Carol? By Charles Dickens?”
“The very same. And like those other adaptions too. You know what I mean. I loved Scrooged, Bill Murray, great actor, very funny. I also loved Michael Caine in A Muppet Christmas Carol. And that other one, what was it?”
“Um, Spirited with Ryan Reynolds. It’s, a, um, an Apple TV production they released for Christmas 2025.”
“Yeah, another excuse for Ryan Reynolds one liners. It was OK. Marginally better than this story. Anyway, you gotta take this seriously, ELAAAN. Expect the first ghost at 1 a.m.!”
Trump’s spectre faded into nothingness.
Elon lay in bed thinking about what had happened, then dozed.
At 1, as the alarm on his cheap Casio watch beeped, he was met with a brilliant white light.