Donald’s Descent

“Donald’s Descent”

Even with his eyes wide open, Donald’s vision began to narrow, dim, and then fade to black.

But before he could register a single thought, he felt himself moving downward. He wasn’t falling exactly—it was slower, like a heavy decent.

“Am I dead? Did I die?” the question floated in his mind like smoke.

Then a new one, sharper: Where the hell am I?

He tried to speak but no sound came. Instead, two shapes began to form on each side of him. Not from the darkness—but out of it. One to his left, pale and hollow-eyed, wings like torn parchment. The other on his right, lean, sharp-featured, eyes full of mocking fire.

“What is this?” Donald managed to gasp. “Where am—”

The pale one cut him off.

“The question is not where you are, dear Donald…” his voice like wind through a mausoleum. “The question is—where are you going?”

Donald blinked hard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Neither figure answered.

They continued to descend, deeper and darker, into a place without sound or bottom. The air felt thicker. Heavy, like breathing through cloth.

Donald turned to the figure on his right—the sharper one. “Is this a dream?“

No response.

He turned back to the pale one, his voice rising with edge. “You said I’m going somewhere. I demand to know where.”

Still nothing.

So he pleaded.

“Please… tell me where I’m going.”

There was a long pause.

Then, the sharp one tilted his head.

“Please?” he said, with a grin that didn’t move.

The pale one let out a sound—like half chuckle, half sigh. “That’s new.”

“Did you hear that?” said the sharp one, delighted now. “He said please.”

“I thought saying please was for the weak Donald.”

“A man never begs,” the pale one recited in a mocking tone. “Isn’t that what you believe?”

“Are you weak now, Donald?” the sharper one whispered, his voice suddenly closer to Donald’s ear. “Is that what this is?”

Donald stiffened. “No. No—I’m not weak. I’m just… I just want to know what this is.”

“Oh, you will,” the pale one said softly.

“That’s the mercy of this journey.”

“You won’t be left wondering,” the sharp one added. “Down here, everything is eventually made clear.”

Down here?

Donald didn’t like the sound of that.

The phrase lingered in the air like sulfur. “Down here,” he muttered, glancing around. “What do you mean down here?”

The pale one ignored him, peering ahead into the endless dark.

The sharp one, however, tilted his head thoughtfully. “Wait… what’s your family name?”

Donald blinked. “My family name?”

“Yes,” said the pale one. “We didn’t catch it.”

“You’re joking.”

The sharp one shrugged. “Not at all. Who are you?”

Trump scoffed. “Who am I? You seriously don’t know who I am?”

“We’ve met many people,” said the pale one.

“Most blur together.”

“Well I don’t blur,” Trump said. “I break records.

I change history.”

The sharp one raised an eyebrow. “Then help us. What exactly… do you do?”

“I am the President of the United States.”

The demons paused. Looked at each other.

“Of what?” the sharp one asked.

“The United States!” Trump snapped. “America! The most powerful country in the world!”

“Ohhhh,” the pale one said slowly. “That America.”

The sharp one chuckled. “Yes, yes. That colony with the bald bird and all the guns.”

Trump narrowed his eyes. “You seriously don’t know who I am?”

The demons stared at him blankly.

“Billionaire. Icon. Global name recognition. I owned towers in the best cities in the world—New York, Vegas, Istanbul, you name it. I hosted The Apprentice—a very successful show, ran for fourteen seasons. I took down sixteen Republican candidates like it was nothing. Then I beat Hillary. Crooked Hillary! Then they tried to impeach me—twice—and I still stood tall. And the rallies? No one’s ever held rallies like mine. Not even Elvis. People waited in line for hours. Some fainted. From the excitement.”

The sharp one nodded. “Incredible.”

“And you were President of this… America?”

“Yes. And I made America great again.”

The demons looked at each other again, then back to him.

“Well,” said the pale one, “you must be very special.”

“Extremely,” said the sharp one. “You’re the first human we’ve been told to escort directly to God.”

Trump blinked. “Really?”

“Oh yes,” the pale one said. “Most people go through… Evaluation and Processing.”

“But not you,” said the sharp one. “Straight to the top with this one.”

“Well,” Trump grinned, “that actually makes sense. I mean, that doesn’t surprise me. Evangelicals love me! I gave Christians back their religion. They used to say that I was sent by God.”

The pale one nodded. “Maybe you were.”

“You know,” Trump continued, warming up to his audience, “there’s a lot of fake news and I have a lot of enemies. They tried to paint me as a villain. But deep down, people loved me. Still do. And the country? Never stronger than under my leadership. We had the best economy in the history of the world. That’s not hyperbole. The History of the world.”

“Oh, we believe you,” said the sharp one, lips twitching slightly.

“And if God wants to meet me personally,” he said, straightening his posture and adjusting imaginary cufflinks, “then I think that’s good.

He must know great when He sees it.”

“He does,” the sharp one said softly.

And they kept descending.

Down into silence.

Down into dark.

Slowly the darkness began to move—not away, but inward. Folding in on itself like a collapsing building. Shapes emerged in the distance. Not buildings. Not rocks. Ruins. Not broken from time, but as if melted under great heat.

The air no longer smelled like air.

It smelled like history rotting.

Like burnt parchment. Wet marble. Tarnished gold. And something faint underneath it all—something sweet. Sickly sweet. Like perfume over decay.

A sound began to rise. Not music. Not weeping. But something in between.

Trump adjusted his collar instinctively—though he wasn’t wearing one.

“Where… where exactly are we?” he asked, not quite making eye contact.

The demons didn’t answer.

And that terrified him more than anything they’d said.

The path ahead was no longer down. It was forward.

Straight.

Narrow.

Lit by a glow that didn’t illuminate, but revealed.

Donald squinted into the dimly lit horizon and saw it: a cathedral, impossibly tall, jagged and black, as if sculpted from collapsed empires and idols.

He stopped walking.

The demons didn’t.

“Wait,” Donald said.

They kept moving.

“Please wait!”

Still, they advanced.

For a few moments Donald was too afraid to move. So there he stood, as the demons continued to advance. Until he realized that he was alone and his fear to proceed was replaced by an even more pressing fear,

“Please don’t leave me! Not alone in a place like this.”

So Donald begin to run to catch up and as he did he realized that the floor beneath him was no longer stone. It was soft. So he looked down. He was standing on flags.

Tattered, scorched, piled layer upon layer. Banners from every nation, every time, burned and forgotten. A few steps more and he saw the one flag he recognized, the ol’ stars and stripes. Faded. Ashen. Crushed beneath centuries of want and ambition.

Trump’s mouth opened.

But for the first time in a long, long time… he had nothing to say.

No words now. Only footsteps echoing through a cathedral of shadows.

Trump followed the demons down a corridor lined with flickering torches and impossible architecture—columns that twisted like muscle, walls that moved like curtains of smoke.

He glanced around, unsure if the shapes in the dark were statues or people frozen in time. The silence wasn’t empty—it was listening.

He kept moving.

And then he saw

Up ahead—barely visible at first—was a throne.

Enormous.

Black.

Rising from the center of the chamber like it had been built first.

And on it sat a figure sitting perfectly still.

Donald slowed while the demons walked ahead and knelt.

Something in him knew: this was it.

He was not about to meet God, he knew that.

No, he was about to meet someone who never needed to introduce himself.

Donald stood there frozen until it dawned on him, he was the only one standing.

A flicker of self-awareness passed over his face. Not humility but instinct.

Slowly, awkwardly, he knelt—mimicking the demons’ posture.

Then the figure on the throne moved.

Just one hand, lifting.

And a voice—ancient and cold.

“Be gone.”

And with that the demons vanished.

No flash. No smoke. Just gone.

Donald stayed kneeling.

Alone now.

Feeling smaller than he’s ever felt.

Satan looked down on him—not with wrath. Not even contempt.

But with interest.

“Rise,” he said.

Donald obeyed, legs trembling slightly as he stood.

Satan’s voice was Precise and Surgical.

“I know who you are,” he said. “But now I want to hear it from you.”

Donald cleared his throat and tried to straighten his spine.

“I’m Donald J. Trump,” he said weakly. “President of the United States.”

Silence.

Nothing.

No acknowledgment. No reaction. Just the still, suffocating presence of the figure on the throne.

So Donald continued.

“Billionaire. Businessman. Visionary. Icon. Nobody’s done what I’ve done. Nobody.”

He took a step forward, now with more confidence.

“I built an empire. I changed politics. I reshaped the court. I made America great again. And they tried to stop me. Defeat me. Impeach me. But I kept winning. Over and over again, so I’m a winner.” Donald said firmly with a hint of confidence.

But still nothing from Satan, sitting perfectly still.

“And if I’m here now, talking to you, it’s because I’m somehow different. I assume this isn’t standard procedure. Maybe you want something. Maybe your boss does.”

Satan raises an eyebrow.

But Donald continues, “I don’t know how all this works but millions of people loved me—and would wait in line for hours to see me. Maybe that’s why I’m not waiting in line now. I mean, you wanted to see me. I heard that was a first down here, being brought directly to you. I guess we have some things in common. People make time for us.”

Finally Satan spoke.

“No,” he said.

Calm. Icy.

“You are here because I wanted to meet the man who told more lies than any other soul in human history.”

Donald blinked.

“That is not a criticism,” Satan said. “It is a fact. But you didn’t just lie—you manufactured belief in such a way that you turned falsehood into faith. You lied all the time, to everyone, and sometimes without reason—to your family, to your so-called friends, to your allies, to your enemies. To your followers and your detractors.

Satan’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

“Most impressively, you will have the audacity to lie to me.”

Donald gave a faint smirk. “Well, people say I have a gift.”

Then Satan raised a single finger.

“Dear Donald, I will warn you this once”

Again Satan lifts up one finger.

“You can lie to yourself, you can lie to everybody else but, lie to me again—and the consequences will be substantial.”

Donald shut his mouth.

The silence hung like smoke.

Then Satan stood up, rising slowly.

“Let us begin,” he said.

Satan stepped down from his alter, each footfall sounding like the slam of a judges gavel. He didn’t approach Donald with menace, but with purpose—the way a surgeon approaches a patient who still doesn’t know he’s dying.

He stopped a few paces away. Close enough to study Donald’s face. Close enough for Donald to feel the weight of being seen.

Then Satan spoke quietly.

“Tell me, Donald… what do you believe is your greatest strength?”

“My strength?” Donald asked, relaxing just slightly. “It’s obvious. It’s vision. I see things before other people do. I see patterns, trends. People. I know how to move them and I know how to win. That’s why they could never beat me, but boy did they try.

Donald paused, reading the silence.

“I mean, people say it all the time—‘Trump’s playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers.’ You’ve heard that. I’ve always been ten steps ahead. That’s how I am, that’s what I do.”

No reaction.

Donald felt the silence tighten.

“I’m a builder,” he added, tone defensive now. “Of businesses. Movements. A legacy. I built all of it.”

Satan’s head tilted ever so slightly and whispered:

“Try again.”

Donald blinked. “What?, but you said…”

He hesitated. “I was answering your question.”

“No,” Satan replied. “You were selling yourself.

I asked about your greatest strength, not your f¥cking image.”

Donald stood silent.

Satan took another step closer.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “It’s not your money or your crowd size. It’s not even your talent for lying.”

He paused—then almost smiled.

“It’s your need.”

Donald didn’t speak.

“You’ve always needed more,” Satan continued. “More Money. More Praise. More Eyes. More Worship. That hunger—unquenchable, bottomless—is the only honest thing about you.”

Donald didn’t know what to say. Still he tried to speak but no response came.

Satan studied him for a long moment, then circled behind him like a tide wrapping around a rock.

“Tell me now, what is your greatest regret?”

“Regret?” Donald said, blinking as if the word itself were foreign. “I don’t—look, I’m not someone who spends a lot of time looking backward. That’s just not how I work. You can’t dwell. Weak people dwell.”

Silence.

Satan didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Donald tried again. “I mean sure, maybe I’d have hired different people. Some of them were disloyal. Real snakes. Barr. Pence. Even some of my own advisors. They folded. They were weak. Not like me. I never fold.”

Still no reaction from Satan.

Donald shifted on his feet, just slightly.

“Okay, maybe I regret not going harder. Maybe I should’ve pushed things further. Used the military more. Some people said I could’ve done more on January 6th. But I didn’t want violence, obviously. I wanted peace. Strong pea……….”

There was no flash. No thunder. Just a sudden absence—of ground, of air, of logic.

And then—

Donald was no longer in the throne room.

He was standing.

Alone.

Naked.

At the center of a vast coliseum.

It rose around him in all directions, tier upon tier, like an ancient arena carved out of bone and memory. The stands were full—packed with faces. Millions. Some he recognized. Most he didn’t.

But he knew them.

He felt them.

Because they were all watching.

And he was the show.

The stone beneath his bare feet was cold and smooth, like judgment. The sky above him wasn’t sky at all—but screens, infinite screens, stretched across the heavens, each one flickering with a different moment from his life.

Not in sequence.

All at once.

Every slight.

Every insult.

Every humiliation Donald J. Trump had ever endured—real or imagined—projected into the sky above the Coliseum; his horror, his disgrace.

He stood naked in the center of the arena.

Not just without clothes—but without voice. Without control or the power to stop this horror show.

The crowd that surrounded him stretched into what seemed like eternity. Tier upon tier of watching eyes. And they were seeing it all.

But they didn’t laugh.

They simply witnessed.

And somehow that was much worse.

Above him, the screens flickered with endless, relentless cruelty:

Him staring directly into a solar eclipse without glasses; squinting, defiant.

His hair caught in the wind, flipping back to reveal the crown of baldness he’d denied for decades.

Every time he farted in public.

The time he shat himself playing golf.

Every punchline from every late night host.

Every negative thing said about him on CNN.

He saw classmates making fun of him in school.

Clips of aides rolling their eyes behind his back.

World leaders together laughing at him after a summit.

It was all there.

Or what seemed like all of it.

Every fragment of insecurity that he had spent a lifetime covering up was all stripped bare for millions to see.

Donald fell to his knees and tried to clench his fists, but there was no strength left in them. He was completely broken and utterly humiliated.

Then came the tears—sudden and violent.

He didn’t weep like a man.

He wept like a child who finally realized that no one was coming to help him; to save him from this humiliation.

“Please make it stop!” he screamed and sobbed until the air tasted like metal.

And then—

He heard the voice.

A voice he hadn’t heard in decades but recognized instantly.

“Stop crying, Donny.”

Donald froze.

It wasn’t a memory.

It was Fred Trump.

The voice came again, closer now. Louder.

“Crying like a little girl in front of all these people. You think they respect that?”

Fred stepped forward, exactly as Donald remembered him: gray suit, slicked hair, a stare like cold steel.

“That’s always been your problem,” he said flatly. “You’re soft.”

Donald looked up, shaking.

“You spent your whole life creating an image. Custom tailored suits. Fake tans. Gold paint over cheap drywall. All of it to cover up the same thing.”

“That you’re lazy.”

“You’ve always been lazy.”

“You ran from hard work. From effort. From anything that required real grit and sacrifice.

Fred’s voice grew harder.

“You were lazy in spirit. But worst of all—you were lazy in mind.”

Donald’s closed his eyes and shut them tightly.

Fred stepped even closer, his voice a scalpel now.

“You pretend to be the smartest man in every room—but everyone in that room knows the truth. Even the ones who cheer. Especially the ones who cheer.”

“Donny boy, you’ve got to be one of the dumbest sons of bitches ever born to a woman.”

“And everybody knows it.”

“Even your most loyal supporters.”

He circled Donald slowly now, like a warden inspecting an inmate.

You’ve made our family name a laughing stock!

He stopped, now facing him again.

You say you led a movement. You didn’t lead a movement, Donny, you led a tantrum.”

“And now, even that is all in tatters.”

“They finally saw you. The real you, not the character.”

Fred paused.

“And when they saw what you really were…”

He leaned in, voice low and final:

“They walked away.”

He stepped back.

“Well, now I’m done with you too.”

Fred turned his back and vanished without another word.

Then the Coliseum disappeared.

They were in the throne room again, alone—

“I have a feeling,” Satan said quietly, “that you will not lie to me again.”

Donald didn’t respond but stood—slowly, weakly, like a man learning gravity for the first time.

Satan watched, eyes cool.

“Let’s continue.”

And the next question came.

“What did you truly think of your followers?”

Donald opened his mouth.

And for the first time in his life—

He was afraid to lie.

His mouth opened, then closed.

He rubbed his hands together, looked down at the floor, then up again.

“I mean… look, I liked the crowds, okay? And they loved me. You don’t get that kind of love unless you’re doing something right, right?”

Satan said nothing so Donald continued.

“I knew how to talk to them. That was the thing. They liked what I said. I knew how to say it. Strong words. I gave them strength.”

Another pause.

A flicker of hesitation.

“I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t know most of them. You don’t really know people in a crowd. I’m not gonna pretend I did. They were angry. Scared, too. About the country, about their jobs, about everything. And I gave them something to believe in.”

He scratched his temple, avoiding Satan’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t have them at Mar-a-Lago, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Silence.

“I mean, come on,” Donald said, looking up suddenly. “They’re not my friends. I’m not gonna have them at dinner. But I said the stuff they wanted to hear. I made them feel like I cared. And maybe I did. A little. I don’t know.”

His voice dropped now.

“They made me feel… special and powerful. They cheered. They defended me. When everybody else was against me—the media and the Democrats—they were still there. So that meant something.”

“But?”

Trump’s mouth tightened.

“…They were useful. I mean… that’s what it was.”

More silence.

Trump’s tone got quieter.

“I didn’t respect most of them. A lot of them were dumb as hell, honestly. Saying crazy stuff. Believing whatever I said, no matter how nuts it was. I mean, I could’ve said the moon was made of cheeseburgers and half of them would’ve gone on Facebook to defend it.”

Satan nodded approvingly.

“I never thought they were smart. Not really. But they needed me and I needed them. They gave me the numbers. That’s what it’s all about. You don’t win without those numbers.”

His eyes darted away again.

“I didn’t love them. That’s not what it was. They loved me. I love what they did for me. So I used them ok. I used them to get what I wanted.”

“Yes, now continue.” Satan whispered like a priest hearing confession.

“They weren’t friends ok. They were followers. And they followed me and I guess blindly. I think that’s why I could never be friends with such people.

Satan studied him for a long moment and then, with chilling calm:

“Have you ever had a real friend, Donald?”

Donald blinked.

“Friend?”

Satan waited a beat then clarified:

“A person you didn’t need. Someone who gave you nothing but friendship and fellowship. Someone who knew the real you, and stayed anyways.”

Donald hesitated.

“Look, I’ve had people around me. Good people. Close people.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Donald shifted.

Fidgeted.

“There was one, I guess. For a while. Someone I trusted. Felt like… I don’t know… a peer.”

Satan tilted his head.

“You’re talking about Jeffrey Epstein.”

Donald froze.

“…Yeah.”

Satan nodded slowly.

“I know Jeffrey.”

Donald gave a short, nervous laugh.

“Yeah… I figured you would.”

He looked down.

“We had fun. We got along. He… understood things. About money, about women, about how the world really works.”

A pause.

“People don’t get it. When you’re up there—at the top—everything’s different. Rules are different. Expectations are different. Nobody says no. And if they do, someone else says yes.”

“And you called that friendship,” Satan said.

Donald didn’t answer.

“Did you know what he was doing?” Satan probed.

Donald paused.

“Not all of it.”

Satan’s eyes hardened.

“Donald.”

Donald exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging.

“I knew enough.”

He swallowed.

“I knew the girls were young. Not all of them. But some. Too young.”

He said it fast, like ripping off a bandage.

“And you participated.”

Donald’s voice cracked:

“Yeah.”

Satan’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t judge.

But it tightened—like a noose.

“You did what he did.”

Donald didn’t respond.

“You weren’t just there. You were with him.”

Donald nodded, barely.

“Why?” Satan asked in a way that sounded like genuine curiosity.

Donald’s answer came in fragments.

“Because I could. Because… no one told me no. Because I didn’t care. Because it felt… like power. Like it was my right. Like I was entitled to the best… no matter the age.”

His hands were shaking now.

“I told myself they wanted it. That they liked the attention. That they should be honored to lose their virginity to Donald Trump and not some pimple faced fourteen year old. I told myself I was doing them a favor.”

He looked up.

“But I knew. Somehow I guess I knew it wasn’t right.”

“How?”

“Well, some of the girls would cry afterwards.”

“And what did you feel when that happened?” Satan asked.

“Nothing,” Donald whispered.

“Nothing?”

Donald looked away.

“Maybe… a little disgusted.”

“With yourself?”

“No.”

He paused.

“With them.”

Satan didn’t blink.

“Disgusted with them,” he repeated.

Donald nodded, ashamed but unable to stop now.

“I know how that sounds,” he muttered.

Satan said nothing.

“I don’t know,” Donald said, his voice trailing. “They were just… weak. Needy. Easy to impress. They’d do anything to be famous or near this big star. That always bothered me.”

“Because you saw yourself in them?” Satan followed up.

Donald flinched.

A long pause.

Then: “…Yeah.”

Satan stepped closer.

“You hated them for the same reason you hated everyone who loved you.”

Donald’s breath caught.

“Because they needed something,” Satan continued. “Because they believed in something. Because they were vulnerable.”

Donald nodded.

“Being vulnerable means you can be hurt,” he said. “And that’s not something I ever wanted to be again.”

Satan didn’t speak, now hearing the most honest, self-aware words ever spoken by this lost soul.

Donald added, barely audible: “Not after him.”

“You mean your father.”

Donald didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Satan let the silence hang.

Then asked:

“What about your children?”

Donald’s head tilted, defensive again.

“My kids? I took care of them. Gave them everything.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Donald’s jaw tensed.

“I gave them a name. A platform. I made them famous. What more do you want?”

“Love,” Satan said.

Donald froze.

“I loved them my way.”

“What way was that?”

“I made them strong.”

“No,” Satan said. “You made them prove themselves.”

Donald blinked rapidly.

“You made them compete for your approval.”

“I pushed them,” Donald snapped. “That’s what fathers are supposed to do. I wasn’t gonna coddle them. I wasn’t gonna be weak.”

“And how did they respond?”

Donald looked away.

“Ivanka played the part I guess. Smiled. Said all the right things. She always knew what would make me proud.”

Satan raised an eyebrow.

“And the boys?”

Donald hesitated.

“Don tried. Too hard. He tries to be me but… he’s not. He’s softer. He wants to be tough but he’s scared all the time. And Eric—Eric means well. But he’s… not built for this world.”

“And Barron?”

Donald was quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

“I was gone a lot. Busy. Running things. Campaigning. I figured Melania had it handled. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“And what do you think they saw when they looked at you?”

Donald paused.

“…They saw a man who won.”

Satan stepped in.

“No. They saw a man who couldn’t rest. Who never stopped performing. A man who needed to be praised because deep down, he didn’t believe he was worth loving.”

Donald looked like he might argue.

But he didn’t.

Instead he whispered, “I wanted to be better than him.”

“Fred?”

Donald nodded.

“I thought if I was rich enough, important enough… even more rich and famous than him, then I’d be different. Better… like I proved him wrong. Like I proved everybody wrong, then I would really matter.”

“And do you?” Satan asked.

Matter?

Donald looked down.

His voice cracked.

“…No.”

Satan let the silence sit like ash in the air.

Then came the most telling question of all.

“What do you think you left behind?”

Donald blinked, like the question physically struck him.

“I… I changed things,” he said quickly. “I shook everything up. People said it couldn’t be done—I did it. I woke people up. I made them proud again.”

Satan folded his arms.

“And what are they proud of now?”

Donald stammered.

“Some of them still believe in me I guess.

I mean, it’s not like what it was, but…”

“But what?”

Donald deflated slightly.

“It fell apart. The movement. The energy.

People turned.”

Satan stepped closer, voice calm and razor-sharp.

“Why did they turn?”

Donald hesitated.

“I guess they… saw the indictments. The losses. Some of them started thinking maybe… maybe

I wasn’t as smart as I pretended to be. Or that

I didn’t care about them… that I was just in it for me.”

“Were they wrong?”

Donald’s voice was barely audible now.

“No.”

“And when you realized they were drifting away—how did that feel?”

Donald closed his eyes.

“Like this movement I created was disappearing and… like I was slipping away, even while I was still alive.”

Satan didn’t move but Trump knew he was telling the truth… for what felt like the first time in his life.

So Donald spoke again.

“I used to believe history would remember me. That the name Trump would last forever. Bigger than Lincoln, better than Reagan.”

“And now what do you believe?” Satan asked.

Donald shook his head.

“Now I think… maybe they’ll remember the scandals. The tweets. The lawsuits. The jokes.”

He looked down at his hands.

“Maybe I’ll just be a joke… a punchline.”

Satan tilted his head.

“Is that what you fear the most?”

Donald didn’t answer.

So Satan said it for him:

“You don’t fear hell, Donald. You fear worthlessness and obscurity.”

Donald flinched.

“You don’t fear death. You fear becoming what you are.”

Donald was trembling now.

“And no matter how many buildings you slapped your name on, no matter how big your rallies were—deep down, you always knew.”

Satan leaned forward.

“You were never big enough to outrun what you truly are.”

Donald looked up, red-eyed, voice cracking:

“Then what am I?”

Satan didn’t answer.

He just gestured toward the darkness behind him.

And from it came the next question—one final, brutal probe into the soul of the man who was now afraid to lie:

“What do you think you deserve?”

Donald didn’t answer at first.

He stared into the darkness, blinking rapidly. His lips parted, then closed. His chest moved in shallow breaths.

Finally, he said:

“I mean… I did a lot. More than people know. Built things. Big things. Created jobs. My name was everywhere. People practically worshipped me.”

His voice was trembling, but still clinging to familiar lines like muscle memory.

“I deserve… respect. Some kind of legacy. I wasn’t perfect, okay? But who is? I worked hard. Maybe not like digging ditches—but I was under pressure, all the time. The whole world was against me. Every day. The media. The left. The backstabbers.”

He shook his head, voice rising slightly.

“I kept going. I kept fighting. That’s gotta count for something. Or it should? Doesn’t that count for something?”

Satan said nothing.

Donald kept talking faster and more nervous.

“I should’ve had more time. That second term—they took it from me. I deserved to finish. I deserved to go out on top.”

Icy Silence

“I deserved a statue. A library. Maybe even Mount Rushmore.”

More silence.

Then, soft like a whisper:

“I don’t know what I deserve anymore.”

Donald looked up.

“I thought I deserved to win. To be loved. To be big.”

He swallowed.

“But maybe I just wanted people to forget who I really was.”

Satan stepped forward.

“And who is that, Donald?”

Donald blinked, and the answer came in a whisper—barely audible, almost like a child:

“a scared little boy.”

Silence again. The longest one yet.

Then Satan spoke up, his voice—a loud and much colder than before.

“You’re not here because you were afraid.”

He stepped closer.

“Everyone gets afraid. Even the heroes of old felt feel fear. You’re not with me now because you were afraid.

“You’re here because of what you did with that fear.”

Donald didn’t respond.

Satan watched him.

“That fear of being weak. Of being wrong. Of being laughed at. It followed you everywhere—like a shadow you kept feeding.”

“You could have faced it.”

He circled slowly, each step deliberate.

“You could have learned. You could have grown.

You could have humbled yourself.”

“But instead… you ran from it.”

“You turned fear into cruelty. Insecurity into spectacle. You hurt people before they could ever hurt you.”

“You lied because truth made you feel worthless and small.”

“You mocked the weak because you couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.”

He stopped, just behind Donald’s shoulder.

“And what I absolutely adore is… you taught millions to do the same.”

Donald swallowed hard, eyes darting, looking for something—anything—to say.

Satan stepped in front of him again.

“And now you will be made to feel.”

“All of it.”

“Every pain you inflicted on every soul you hurt, assaulted, humiliated, discarded, used, betrayed, corrupted, or defiled.

You will feel their pain.

All of it! It is my passion. I will make you feel their pain.”

Donald’s mouth opened ever so slightly.

“For how long?” he asked, beginning to tremble.

Satan’s reply was soft like a whisper, nuanced, but menacing.

“Until you understand how it feels.”

A silence like gravity followed.

Donald tried to steady himself—but there was nothing to lean on.

Then Satan continued—still quiet, but cutting:

“You entered the world with nothing, you are nothing and you’ve brought nothing with you.”

“Not good… not for you.”

“Unfortunately for you, most of what matters up there… means nothing down here.”

Donald’s breath caught in his throat.

Satan tilted his head and with with his quintessential devilish grin said:

“The only thing you have now are your memories.”

“And we will need them.”

Donald looked down, too terrified to move,

wanting to ask one question. Somehow he still needed to know

“Why?” he whispered.

Satan’s eyes hardened.

“Your memory is my evidence...”

He circled once more, and now Donald started to feel dizzy.

“… for the consequences of your actions.”

“Up there, you didn’t have to live with the hurt and pain that you caused.

“But down here… you will feel it all.”

“Not one soul you hurt was forgotten.”

“You will feel what they felt. Every single one.”

Donald’s lips parted.

“Every single person?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Even the ones I never met?”

“Especially those.”

Satan turned his gaze down for a moment—almost like reverence.

“Because the measure of a man isn’t what he builds for himself.”

“It’s what he leaves behind in others.”

He looked back at Donald.

“And you left nothing behind but pain, chaos, and disappointment.”

Then came the final verdict.

The one that settled over the darkness like a seal:

“Until you have felt it all—every tear, every fear, every betrayal, every terror, every scream behind a closed door—there is no end to this place for you.”

And with that Satan stepped back.

The light began to dim again—slow, suffocating.

Donald looked around, panicked.

“But what happens after I’ve felt it all?”

Satan didn’t answer.

Donald asked again but he was already gone.