Picture squiggly lines waving back and forth in front of you as we shift to another dimension through feats of dubious science fiction and a combination of caffeine and sinus medication.
We go now to the Oval Office in the White House for an exclusive look inside the inner sanctum of the leader of the free world.
Never before has a journalistic entity had unfiltered access to this administration? OK, maybe once before, but that book was still torqued by the desire to tell a compelling narrative.
The first visual we intercept is a row of large, bright LED TV monitors, all but one set to the same feed of Fox News, flickering with images of faux-serious newsreaders clucking on about emails and the electoral college. The lone unique visual is a monitor playing a continuous stream of InfoWars YouTube videos.
Mixed among the discarded McDonald’s double cheeseburger wrappers on the fabled carpet are Top Secret intelligence briefings and torn-up talking points.
Sitting on the central coffee table is a large briefcase, slightly ajar, with stacks of $100 bills wrapped neatly in binding paper. The note tucked inside, written on a shot-up target from a gun range, reads; “Never forget who got you here, love from your favourite extortionists at the NRA.”
A large portable wallboard is off to one side. On it are photos of every member of the administration, with a majority sporting a hastily swiped red “X” across their faces. It looks like a hit board from a homicide department’s investigative wing.
Kelly Anne Conway sits on one couch, smirking into her phone while digging her heels into the fabric, tearing it slightly. On the other couch is Betsy Devos, attempting to read Dick and Jane, to herself, unironically.
Sarah Huckabee Sanders enters and asks the president, “Could you give me a five-minute heads up before you fire a leading member of your administration on Twitter?” She quickly follows that with a “just kidding” nervous giggle in fear of a wayward can of hairspray being lobbed in her direction.
A terrified intern cautiously approaches Sanders as she exits and asks, “Where do I go again to forfeit my soul?”
Above this scene and over the main entrance is a sign that reads, “Say yes, or get out.”
The big red phone on the desk rings and everyone but the president quickly scurries out of the various doors. The president takes a deep breath and then picks up.
“Vladdy, baby, what’s good?”
“Nice work on Tillerson. He was a toxin. See what I did there?”
“You’re wicked, Vladdy, wicked. Love it. What am I up to today?”
“I haven’t seen you Tweet about Hillary in the last four hours, so maybe step that up. We’re going to be committing some genocide later, so we’ll need a fun distraction.”
The call ends and the various clingers-on reassemble around the president. A newly hired flack suggests the president send some appointees to Congress. Everyone has a good laugh and that person is escorted from the building.
The camera pulls back and the shot turns from colour to black and white and we see Rod Serling drop his head into his hands and mutter, “This is too much, even for me.”
