Everyone knew that the Trump transition would not be gentle, but few thought it would this catastrophic - panzer divisions crashing through the gates, storm troopers rounding up bureaucrats, corralling them, crowding them into boxcars, herding them into gas chambers and up the smokestacks of Sobibor.
One by one Musk tanks rolled up before the doors of USAID, the Department of Education and up and down Independence Avenue until ever last federal agency was a pile of smoking rubble. Thousands of cheering supporters followed the phalanxes as they blasted their way forward, half-tracks crushing the flower bed in front of the Department of Energy, flame throwers incinerating the hollyhocks, bulldozers uprooting old magnolias and toppling statues of federal heroes. It was a heady time, a thrilling time. The sound of howitzers and 50mm cannons echoed through the canyons of Constitution Avenue, the rumble and clank of armored columns, and the crashing of brick and mortar everywhere.
Following the panzer divisions into the bureaucracy were columns of tight military formations. F-16 jets flew tight air support. The crowd went wild - farmers from Dubuque, metal workers from Chillicothe, ranchers from West Texas, boat captains, hunters, Walmart greeters and McDonald burger flippers, all in Washington to support the new President in fulfilling his promise to get rid of the federal overseers who had trampled them, spat on them, and tossed them aside in an arrogant use of power.
It was an early Mardi Gras, a stupendous cavalcade of Americans whooping it up. Finally, the long night of elitism, progressive cant, and arrogant assumptions was over.
Bob Muzelle, old social justice warrior, a man who had committed his whole life to doing good, could only watch. In one fell swoop everything he had worked for, every last codicil of constitutional justice, every compassionate, considerate, and hopeful gesture, was being swept away in a tsunami of reckless abandon. The whole architecture of progressive Utopia was being left in ruins, toppled, and left piled helter-skelter on the curb. Goodness itself was being washed down the storm sewers of the capital, and only a feral, predatory, ungraceful mob of hooligans filled the void.
No hellish vision of Dante, no dark, horrific place in Milton's underworld could possibly describe the bullish coming of the Antichrist. It was indeed the Armageddon that Bob and his colleagues had warned against, the end of days, the final, barbaric finality to life as we know it
Of course this all was nothing more than a febrile, hysterical vision, the product of humiliation and rancid disbelief. The very fact that this was not supposed to happen, that no way in a million years was Donald Trump supposed to sit in the Oval Office was the crux of the horror. The blitzkrieg was only the expected sequelae of his victory; but yet and still, the scale of the destruction, the sheer wantonness of it all, the sledgehammer not the surgical knife, was overwhelming.
Anyone who was paying the least bit of attention could have foreseen it all. The resentment, the anger, the years of being talked down to, hectored, badgered, and insulted had to be expressed at some point. There was no way that millions of Americans, force fed a cockamamie theory of gender reassignment, and forced to watch a parade of impossible comic book figures - aliens with three tits and two cocks, buggers and pangender Barnum & Bailey freaks- passed off as normal was more than anyone could take.
After four years of black this, black that; a black man in every commercial, black students praised for simply showing up, fed the bowdlerized version of African supremacy, and told that women are the be all and end all of the human condition, Americans were fed up and pissed.
Biden's rainbow cabinet was a joke, a slap in the face, a derogatory insult.
Bob and his progressive mates assumed all along that the rightness of their vision would prevail, but locked into the ironic, laughable tautology of the day - progressivism will prevail because it is progressive - they could not even imagine anything different. There was no way that squirrel-skinning, bass boat fishing, gunrack, marry-your-cousin crackers could ever have a voice - no way. Righteousness has its own innate sensibility, an irrevocable place in society, a natural, innate, irrefutable piece of human nature.
Yet here they were in legions, come to Washington on the coattails of one of their own - a boorish clown, an idiot, an insurrectionist buffoon. What happened? The world order was fixed, and progressivism was on its way to becoming the universal human ethos. Seeing just the opposite come to Washington in numbers behind the Trump train and here to do some damage, was existential in nature. It was not supposed to happen. It couldn't happen, but it did.
The moment was historic. What should never have happened of course did happen, thus giving like to anything settled, liberalism's ethos. Despite Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Einstein, and Bohr - men who showed the world that nothing is permanent, especially scientific theory - the Left kept to their guns and insisted that their way was the settled way, the only way, the permanent, eternal way.
Which is why Bob was so dazed and confused, so out of sorts with the world, so completely disoriented. It wasn't just that a new President was in town with his own, new set of rules and intentions; it was that the impossible happened; and there is no coming back from that.
There should be an old peoples' home for discouraged progressives, some place of solace and intimacy, a place to cry in your beer; but there is not. Some of the high-end retirement communities in Washington pass for such, but money finds its own level and there are some old Republicans there.
What Bob needed was an old hippy commune, a teepee and crash pad uniformity; but nowadays there were only chaise lounges on a Sarasota beach. Good politics, a dip in the Gulf, a round of Gulf, and sundowners at five.
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