The Masque of the Red Debt (with apologies to Poe)

By Emily Allan Poe (2025 remix)

In the land of perpetual press releases, there dwelt a man called Prince Trump. He had gold toilets, golf courses, and the sort of tan that could survive nuclear winter. A plague — not COVID, not bird flu, but vibes in the air — drifted across the land. The citizens trembled at every plane overhead, every bang in the distance. But Trump, he laughed, for he had an abbey.

Not just any abbey. A ballroom in Mar-a-Lago lined with mirrors and Diet Coke fountains. Here, he gathered his courtiers: Elon Musky (who arrived late in a rocket that smelled of weed and ozone), Kash Patel (serving subpoenas as hors d’oeuvres), and a chorus of influencers with ring lights.

They locked the gates. “We are safe,” Trump declared, combing his hair with a golden fork. “Let the peasants hear planes and tremble. Here, we party.”

Each room of the abbey was decorated:

The Green Room — tax evasion chic. The White Room — white lies, white powder. The Red Room — campaign donations still sticky.

At the center: a great clock made of Fox News reruns. Every chime stopped the dance, every tick reminded them time was running out.

And then came the guest. A figure masked, dressed as a coughing citizen, cloaked in the rags of the Red Death. “Who let that guy in?” Trump bellowed. “He’s not on Truth Social!” He charged, fork raised. And in an instant — gone. Prospero fell. Elon dropped his joint. The ballroom turned silent.

The Red Death had come to the abbey. Not as a virus, not as a plane overhead, but as the truth that money, walls, and hashtags can’t keep fear out forever.

And darkness and the Red Debt held dominion over all.

September 23rd, 2025