I. Stall at Trump Tower, 9:17 a.m.
The golden tread, that ever-loyal serf,
decides—mid-stride—to practice meditation.
A hush more absolute than audit spreads:
the moving stair has chosen not to move.
Cameras record history, frame by frame:
a monarch mid-air suspended, stripped of nimbus,
one hand already raised to bless the next headline,
the other already clutching a phone to order—UN bombing.
II. Smarting Humiliation
Gravity, that low-ratings loser, dares to tug.
The tailor’s scissors of the universe snip the red carpet under him.
Behold: the man who branded air itself with his surname
now reduced to a common obese commuter—feet required.
A single squeak of rubber on metallic
silence
echoes through the atrium like a divulged tax return.
His face—usually a flag of perpetual triumph—
contracts to the precise dimensions of a parking ticket.
III. Fury Phones the United Nations
Within seven minutes the call is placed.
“Switchboard? Put me through to the entire General Assembly.
I want a resolution—no, a whole invasion—
against moving staircases that conspire against GREATNESS!
Sanctions on silence! Tariffs on treads!
If the U.N. refuses, I’ll downgrade you to a kiosk in Geneva.
I have a button—two buttons—one for escalators, one for the sun.
Choose wisely.”
IV. Draft Resolution Circulates (leaked)
Article 1—All inclined planes shall bow in the direction of Mar-a-Lago.
Article 2—The phrase “out of order” is henceforth fake news.
Article 3—Mechanical stairs must carry a loyalty chip;
any hesitation exceeding 0.5 seconds
constitutes an act of international escalator terrorism.
Veto power is reserved for the country that owns the golden lease.
V. Epilogue in the Key of Low E
At dusk the tread resumes—smooth, repentant, almost pious.
He rides upward, king of altitude once more,
but somewhere in the motor-well a small relay still stutters
a Morse code of resistance: tick-tick-tick…
Translated, it spells:
Even iron finds it hard to detach and lift
Emperor Narcissus away from his earthly toadying pool.
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