The Stephen King Election begins against a backdrop of violent civil unrest, Democrat-generated pandemic terror, and death.
In one of the whitest big cities in America, a Trump supporter is executed by an antifa agitator, in the name of Black Lives Matter. Days later the agitator dies in a hail of federal bullets, far from the scene of his crime.
As frightening as the Stephen King election is, fortunately, former Vice President Joe Biden does not win. But the path to his not winning rends a nation.
Voters start mailing in absentee ballots. Potential pluralities are cast before the first debate
The debates are alarmingly weighted against the challenger.
A president, at full capacity, confronting each day, every hour, the horsemen of a Communist virus, insurrection, Never-Trump calumny, and Deep State hatred. Mr. Biden, at the doorstep of his own private Delaware, rolled forth in his dotage, an empty icon representing one of the most corrupt and lawless administrations since the founding.
Trump’s retort to Hillary Clinton, “Because you’d be in jail,” seems in retrospect like a relative kindness. At least the former first lady knew what was happening to her.
Time, and the cycle, moves on.
As in all manner of underworlds, the paradigm shifts to unreal. Faith is punished, Godlessness runs rampant. A threatened statist transformation is held as righteous. Power-mad plots by the powerless are hatched out of the mud. No bar is too low in the last weeks for the desperate Marxists. If the Democrat Wicker Man is denied access through the gate, post-apocalyptic becomes the watchword across the land. The couched mendacity of the Tennesee Williams play Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is jettisoned for uncorroborated, bald-faced lies that foul the national discourse.
Firearms sales are through the roof, the clouds, the stratosphere. Will anywhere be safe if Trump loses? October surprises are brutal, collateral damage severe.
Election Day, and it looks good for the incumbent. Good and done for the propped-up harbinger of centralized progressive power. But 2016’s Democrat sore loser has spoken: don’t concede, never concede. In the back alleys of operational abortion, the grim harvesters have been at their work. They purport to have the electronic sheaves of votes they need, in the districts they need, the precincts they need, the battlegrounds littered with electoral disenfranchisement.
Monumental error, uncountable votes lost. The true will of the people vanquished in a maelstrom of results that will never be known. The old saying, “If it’s not close, they can’t cheat,” rings hollow as ballots cluster in post offices.
President Trump declares his de facto landslide. But across town, in another flop-sweat display, John Podesta says not so fast, and tells the assembled, “Votes are still being counted, but for tonight, it would be best if you all just went home and got some rest.”
But there will be no rest. An army of lawyers, to litigate the future. It’s not just Florida this time. The agitator legions, inspired anew by the chaos of unknowing, take to the streets. Who killed the world?
Between Election Day and Inauguration Day, nobody knows.
The down-ballots have played out, characterized by dueling recrimination: GOP holds the Senate, the Democrats an embittered and resistant House. City councils sport new faces, patriots in the swing states, masked questionables in the leftist enclaves, the Ilhan Omar’s of tomorrow. Biden has withdrawn to his basement, waiting to hear if the Democrat fraud machine can manufacture him into the White House.
Back behind his Oval Office desk, Trump carries on, having lost the popular vote to the bi-coasts and swept again the Old Blue Wall.
The deaths of August will not be the last. The Patriot Prayer supporter, wasted for his political affiliation, the antifa killer tracked down like John Wilkes Booth and exterminated.
Deaths that are symbols of the Stephen King Election, the revealed metastasis of America heading into 2021.
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