A Visit from the Gipper
The Resolute Desk was buried under briefing binders and a half-eaten Big Mac. Donald Trump paced in shirtsleeves, phone to his ear, voice rising.
“Tell McCarthy if he caves on the continuing resolution, I’ll primary every one of his guys in ’26. We’re not letting them gut the budget for this Obamacare nonsense.”
He hung up, spun, and froze. Ronald Reagan stood by the windows, arms folded, the same navy suit, the same half-smile. The room suddenly smelled of California citrus and the faint, unmistakable sweetness of Jelly Belly jelly beans.
“Ronnie,” Trump said, recovering fast.
“You pick a hell of a night to haunt the joint.”
Reagan glanced at the clutter on the desk.
Govern like Reagan or keep fighting like Trump?
My ghost-of-Reagan story just dropped.
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