By Tequila Mockingbird
Washington, D.C. drips with the atmosphere of a horror film—fog curling around marble lies, thunder cracking over monuments built on hypocrisy. The air reeks of sulfur and broken promises. It’s not weather, it’s possession. The nation needs an exorcism.
From the depths of forgotten morality steps a priest—not one of flesh and scandal, but of spirit and satire. Cloaked in shadows, holy water in hand, he faces the beast itself: the Capitol, pulsating with deceit, greed, and lobbyist gloss. His breath forms prayer in the frost: “Deliver us from evil—or at least from cable news.”
The dome trembles. Demons disguised as pundits scream through talking heads, their tongues tied to teleprompters. Bureaucrats twitch as if the truth burns their skin. In this absurd cathedral of confusion, where money is god and empathy the heretic, every floorboard creaks with sin.
The priest raises his arm high, defiant against the storm. Holy water arcs through the mist like liquid light, sizzling as it hits the steps of power. The gargoyle chorus wails. Somewhere in the rotunda, a voice shrieks, “Spin it differently!” But the old Latin chant cuts through:
“Veritas compellit te—the truth compels you.”
And for one trembling second, the nation holds its breath. The devils pause. The Capitol exhales.
But the priest knows—the hardest demons to banish are the ones that vote.
