A #MeToo Christmas Carol

Very late on Christmas Eve, a constipated Ebeneezer Trump sat on his gold toilet texting holiday greetings to Vladimir Putin when a rattle of chains caused him to look up to see a shaded female figure staring silently at him.

“Who are you?” he rasped. “How did you get in here? I’m calling security.”

“There is no security for you, Ebeneezer. I am the Ghost of Women Past come to call you to account. We are legion -- insulted, harassed, assaulted, despoiled of our very womanhood by your pitiful existence. See this.”

On the shower door the images of every woman who had accused Ebeneezer of sexual misconduct stared fixedly at the moral miser. They held long knives, which they whetted on a large grindstone.

“This holy night is one of retribution, as well, for those who have sorely and wantonly betrayed the virtues of love and decency preached by he whose birth we celebrate,” the figure intoned.

“What are they doing with those knives?” Ebeneezer wheezed, covering his now shrunken private parts with his I-phone.

“What needs to be done.”

The women moved from the curtain, no longer images, and advanced on the cowering tycoon.

Ebeneezer screamed.

He was alone and still constipated.

“Jesus,” he breathed, “I must have nodded off. What a dream. All liars. All of them.”

“No dream, Ebeneezer,” a soft female voice whispered. He looked up to see a veiled figure in a business suit.

“God,” he rasped. “Who are you?”'

“I am the Spirit of Women Present,” the figure replied. “And these are my strong and brave cohorts whom you have recklessly and willfully slandered and maligned.”

The bathroom door opened and they filed in: Hillary Clinton, Megyn Kelly, Kirsten Gillibrand, Elizabeth Warren, and many others. They carried tomahawks.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!”  Ebeneezer pleaded. “I was only kidding about Pocahantas. I respect women. I actually said I do. It’s on the record.”

“Your record is one of lies and ugliness,” the figure replied. “Ladies, the honor of retribution is yours.”

They advanced, tomahawks at the ready.

Ebeneezer Trump screamed even louder this time.

Again he was alone and constipated.

“It must have been that last hot wing,” he murmured, still dazed and confused. “A Bromo. I need a Bromo. That’ll do it.”

“There is no cure, Ebeneezer. You are terminally evil.” The female voice was strong and accusing.

Trump put his hands over his eyes, his now forgotten cell phone slipping from his short fingers and shattering on the bathroom tile. Sore afraid, he peaked timidly now between the fingers he slowly spread.

It was Lady Justice, gowned and blindfolded, the scales of justice in one outstretched arm and a heavy sword in the other.

“Not you. You can’t be here,” he whispered, his voice quavering. “You are a myth. I have lived my life in that belief. Tell me you are a myth and a dream.”

“I am the reality of truth and justice, Ebeneezer. I come to show you the truth of the future. Behold.”

And he saw a terrible and devastating truth: His wife and his daughter walking slowly and sadly away, his young son holding his wife’s hand. They looked back and shook their heads and there was pity and loss in their eyes.

“Not that. Not them,” he groaned. “I can’t lose them. They’re all that’s left. Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything. Anything. Help me. What can I do?”

The towering and stately female figure moved her sword arm to slowly shed her blindfold and fixed the groveling Trump with a pitiless and unforgiving stare. She uttered a single and echoing word.

“Resign.”