chapotraphouse

Rolling hills—western Wisconsin. A lonesome road. A cobalt bus, wandering through the quiet expanse. Inside, two aged men anchor themselves to opposite ends of an empty aisle.

Witness Mr. Dick Cheney, former vice president—architect of war. He reclines on the frontmost-right bench, savoring a rare moment of quiet—a peace denied to the countless victims of his ambition and greed. For Mr. Cheney, this journey is nothing more than a temporary detour—a trivial rebrand, a welcoming audience, a new color of tie to mix with his suits across the month.

In the rear of the bus, we find Mr. Bernie Sanders—senator, figurehead, reformist. He is hunched in the back-left corner, his gaze locked beyond the window of the emergency exit—bolted shut. His pupils trace the receding line of asphalt, the tires feeding it to the meadows. There is a weight in his posture, as his very being is tugged towards quiet resignation—a closing whimper into the end. For somewhere, deep within his thoughts, a terrible truth lingers—this is a one-way trip.

Between them, tossed askew against a bench, stands a lime-green placard—large enough for two. The stretched Arial typography remains legible, yet blurs faintly into the backdrop, as to retreat from clarity—an unalloyed declaration: brat fall

A scene that, just eight years ago, would have been unthinkable to some. But this bus has long since departed a commendable politic. Its destination? The Twilight Zone.