“For the good of the nation,” she whispers as she plunges the ancient dagger into the heart of a wild boar. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, 83, looks up at the full moon with completely black eyes, absorbing the life force of the fading creature beneath her. In the moon, she sees the face of former Justice and forever-homeboi Antonin Scalia warning her to not go down this path of dark magic and progressivism. She simply looks away, her doily/scarf slightly swaying in the autumn air of D.C. and her mind only thinking of the punctured peach that will soon be her president. She shakily takes the elixir of the thrice-born sorceress out of her court robe, reciting the cursed spell in a thick Brooklyn accent. As the infernal words leave her lips, she grows to the size of Shaquille O’Neal and now has a really long, forked tongue, but the enchantment is complete. Ruth Bader Ginsburg is immortal.
“We are pleased, sister,” Ginsburg’s fellow Democratic justices whisper in unison. Associate Justice Sonia Sotomayor emits a long, piercing, unsettlingly rhythmic wail, prompting the others to begin the ancient Dance of Eternity around the burning effigy of Rudy Giuliani. Once Sotomayor finally collapses out of exhaustion and ecstasy, the Justices leave the National Mall with their blacked-out colleague slumped over the now 7’1” Ginsburg’s shoulder.
“Rest, my sweet summer child,” Ginsburg croons, “we have a long, dark winter to weather and a lot of cases to decide 4-4 on before then.”
