I am in blood
Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

                                      -- Shakespeare

                   The worse things get the better.

                  Remember this during the next dozen weeks as America whooshes toward its doom. Count on it, our wannabe dictator will refuse to be displaced by the people. In tried-and-true tyrant fashion, he will discredit displeasing election results – if this election is allowed to occur – branding his detractors treasonous. He will attempt to deploy the military he commands against his foes, which will include anyone who resists his rule.

                  He’ll fail, I predict, due to incompetence, not inhibition. No quiver of conscience will deter him because he hasn’t any. In his fuzzy, wily mind, the state and he are one. Four centuries ago, Francis Bacon foresaw him: “It is the nature of extreme self-lovers, as they will set an house on fire, and it were but to roast their eggs.”

                  Am I sure? Will I lay odds? Of course not. I only extrapolate from what I see. And what most would see if we allowed ourselves. But, as moribunds sometimes find, it’s not easy envisioning one’s demise. Tell me I’m dying – soon – and I’ll erupt, “No way!” – as if my refusal could alter my result.

                  Do you predict otherwise? Observe the man. Is he acting as if he cared about the results of November 3? Not that I can see. His actions and pronouncements grow more audacious, obnoxious, fantastic, and unfazed by fact. This is the man who declared a long decade ago: “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters, OK? It’s, like, incredible.” This is the man who’s wriggled out of every bankruptcy, violation, rape and larceny without penalty or remorse. So yes, he can do it again, of course he can. Didn’t Hitler?

                  If the Nameless One is still swaggering and lying and thundering and hiring feckless flunkies to nod like dashboard dolls, count on it, he has a plan – to win and, if that fails, to skedaddle. To sane onlookers, such confidence may seem, like, incredible, but so has been his success. He’s humbugged and bulldozed to the peak of power, flattening any who dared to stop him. If our little sodality were bigger, he might try the same with me, but why waste gunpowder on a mosquito – and now he’s short of time. If he succeeds any disparager will be gagged, along with science, justice, fact, decency and truth. His face will be carved into Mount Rushmore – replacing the other four – and his triumphal arch will rise higher than Trump Tower.

                  There will be blood. There has been already – but there will be more. Heroism will be required – and we will witness that too. Senators and justices may be supine saps but not ordinary citizens foreseeing their subjugation. A hundred million Americans will rise up, upon which the military will defy its Commander-in-Chief, and that will be that. What nation on earth will harbor this fugitive crime family? Can he trust in the protection of his pal Putin? Stay tuned.

                  Am I an alarmist? You bet. Because I’m alarmed. We all should be. “It won’t be that bad,” is a stony bed to sleep on. Licked at the polls, the Nameless One will be a cornered rat, forsaken even by his sycophants. One last time he will trust his luck. Old and sick, what does he have to lose?

                  The worse things get, the louder the alarm, the likelier we the people will wake from our repose.