Not “voted out.” Not “impeached.” Not “retired to his gold-plated crypt in Mar-on-Lago.” He has to die the way only an ancient nosferatu can: staked through whatever calcified thing passes for his heart, beheaded by the Silvered Axe of the First Congress, and burned until even the ashes forget the taste of blood. He has drunk the Republic dry for three centuries. Every filibuster is a feeding ritual. Every executive order is written in hemoglobin on still-warm parchment. The