He stood behind the podium for what was sure to be the last time. This was it. It had to be. This was his breaking point. The special prosecutor was too much. Sean Spicer couldn’t do this anymore. Each day was getting worse and worse - and he was looking worse and worse. Gone was his youthful appearance and vigor. The gum had taken away his teeth, he thought as he put in his dentures that morning, but the job had taken away everything else. The questions came at him. Oh the questions. He was just a sad pathetic nobody, how was he supposed to answer them? How was he supposed to know? As he expelled more and more bullshit his jaw began to feel numb. He had felt this before, but when? It was familiar. Had this happened yesterday? Or a week ago? Or a thousand lifetimes ago?

His eyes crossed. His vision went blurry. This was it. His punishment was finally over. He was finally free.

He awoke to the same nightmare he had lived a thousand times before. The date on his phone read January 20th. Was this another dream? Or was this real?

Was there even a way to know anymore?