The MAGA Inquisition

It’s a Farce, right?

Images in this essay are ©2025 Sean Punska. Created with AI collaboration (ChatGPT / OpenAI)

INT. OVAL OFFICE — TRUMP ALONE

Trump sits hunched over blueprints of the dance hall — sorry, venue. He’s labeling chandeliers “extra gold gold.” He mutters like a man negotiating with ghosts.

TRUMP (to himself): Not a dance hall. Dance hall’s tacky. It’s a venue. A tremendous venue. The kind with curtains… but gold. Gold curtains. But tasteful gold. Maybe imported from space… Elon says we can do Mars silk now. We’ll see. We’ll see.

Suddenly — CRASH. DOORS BURST OPEN.

SPEAKER JOHNSON (dramatic, trembling with purpose): You’ve gone too far, Mr. President. You cannot attack helpless people in the water! We’re bringing the Constitutional Inquisition!

TRUMP (waves hand lazily): Oh that. Fake news. FAKE news. Those reporters are stupid, nasty people. Ask them — they’ll tell you. All lies. Terrible swimmers too.

JOHNSON: Oh no you don’t — we’re asking the questions now.

TRUMP (bored): This is just a silly inquisition.

JOHNSON: No it isn’t.

TRUMP: Yes it is.

JOHNSON: No it isn’t!

(A crony whispers urgently in Johnson’s ear.)

JOHNSON (clears throat, loudly): That’s the wrong skit. ahem No one expects the Congressional Inquisition!

TRUMP (without looking up): Yes they do.

JOHNSON: Stop that! Our chief weapon is —

(He turns. His cronies have migrated to Trump’s side of the desk, admiring the venue model and pocketing tiny gold chairs.)

JOHNSON (deflated): …fake news, then. Our chief weapon is fake news. (quietly, to himself) And possibly pamphlets.

CUT TO: INT. MTG’S OFFICE

MTG sharpening a spear next to a CrossFit rig. Wall covered in conspiracy yarn and coupons for tactical leggings.

THE INQUISITION BURSTS IN Johnson leads, making his own trumpet sounds: bwaaa-dum-bwaa! No actual trumpet exists.

JOHNSON (grand voice): Yadda yadda yadda… Behold! The MAGA Inquisition! You’re a witch!

(Crony #1 shakes head vigorously, whispering.)

JOHNSON (correcting himself): You’re a heretic!

(Crony #2 gestures “no” and does a thumbs-down.)

JOHNSON (thinking hard, triumphant): You’re dropping in the polls!

MTG (unbothered, British T-drop): Yeah, so wot of it?

JOHNSON: Well — we’re the MAGA Inquisition, that’s what! Bet you didn’t expect that!

(He pulls out a binder titled “Strategic Surprise in Inquisitorial Contexts — Draft v47.”) Paper is blank except for a doodle of a muscled bald eagle crying.

JOHNSON (proudly): I wrote a policy paper. On… unexpectedness. As a strength. In… inquisition operations.

He beams. Cronies clap too early, too loudly. Trump wanders in eating a McFlurry.

TRUMP (mouth full): Unexpected. Very good. Very powerful. Nobody expects ice cream before lunch either. That’s why I do it.

MTG: This is stupid.

EVERYONE (together, relieved): Yes.

A long, awkward silence. Someone’s phone plays The Star Spangled Banner inexplicably. No one moves to stop it.

TRUMP (after beat): So. Who wants to see the dance hall.

SCENE: THE VATICAN — PRIVATE MEETING ROOM

Cream marble. Two gold chairs. A bowl of communion wafers for some reason labeled “Snacks (Do Not Consecrate).” Trump and Zelensky sit facing each other in solemn shadow like two men about to negotiate peace or trade Pokémon cards.

Trump is holding a rosary like a prop he believes earns social points.

TRUMP (soft, reverent whisper): Beautiful place. Very Catholic. Maybe I’ll build one. A Trump Vatican. Has a ring to it. Well — more of a venue, really…

Zelensky nods politely, like a schoolteacher indulging a child.

ZELENSKY: We discuss ceasefire terms, da?

TRUMP: Yes. Peace. Tremendous peace. The best peace anyone’s ever peaced. We’ll have peace so big you’ll need a bigger country to hold it.

Silence. Gregorian chant faint in background. Trump hums along, off-key.

Suddenly —

CRASH — JOHNSON BURSTS IN with INQUISITION entourage A cardinal hat falls off; one crony tries to catch it, misses, pretends it never happened.

JOHNSON (booming, too loud): Yadda yadda — NOONE EXPECTS — (wince, correcting himself) Uh — no BODY expects… the MAGA INQUISITION!

The room echoes. A Swiss Guard coughs disapprovingly.

Johnson immediately realizes he has ruined the vibe. He tiptoes forward and switches to a stage whisper:

JOHNSON (urgent whisper): Mr. President, the first of our weapons is —

TRUMP (dead calm): No, Mike. You don’t have any cards.

JOHNSON (flustered): Not cards — weapons! (taps binder labeled “INQUISITION STRATEGY — DRAFT, PROBABLY FINAL”) It’s all about unexpectedness. We burst in — very dramatic — and everyone goes wow, and then we —

TRUMP (interrupting): Mike, we’re here. Zelensky is here. We’re going to have peace.

Zelensky smiles politely, hopeful, confused.

PUTIN BURSTS IN. Trump in Awe reaches behind himself to grab a horn to play the fanfare Da! Right my friend! Peace — like how you delivered peace to Japan with Little Boy. The Cold War Skit you begun is over.

No politician expects consequences. (Speaking calmly) That’s my chief weapon. Consequences… (he lets the word hang)

(After a long awkward pause, where Putin clearly is not aware of anyone else in the room but Trump)

But I must join in — it looked such fun.

My chief weapon is reality. And Consequences.

CRONIE: So would you say those are your two chief weapons? (trying to continue the bit)

PUTIN: But you know that (pets Trump) my little Pyosik.

(Johnsons cronies edge toward the door)

Johnson leans to one crony, whispers; the crony shrugs.

Johnson clears throat, gives up the performance entirely.

JOHNSON (to Putin, defeated): Oh. You just spoiled the skit. We were just doing the whole Spanish Inquisition and you come in here like it’s your show.

(Putin doesn’t take his eyes off Trump)

Johnson backs out awkwardly — wrong door — enters broom closet. Closes it. Opens it. Comes back out. Leaves again through correct door, trying to look natural.

Door slams. Silence.

Trump and Zelensky stare at each other.