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Ten minutes after he died, Rush Limbaugh woke up. He was confused, because he distinctly remembered taking one final, tortured breath in a room that did not look like the luxury suite he now found himself in.
He threw the silken sheets off himself and gasped. He had the body of a Greek god. He got out of bed, running his hand through his hair. He stopped. He had hair!
Delighted, he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Limbaugh,” came a woman’s voice. “How May I help you?”
Delighted, he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Limbaugh,” came a woman’s voice. “How May I help you?”
“Where am I?” he asked. His voice, he noted, was strong and confident, the rasp of dentures and lung cancer gone.
“Why, the afterlife, of course. Would you like room service? We have a fabulous surf and turf.”
“Excellent!” he said.
“Why, the afterlife, of course. Would you like room service? We have a fabulous surf and turf.”
“Excellent!” he said.
He put down the phone and saw that a room service cart had appeared in his room. He lifted the lid, and the smell of a perfectly done steak made his toes tingle. He picked up a fork, then thought, “Hey, why not see how everyone’s talking about me?” He turned on the tv.
And he laughed and laughed as the libs mocked him and Fox extolled him. He knew he would be hated by his enemies and loved by his friends, and he ate his surf and turf.
He did this for days. He would wake up, pick up the phone, and eat and watch tv.
He did this for days. He would wake up, pick up the phone, and eat and watch tv.
Soon, though, the mentions of him stopped. Even Fox moved on, talking about how President Biden only vaccinated 50 million people by May. Rush laughed again, because Biden had failed, just like he knew he would. The food remained fabulous.
He watched as enough people got vaccinated for schools to open, and for football games to play before packed stadiums. He also saw women’s sports teams play to packed arenas, and he scoffed. It would never last. Women just couldn’t hack it.
An election came. He wasn’t sure how that had happened, but he chalked it up to time flowing differently here. He watched as one Republican-held statehouse after another changed hands. He was stunned. How did that happen?
He flipped the channels, trying to make sense of it. He saw how organizers had worked together to undo gerrymandering and unbalanced courts and tax breaks for the rich. His meals began to taste a little off. He called Room Service to complain, and the operator apologized.
Then he blinked and Trump was indicted in New York, Georgia, and D.C. He sat, as flummoxed as the talking heads on Fox, as Trump was convicted and lost appeals and was carted off to prison. He threw his mashed potatoes at the tv and went to bed. In the morning, the mess was gone.
When he woke up, Fox had gone bankrupt, as had OANN and Newsmax. All of their wealthy patrons had had to pay more taxes under President Harris (President Harris? How did *that* happen), and couldn’t afford to subsidize money-losing ventures.
He watched as the nation decarbonized and created Medicare For All. He felt a frisson as he saw a story about Tom Cotton and Josh Harley lead a secession, but the joy was short-lived as they turned their guns on each other. Rush’s food tasted of ash.
He blinked, and President Ocasio-Cortez was giving her last State of the Union address after two terms as President. He watched, dumb-founded, as he saw Congress full of women and people of color and he realized he had never tried to leave his room.
The door was locked. He threw himself at the door again and again until the lock shattered. He tumbled onto a tasteful carpet and stared at the infinite corridors on either side. He look back at his room and saw his name embossed on a gold plate on the wall.
Every door had a name plate, and he felt his stomach drop as he read Ayn Rand and Barry Goldwater and William Buckley and Richard Nixon and Anita Bryant and Rupert Murdoch and on and on. He heard shrieks coming from every room. He banged on one until the door opened.
He was back in his room. He picked up the phone and cried, “What is this? You said this was heaven!”
“No, I said this was the Afterlife,” said the woman, her voice warm, the same way plutonium was warm.
“No, I said this was the Afterlife,” said the woman, her voice warm, the same way plutonium was warm.
He went to the window and saw the endless corridor of doors, each with a gold name plate.
“I want to leave,” he said into the phone.
The woman laughed. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said. “Would you like Room Service?”
“I want to leave,” he said into the phone.
The woman laughed. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said. “Would you like Room Service?”
A surf and turf appeared. The tv turned on, and the news talked of a world that had not only undone every mess he’d made, but one that had moved on and forgotten him and his kind. And Rush Limbaugh wept, for he knew it would never stop.
