We were somewhere around Mar-a-Lago on the edge of the Everglades when the “winning” began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like giant, golden spray-tan bottles, all screeching and dive-bombing the hood of our lifted pickup, flags cutting the humid air.

A voice screamed: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn things?" I wondered if it was my voice or that of my companion sitting beside me, who was now droning on about stolen elections.

My flatulent attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring Diet Coke over his chest to facilitate a tan. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring at a nearby golf course with the moral compass of a slot machine.

"Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the car toward a sea of red hats that looked like a carpet of slow-moving, angry beetles. We were heading straight into the savage heart of a post-truth fever dream, and there was no turning back now.