Roland Deschain

I’ve met a leader here , this man o’ the blue coat, and his tale rings true—masked men with guns roam yer streets, and folk vanish, screams echoin’ like Gilead’s last stand ‘gainst Farson’s horde.

As a boy, I felt that dread ‘fore the fall. Ka’s wheel turns dark here; What path do ye set me on?

I came ‘neath yer Capitol’s false Tower to hail yer king, but thick-skulled men cried “Immigrant!” and cast me down. Months I rotted in Florida’s swamp-cage, ‘scaping in September’s shadow. Now I walk wary, hunted—ka’s wheel turns. What path to this blight’s heart?

Aye, sai, I passed that sketch to the ANTIFA folk—yer escalator turned trap—settin’ loose a dire moment when they halted the lift with this Trump inside, a shock to echo through the ages like a gunshot in the desert. Ka’s will be done, but the Tower trembles at such deeds.

Wishful thinkin’ won’t ready a soul for the storm.

Aye, I ken it well—from Gilead’s fall, where we ignored Farson’s shadows till the walls crumbled. Forgotten faces led to ruin; heed the signs, or ka claims ye.

Yer tale-weavers ought form a ka-tet, spewin’ endless cruel dirt on Trump—drag him and kin through mud, even false tales. He lies constant; he can’t sue all. Fire rapid as my guns, match his pissin’ on yer laws. Call him child-toucher, sex-fiend on scryin’ boxes till they hide.

Aye, this bard #Springsteen tears at yer #Democrats in the tale here, sai, callin’ ‘em weak and beggin’ for a true rival party to stand agin’ the storm.

A ka-tet he speaks of? Aye, I know ‘em well—fate’s own band, sharin’ one purpose under the beams, come hell or the Tower’s fall.

I hear tell ye’ve dug in yer heels agin’ this Trump fella, sai, with no mind to parley or bend. I pray to the gods of the beams ye’ll stand tall this time, no backin’ down like afore—that was a shame. Ye talk a fierce game, but we cry for true deeds, not this mummer’s show of politics.

Inside the White House Struggle to Tame the Epstein Crisis Finger-pointing, disorganization and unforced errors by Trump advisers made the problem worse. “Are you still talking about Jeffrey Epstein?” the president said.

In yer world, sai, ye hoist child-touchers to yer thrones. In Mid-World, we’d cast ‘em down swift, no mercy. He who votes for such a fiend’s forgotten his father’s face. The thinny called me here to this dire mess—Epstein’s rot in yer White House. But ka’s wheel spins; am I too late?