The Mask of the Orange Death

A Not-So-Fantastical Fable for Our Terribly Troubled Times

This Article was Posted on The Reporters Inc. in October of 2025.

The Orange Death was devastating the country. Faces and entire torsos of the citizens looked like dried fruit. People were striving to live but many were dying, shriveled and dehydrated. There was no medical advice available. The few doctors were imprisoned and walled, with no egress or ingress, inside the Orange Prince’s huge White House where the Prince and his entourage flourished. Laughter could be heard behind the impregnable gates of iron.

Shriveled dead bodies lay outside the gates. Some with their middle fingers raised in protest, wearing green MAFA (Make America Fair Again) hats. Others were in a prone position as if bowing to the massive white mansion behind the wall and iron gates, their orange MAGA (Make America Greedy Again) hats blowing in the wind, fallen off their shrunken, empty heads.

The earth was barren, as smokestacks spewed noxious smoke clouding the skies. There were no trees, no shade, no respite from the hot, polluted haze surrounding the sun. Houses were falling in decay; the only thing left standing were the stark skeletons of computer screens. There were no tradesmen. If any able-bodied man or woman raised a hammer in protest, they were arrested by the Orange Operative Police Service (OOPS).

People wandered aimlessly, trying to remain inconspicuous. Some whispered that there were flowers and trees inside the White House’s walls. That a grand old party was going on round the clock. That the Orange Prince’s minions owned all the companies and were all billionaires. Of course, the people outside the gates only whispered these allegations because if the Orange Prince got wind of any dissent, OOPS would round up these misguided citizens, and they would be sent to horrible prisons in far off lands.

The Orange Prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure to his vassals inside the walls. There were musicians and ballet dancers. There were jesters, clowns, and buffoons—many, many buffoons. There was beer and wine and dancing. All those inside,  singing the praises of the Orange Prince, were safe and secure. All others outside the walls were on their own to deal with The Orange Death.

As the pestilence raged, the Orange Prince in his beautiful voice, the best voice of all time, would broadcast on “Truth Z (Zero)” that if the Greedy MAGAs would leave any money they had — or could steal — under the iron gate of the White House, he would keep it safe for them. He knew how he could manipulate the beautiful markets. The MAGAs might be hurting, but he would make them rich.

Many a Greedy MAGA died at the iron gates stuffing money under. But the fair MAFAs scoffed at them. Called them fools.

And fools they were. Inside the walls the Orange Prince just got fatter, as did his lackeys. Especially the lawyers, as well as the fat cats that lay, purring and burping, on the shiny marble floors.

The Orange Prince had divided (his specialty) the White House into seven rooms. The largest was “The Library.” All books that had been banned and confiscated from across the countryside were housed there. Smoke rose day and night from The Library’s smokestacks.

A second room was called “The Epstein Chamber.” The only rule in The Epstein Chamber was: “Whatever happens in The Epstein Chamber stays in The Epstein Chamber.” This was the most popular room of the Orange Prince himself.

A third room was almost as large as The Library. It contained photos of all the beautiful golf courses the fat Orange Prince had played. He kept a tally board of the results of all the tournaments. Of course, he was the greatest champion on every course, except one.

Because the richest, greediest bootlicker in the world had kissed the Prince’s ass so gratuitously, the Prince declared him the winner of “The Tesla Open.” All the other ass-kissing minions were jealous, and knew it was just more unmerited acclaim bought by the pallid musky guy’s money. They knew the richest ass-kisser had been gifted gold clubs and didn’t have the stamina to golf one hole, much less a full round.

The previous best golfer, the former Black Prince, was in hiding since he’d once been heard whispering that the Orange Prince cheated. OOPS was looking for him, declaring him undocumented. He was to be banished by the Orange Prince immediately to a far-off prison, but because he was loved by the fair MAFAs, he was hidden from OOPS and was never found.

A fourth room was called “The Interpol Sharing Chamber.” It held sensitive and classified documents that the Orange Prince had maneuvered beautifully into his possession. The only disciple that had been allowed in this room was that doughy-faced, musky-smelling, rich ass-kisser.

The Orange Prince, jealous of the wealthiest man’s riches, was always interested in a profit. He wanted to be the richest man in the world, and he was pleased with the enormous sums oligarchs, especially Russian, would pay for a secret showing of these secret documents, which the Orange Prince, always a show-off, got a rushby sharing.

If he got caught leaking classified documents to his oligarch friends, he could blame it on the rich bootlicker and throw him under the bus for treason. Then, the Orange Prince would be the world’s top mutt.

Which leads us to the fifth: “The Rushmore Chamber.” The Orange Prince, with money left at the gate by the destitute yet greedy populous, had built a new, beautiful Mount Rushmore on the south portico, with his orange façade etched just to the right of Lincoln. He claimed that this was the greatest Mount Rushmore, much better than the one in some lousy, rocky state. The Prince had down-staged not only Lincoln, but Washington, Roosevelt, and Jefferson as well; his glistening orange, lighted visage left the others in shadow. And they were all now facing him, the greatest of all time.

The sixth room, the most expensive, was “The Gold Master Chamber.” The floor, the ceiling, the walls, the curtains—all were made of shimmering gold. There was a gold credenza with portraits of all the previous Princes, with the exception of the banned Black Prince. Featured in the center of the room was the solid gold “throne,” where the Orange Prince, imagining himself a king, relieved himself majestically, and often. Many of his minions, after sufficient wine, were known to whisper secretly that this was due to the Prince being so full of…it.

No one was allowed in The Gold Master Chamber, except on occasion for an ineloquent viewing of the Orange Prince exploiting his “throne.” The Prince thought his…it…didn’t stink, although all near him knew this not to be true.

The seventh and final room was “The Bomb Shelter,” taking up the entire basement of the White House. It was heavily fortified and housed all the OOPS guards, who traveled through a heavily protected tunnel to come and go. The tunnel was used for forays outside the White House to arrest dissenters and protesters, and anyone else who spoke ill of the fragile Prince.

The Bomb Shelter was out of bounds for all the partying lackeys, in case any of OOPS contracted The Orange Death while out on their “witch hunts.” The Orange Prince himself was deathly frightened that OOPS or outsiders might get into the White House and expose his beefy corpulence to the pestilence of the real world. Although he’d been deemed the healthiest man alive, he was an (un)stable genius and knew more about pestilence than anybody.

Suddenly one day, the grand old party was interrupted by loud blasts. The Prince’s lackeys knew the Prince had alienated the world and, with no friends left, they were all vulnerable and susceptible. The music stopped, glasses of wine froze on the way to rosy lips, dancers fell to their knees in fear. What were those blasts!?

The disciples all looked to their lord, the Kingly Orange Prince, in desperation. He assured them that everything was OK. To carry on. There were no blasts, he claimed. “Start the music!” he ordered. Yet more undeniable bomb blasts soon shook the foundation of the white mansion.

The Prince yelled to call the military. But its leader was drunk. In The Epstein Chamber.

Was this Iran with their new bombs? Or Russia looking to annex the U.S.? Or, maybe NATO, from whom the Prince had disparaged, alienated and withdrawn. There were no more friends left. “To The Bomb Shelter!” the minions all screamed. But the Orange Prince yelled to the musicians to start to play and everybody to dance. “Everything will be OK,” the Prince declared.

But the minions knew the Prince was a liar, and that everything would not be OK. “To The Bomb Shelter,” they all yelled. Then they heard The Rushmore Chamber explode and crumble to pieces. They all ran to the shelter yelling “Me first!” but in their hearts they knew there would be no shelter.

In desperation, the Orange Prince ran to The Epstein Chamber and aroused his V.P., Secretary of Defense, and Secretary of Homeland Security. But as he looked around for someone he trusted, he realized he had fired all the knowledgeable, trustworthy ones. “Get me to The Bomb Shelter,” he now screamed. “Remove all the OOPS guards before I get there!” he ordered. “I don’t want to contract The Orange Death!”

“You? What about me?” implored the Princess, queen of The Epstein Chamber, in pidgin English.

“It’s ‘America First!’” the Orange Prince bellowed. “And as King of America, I’m the first of ‘First’!”

“Don’t you know it’s ladies first, you vain, obese, arrogant, pompous, self-important narcissist!?” the Princess angrily responded.

“You’re nothing but an immigrant yourself!” the would-be-king spit. “An Epstein has-been! You’re fired!

When the Prince arrived at The Bomb Shelter, he waddled inside in a panic, breathing heavily, hand on his not-so-healthy heart, and went directly to “The Nuclear Room,” which was hidden behind a heavy steel door. The minions all scuttled about, running into each other, not knowing what to do, or who to follow.

As the last of the possibly-contaminated OOPS guards were ushered out of the White House through the tunnel, the entrance was left open and a horrible figure suddenly entered. He wore a grotesque Mask of the Orange Death. Blood seeped from the mask’s eyes and mouth. The faint-hearted minions parted in panic, and the horrible figure headed directly to The Nuclear Room as well.

The Orange Prince was crouched there, over a panel of buttons. He was exasperated and breathless, not knowing which button to push. When he heard The Mask of the Orange Death enter, he turned, perspiring, and screamed, “No! No! Not Me! Please!” as orange crud began to drip off his face. He grabbed his head, his self-acclaimed beautiful hair breaking into brittle shards.

The Orange Prince stared, horrified, at the nightmarish, macabre Mask of the Orange Death. When the hideous figure poked a finger at him, the Orange Prince clutched his breast and fell to the floor, drooling, slobbering. Now bald, pale and wrinkled, he mumbled, “I am the greatest Prince, I am the…the…” His voice faded, in a final, pitiful plea.

As the horrible figure reentered The Bomb Shelter from The Nuclear Room, the minions all fell to their knees, cowering and now bowing to the Mask of the Orange Death. The figure then continued walking, down the tunnel, leaving the white house, to find all of countryside gathered. It was the largest crowd ever seen.

As they cheered, the figure removed the Mask of the Orange Death, and a gasp rose to the stars. It was the Black Prince, the Prince whose portrait had been removed by the childlike, insecure, narcissistic Orange Prince. The former truthful, honorable, honest Black Prince, who’d been accused by the Orange Prince of treason, but who’d been sheltered by the Make America Fair Again (MAFA) people.

The MAFAs preferred a friendly, fair Prince whose White House was open to all. An eloquent Prince, with a sense of humor.

“Enter your white house,” he proclaimed. “It’s yours!”

Soon a new chant, “MAHFFA,” was heard throughout the land: “Make America Healthy, Fair, and Friendly Again!” The crowd continued, “We will strive to regain the world’s trust and be reliable friends once again!”

And the rest, as they say, is history…never to be rewritten.

Editor’s Note: “The Mask of the Orange Death” is a parody of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Masque of the Red Death.”