Nowadays, they refer to it as the Papal Meltdown. I call it The Day My Life Was Ruined.

The year was 2043. I ran a PR outfit. I was good at what I did. Respected. I was the guy they called in when shit hit the fan. Worst-case scenarios. Deciding on collateral damages. Reputation management. Make-a-person-go-away.

If you had problems, I was your puppy.

At 08:34 on the seventh of January, a picture emerged of Pope Trump down on all fours, affecting the movements of a hen. The inevitable questions followed; had he finally lost his mind? Was it divine intervention, or was he just scouting the floor of the Vatican for some stray candy?

No one could fathom it.

Against the advice of his advisors, he got up on his hind legs, and headed for the window. He opened it. He was ninety-six, but he looked eighty-nine. He stared down into Vatican Square. Some Catholics cheered at the sight of orange.

A few years prior, the Sistine Chapel had gotten a tan. They’d sprayed over Michelangelo’s handiwork with Bondi Sands. It was a terrible thing, but they said it was a beautiful thing. A year later, they were burning witches. Then there was the ‘Catholic Tax Relief’. Church membership was soaring, as were conversions away from other faiths. Was it Adam Smith who said that “money drives faith”? Or maybe it was Jerry Springer. Either way, they had manufactured new incentives to pray.

As of 08:34 on the seventh of January 2043, Catholicism was in the midst of a resurgence.

Then, the papal meltdown. Pope Trump at the Papal window pretending to be a hen. Age had taken its toll. He looked like a melting doll from the 1940s. He made the sign of a stock chart and started to flap his arms. They thought he was summoning acolytes, but actually, he was trying to take off. He leapt from the Papal Balcony.

Big mistake.

A pool of orange goo trickled across St Peter’s Square. They said it was radioactive, and they were right. But it had been radioactive for years. Why had no one thought to use a Geiger counter? It all seems obvious in hindsight, doesn’t it?

As they mopped up the orange goo, I got to work on the press release straight away. It was my job to carve a palatable story out of this big mess. But before I could, I was visited by an apparition as I was on the toilet. It was Pope Trump promising that he’d be back on Sunday.

I froze, mid-shit. He said he’d let me in on a secret. The markets were oversold. I wondered why he was telling me this. He said I was a ‘good guy’. Next year, I was very rich, but the radiation had turned my head into a giant broccoli and I was starting to feel like people were staring.

I prayed for advice, but all I got back was dividends.