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It can’t be him, Trump thought, peering out from under his satin sheets at the apparition now hovering by his bedside. It was after midnight. I specifically told the guards not to let him into the elevators. “Christie?” Trump hissed. “Is that you? And what’s with the shackles? They sent you to prison already?” “Of course not,” Chris Christie spat, rattling his chains. “I’m a ghost.” “But you’re not dead!” “Not literally, no.” “It’s Christmas Eve, Christie! I already told you we filled the Fish and Wildlife job. Stop badgering me.” “Lookit, I’m just here as a messenger, OK?” Christie said. “You’re gonna be visited by three more ghosts tonight. They need to talk to you about your life and the hereafter and whatnot.” “I’m a smart guy, I can figure it out,” Trump said, turning over and resuming his rest. “Tell them to sit with Pence. He’ll make that face where he squints a lot to show he’s really interested.”