The tariff mystics –– a Trumpian short story

Beneath the Eisenhower Executive Office Building—far below the marble corridors where old republics once breathed—Peter Navarro paces in a climate-controlled bunker known only to a handful of loyalists as the Room of Economic Truths. The walls are upholstered in shredded trade agreements and vinyl decals reading American Steel: Because Feelings Are a Fact. A flickering bank of monitors shows an endless loop of Trump tweets, each timestamped but none dated.

Navarro kneels before a makeshift altar constructed of Adam Smith hardcovers soaked in bleach and rebukes the invisible hand for being too lenient. He chants figures and slogans like scripture: tariffs reduce deficits, deficits are theft, Canada is a hostile actor disguised as a country. His body shudders with revelation.

Without warning, Jared Kushner appears, pale and nearly translucent, holding an orb that glows with algorithmic intensity. The orb pulses softly in response to trending keywords: “patriot,” “strong,” “deal,” “Ivanka.”

“The President is ready to elevate you,” Jared whispers. “You shall be Secretary of Reality. But first, you must pass the Trial of Reciprocal Delusion.”

Navarro accepts solemnly. “I have already denied inflation, blamed Denmark for economic sabotage, and once told CNBC that tariffs lower prices, raise revenue, and restore male virility. I am ready.”

Jared touches the orb to Navarro’s forehead. At that moment, truth becomes subjective, and data becomes performance art. Henceforth, all reality must pass through Navarro’s intuition. The Federal Reserve becomes a mood ring. GDP, a haiku.

President Trump bursts in on a gilded hover-round, propelled by pure grievance and battery acid. He wears a robe made of electoral maps and carries a Diet Coke scepter.

“Peter,” he says, “we need a tariff on betrayal. People are doubting me. Doubt is foreign. Tax it.”

Navarro rises, incandescent. “We shall impose an import duty on skepticism, a surcharge on insufficient applause, and embargo all unsolicited advice. I recommend making it retroactive to the Articles of Confederation.”

Trump nods. “Yes. That was our last great moment.” Somewhere, a bust of Alexander Hamilton silently weeps.

Meanwhile, in the shadowy Mar-a-Lago wine cellar, Steve Bannon reemerges after what he describes as “a necessary hibernation in the underworld of European nationalist Telegram chats.” He wears a Mao jacket stitched from red MAGA hats and speaks in riddles translated from Hungarian.

“I bring a new metric,” Bannon declares to no one in particular. “Gross Patriotic Output. GPO. It doesn’t measure economic utility. It measures loyalty vibes.”

He lifts a chart: A Ford F-150 scores 89 GPOs. A Tesla? 3. A tofu wrap assembled in Berkeley by a nonbinary co-op worker? Negative 30—possible grounds for revocation of citizenship.

Navarro arrives, riding a Segway that has been fitted with balustrades and an eagle-shaped fog machine. The two men embrace, not out of affection, but mutual necessity.

“We’re building an economy of tariffs and memes,” Navarro explains. “A system where meaning has been monetized, and contradiction is a proof of faith.”

Trump enters, borne aloft on a sedan chair carried by two Marines and one disgraced Fox anchor. He is radiant, basking in artificial light and adoration.

“Steve,” Trump says, “we’re going to tariff blue states for not clapping at my last rally.”

Bannon strokes his beard, which now seems to have its own Wi-Fi signal. “Why stop there? Tariff reality itself. Put a price on facts. Charge royalties on memory. License every calendar.”

Trump beams. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years but never with those words.”

Navarro furiously jots it down. “We’ll call it Operation Pay-Per-Fact. Powered by blockchain. Or MyPillow points.”

Not far away, Don Jr. has a revelation during a podcast taping conducted inside a gold-lined panic room full of expired protein bars. As he injects testosterone into the buttstock of a hollowed AR-15, he has an epiphany.

“We need to tariff irony,” he tells his camera crew. “It’s what the libs use to make fun of us without committing slander. It’s sarcastic smuggling. Cultural treason.”

Moments later, he bursts into the White House Jacuzzi Room—where Trump floats in a warm bath of Diet Coke and Fox News chyron clippings—and presents his plan. “Irony detection, dad. We scan every tweet and late-night monologue. If it has more than one layer of meaning, we slap it with a 35% sarcasm tax.”

Eric claps. “Finally, a policy I understand.”

“That’s why it’ll work,” Don Jr. says. “We’re naturally immune.”

Trump considers. “Perfect. Irony is theft. Let’s monetize humor until it’s just revenue.”

Back in the Himalayas, Ivanka Trump is launching a spiritual lifestyle line in Bhutan. Draped in saffron robes and bathed in light filtered through a crystal shaped like a tax shelter, she unveils TarifFEMME, a line of handbags handcrafted by monks who have taken a vow of brand neutrality.

“These aren’t fashion,” she tells the crowd of Himalayan diplomats and Miami influencers. “They’re karmic financial instruments. Every zipper is blessed. Every leather patch sourced from cows who died willingly. They’re spiritually tariffed.”

A Bhutanese monk raises his hand, uncertain. “If you tariff purity, doesn’t that corrupt it?”

Ivanka smiles. “Not if you monetize it with reverence.”

Jared appears beside her, dressed in a translucent linen tunic that shifts color with polling fluctuations. “We’ve signed an agreement to replace Bhutan’s currency with IvankaCoin,” he whispers. “It’s backed by virtue, family branding, and a percentage of Don Jr.’s unused brain bandwidth.”

The head monk nods. “May all beings be happy. And fiscally optimized.”

In Washington, Navarro now levitates two inches above the Lincoln Bedroom carpet, speaking in tongues composed of economic data and broken slogans. Irony is banned. Bhutan is trending. Reality has been consolidated and leased back to the public at market rates.

The Moon, still under retaliatory sanctions for illuminating blue states without consent, sends a final communiqué: it will suspend all light exports to the United States until further notice. Night must now be purchased from the Office of Illumination and Moral Rectitude.

Trump declares victory.

“We finally did it,” he tells the nation from the Resolute Desk, which has been refitted with a claw machine. “We made America charge again.”

And in that moment, every unpaid invoice of the soul comes due.