As Ann Romney awoke one morning from uneasy dreams she found herself transformed in her bed into a monstrous vermin (she was Leona Helmsley). She lay on her fur-stole-wrapped back and saw, as she lifted her head up a little, numerous bags of golden coins, which she had not given to the IRS, flickered helplessly before her eyes.
‘What’s happened to me,’ she thought. It was no dream.
Her room, a proper room for a human being, only gigantically huge and with a car elevator and a horse for some stupid reason, lay quietly between the four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of boxes of Shake & Bake and Stove Top Stuffing was spread out (Romney was a mom to four grown men) hung the picture which she had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm disappeared. She was Leona Helmsley, the Queen of Mean, and as Romney looked down at her own self, she saw there was no difference.
“We don’t pay taxes. Only the little people pay taxes,” she heard Leona Helmsley say, and as she heard the words they came out of her mouth too. “We’ve given all you people need to know,” she added, just to make it shittier. Then she went to jail for tax evasion, forever and ever, and everyone hated her for the rest of her life.