Writers of all genres would be hard-pressed to write a script as inglorious as the final days of Donald Trump. Ultimately, it will fall to historians to sort through the ashes of a presidency that began with a deficit of 2.8 million votes, and ended with one that was 7 million votes under an avalanche and call it anything more than the Swamp that Trump Built.

America stands today in the midst of the smoldering debris that reeks of viruses, and deficits, and corruption while the Emperor with no Clothes and his followers sing the praises of that Shiny City on the Hill. At the center of it all stands the battered Capitol with boarded windows, and a trail of destruction within its hallowed halls, while its members are resolutely undecided between impeachment and Article 25 about how to sweep up the mess and write the final chapter to the era that was Trump. Shakespeare might have penned “it is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” with such a setting in mind.

It is doubtful if there are enough remaining members of his cabinet on active duty to constitute a quorum and thus pronounce him unfit to rule. Impeachment is off the table. It takes more than 12 days for Congress to find its seats and its electronic voting buttons—to say nothing of acting on a charge as seditious and as unnewsworthy as impeachment. Moreover, there is almost no chance that he might turn over his duties to his vice president for the remaining days until January 20 when team Biden and Harris bring in the wrecking ball to this Theatre of the Absurd.

Trump could seek a little R&R (rest and relaxation) among the glitter of Mar-a-Lago if only it were shiny enough to illuminate his battered ego. It’s unlikely that he has the stamina to play golf for 12 days what with his blubbery body excesses weighing in on his affairs of the day. Perhaps his “Teflon Don” armor would shield him from a long list of trials and tribulations as long as he stays away from reporters, snipers, and teleprompters. He could hijack Air Force One and seek refuge on a distant island until the clock strikes high noon of that final day when the bell tolls. Was it not John Donne who reminded us to “never send to know for whom the bell tolls—it tolls for thee.”

And so it does. That bell tolling at high noon on January 20, 2021 could be our final reminder: We reap what we sow. We are the audience who must man the broom parade, sweep up the mess, don our masks, maintain our social distances, and prepare for another year until we have paid our dues. After all, we are mere players on this stage who pay the bills while others play. At last count, did not Sir Donald bilk his followers out of $200 million to pay his legal bills? And to think that he told us at his inauguration that he was worth $10 billion.

There is still the cost of his final words: “I pardon me.” This play would have been cheap at half the price.