The orange menace sleeps his usual seventeen minutes but does not sleep well. He wakes with the mist of a terrfying dream thick upon his brain.
He calls his spiritual advisor, Bianca Cash. The orange menace is confident that she will be able to interpret the vision. They have been friends for fifteen years. He trusts her. He knew the moment he saw her on television, a fetching charismatic blonde awash in multicolor stagelight, that they were kindred spirits. Her churches are tremendous. They attract huge crowds. God has blessed Bianca Cash with beauty, good health, and a thriving portfolio of well-performing, diversified assets.
“I’ve just had a terrible dream,” says the orange menace. “I don’t know what it means.”
“Tell me the dream,” says Cash, “and we will work it out together, you and I.”
The orange menace tells her the dream:
“I saw a great image, I mean, a huge image, really tremendous. A bright image. Its head was 24-karat gold, which is the best gold. You know, excellent gold, like the tremendous gold of Crusher Tower. No one has gold quite like it, to be honest. Anyway the image’s chest and arms were made of silver, which, you know, is fine. Only it’s not gold, not gold. Then his stomach and thighs were brass, which is okay for small accents like a door knob or those knocker things. Honestly, I would plate the brass in 24-karat gold if it were me. But it was brass. And then you won’t believe this but this image had iron legs and feet of mud and iron. A real let-down from the great beginning with the tremendous gold, if you ask me.”
“What do you think it’s about?” says the orange menace.
Bianca Cash understands his anxiety and intuits the meaning of his dream with ease. They are kindred spirits, after all.
“The head is your empire as it now exists,” says Cash. “It’s all of the things you’ve turned gold.”
“That makes sense,” says the orange crusher. “I like the gold parts of the dream quite a lot. It’s the iron and the brass and whatnot that frankly turn me off. If it were up to me it would all be gold. I like gold.”
“Yes: that is the meaning of the dream,” says Cash. “The silver is not quite gold, but it’s not far off either.”
“You mean, the image is about turning everything into gold? Like the feet are, what, investments?”
“The feet are whatever you want them to be,” says Cash. “Now that you are the President, you can turn everything into gold. Everything in the world is an opportunity for you to make gold.”
“Oh, yeah, obviously. I get that. Exactly what I want to do,” says the orange menace. “That’s funny, I thought it might be something shocking.”