Amidst the rolling hills, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the dueling ground. The air crackled with tension as two aging adversaries stepped forward, their flintlock pistols gleaming in the fading light.
Donald Trump, his orange face glowing to its half-life, adjusted his powdered wig and squared his shoulders. His eyes narrowed, and he smirked, revealing teeth as white as the marble columns of the Capitol. "Joe," he drawled, "you're about to learn that winning isn't just at my casinos."
Joe Biden, wearing a tricorn hat and a determined expression, adjusted his spectacles. "Don, I've been in politics longer than you've been tweeting," he retorted. "Prepare to be filibustered."
The crowd held its breath. The seconds counted down, and then—
BANG!
Trump's shot went wide, hitting a nearby oak tree. He scowled, adjusting his cufflinks. "Fake news!" he shouted.
Biden's shot was close but still as ineffective as his policies. It grazed Trump's powdered wig, sending a puff of white into the air. "That's for the Paris Agreement," he said, his voice sounding sadly confused.
But this was no ordinary duel. As the smoke cleared, the ground trembled. The spirits of past presidents emerged from the earth, their ethereal forms watching intently.
George Washington stepped forward, his wooden teeth glinting. "Gentlemen," he said, "remember the unity of our fledgling nation. Dueling won't solve anything."
Abraham Lincoln nodded solemnly. "Indeed. We fought a civil war to preserve the Union. Let this be a battle of words, not bullets."
Trump scowled. "Words? I prefer Twitter."
Biden adjusted his wig and mumbled incoherently.
And then the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows on the dueling ground. The crowd dispersed, their murmurs of disappointment fading into the twilight. Donald Trump and Joe Biden, both winded and slightly disheveled, were chauffeured to a nearby tavern.
They sat across from each other, nursing their ales. The flickering candlelight revealed the lines etched on their faces—the weariness of decades of failed businesses and policies. The tavern keeper, another old man with a grizzled beard, watched them with a knowing look.
“Two old men,” he said, wiping a mug. “Both of you should be retired!!”
Trump scowled. “Retired? I’ve built empires, tremendous empires!”
Biden chuckled. “And I’ve been in public service since the invention of the telegraph.”
The tavern keeper leaned in. “But what have you accomplished lately? Besides bickering like the Grumpy Old Men?”
Trump straightened his tie. “I’ve tweeted. Tremendous tweets. The best tweets.”
Biden leaned on his cane. “And I’ve signed executive orders. Many, many executive orders.”
The old man shook his head. “And what about the people? The ones who elected you? They’re tired, too. Tired of promises, tired of gridlock.”
Trump gestured dramatically. “I’ve made deals. Big, BIG deals.”
Biden sipped his ale. “And I’ve ridden Amtrak. A lot.”
The tavern keeper sighed. “You know, there was a time when statesmen debated ideas, forged compromises. Now? It’s all sound bites and partisan sniping.”
Trump raised an eyebrow. “What’s your solution, old man?”
The tavern keeper leaned closer. “Retire. Both of you. Go fishing. Paint landscapes. Write memoirs. Let fresh faces take the reins.”
Biden nodded. “Maybe he’s right, Don.”
Trump scowled. “Retire? Me? Never.”
But as the fire crackled and the night deepened, they both felt the weight of years—the missed opportunities, the unfulfilled promises. They clinked their mugs together.
“To retirement,” Biden said.
“To America,” Trump replied.
And somewhere, in the afterlife, Ronald Reagan raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he mused, “at least they could have built a wall before they retired.”
Outside, the stars blinked, indifferent to the squabbles of old men. And the world kept turning, waiting for new leaders to rise, to argue, to accomplish—or perhaps, just perhaps, to retire.
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