When the revolution meets its own reflection: A chilling encounter with the ghost of George Orwell, where the champagne is expensive, the private jets are fueled, and the “common people” are invited to watch from the cheap seats.

The room was thick with the scent of burning sage and a lingering, existential dread. Bernie Sanders, hunched in a velvet chair that seemed to swallow his slight frame, adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses and squinted through the dim, flickering candlelight. Beside him, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez sat in a lotus position, her eyes closed, chanting something about the “intersectional vibrations of the proletariat.”

They were not here for the medium, a nervous woman in a hemp-fiber shawl who had already been paid an exorbitant amount of campaign funds for her discretion. They were here for the ghost.

With a sudden, violent flicker of the candles, the air turned icy. A figure materialized in the corner—a man with a ravaged face, a hacking cough, and the weary, piercing gaze of someone who had seen the future and found it profoundly disappointing. George Orwell.

“You summoned me?” the apparition wheezed, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

Bernie surged forward, his hands gesticulating wildly. “Mr. Orwell! It is an honor. We have been fighting the good fight, you see. The billionaires, the oligarchy—we’re exposing them! We’re building a movement!”

Orwell looked at the pair—Bernie, in his rumpled suit, and AOC, dressed in a designer ensemble that looked expensive enough to feed a small village—and offered a thin, mirthless smile.

“A movement,” Orwell repeated, the word dripping with irony. “And what, pray tell, is this movement moving toward? A world without the very structures that provide you with your podiums, your platforms, and your penchant for performative........

© Humor Times