Ron DeSantis slithered out the den beneath the Governor’s Mansion where he liked to hibernate while digesting stray pets, wriggled into an ill-fitting navy-blue suit, slid into his office, and pushed his 12-foot-long body up a podium until his unblinking eyes rose above the microphone to shoot cold, hateful glares at the assembled press pool.
The governor cleared his throat.
“Good evening to the faithless, socialist, back-stabbing, enemy-of-the-people fake news media.”
Some reporters rolled their eyes while the rest waited for him to get on with it.
“And a very warm welcome to the patriotic truth tellers who actually love their country.”
Half a dozen bearded podcasters with Celtic cross tattoos whooped from their seats. DeSantis acknowledged them with a perfunctory flick of his tail.
“As you know, a U.S. district judge named Kathleen M. Williams, whose phone number is 786-942-1287 and resides at 3212 SW 18th Street, Miami FL, where she likes to take unaccompanied jogs at exactly 6:30 in the morning—did you get all that?”
The podcasters nodded effusively.
“Great. This traitor to her people decided our concentration camp,” the governor coughed into a coil in his body. “I mean detention center in the middle of one of the most sensitive and dangerous habitats in the country was built illegally. Well, I’m here to tell you that will not stop the great state of Florida from assaulting, kidnapping, and denying basic human rights to the housewives, Uber drivers, students, cashiers, and anyone else with accents we don’t like who constitute the gravest threat America ever faced in since the Founding.”
An aide wheeled a dolly into the office with a 1:32 scale model of a brooding, blocky concrete structure rising directly out of the ocean.
“That’s why I’m proud to announce we’ll be transferring all Alligator Alcatraz detainees to a new prison we’re calling Anaconda Azkaban,” DeSantis beamed at the roomful of journalists and white nationalists. “It’s located 10 miles offshore directly on top of Molasses Reef in the middle of the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary.”
The room erupted as the reporters shouted incredulous questions at the governor. He ignored them in favor of a stocky man in camo pants and a Deus Volt hat.
“Cody Bryant, reporter for the Daily Stormer,” said the man rising from his seat.
“Good to see you again, Cody,” answered the governor. “The First Lady and I loved the pie you brought to our white party.”
“It was my pleasure, Governor,” replied the man. “Thank you for protecting our state from these illegal gangbangers, rapists, and murderers. The most important question I can think of is whether Anaconda Azkaban will have actual anacondas.”
DeSantis pursed his practically nonexistent lips.
“Unfortunately not, Cody. We gave it a good college try but all 400 Amazonian anacondas we imported died from heat and saltwater exposure. But, we were able to fully restock the corridors, cells, dining hall, and bathrooms with 350 Dubois sea snakes, which experts agree are quite poisonous and happy to bite any unwary illegals who don’t double check their mattresses, shoes, and toilets. Any other questions?”
“Isn’t building a structure on a protected coral reef illegal?” shouted Ana Bar of the Miami Herald.
DeSantis sighed dramatically.
“No, Ms. Bar,” he lectured. “My attorney general assured me dynamiting 400-year-old staghorn coral to blast holes for load-bearing cement stilts is all perfectly above board. Anyone else have a question?”
“What other security measures did you take to protect mainland America from these criminals?” said Hunter Roberts of the Panhandle Patriot Podcast.
“I’m so glad you asked,” said DeSantis with an uncannily tight smile. “First of all, we thoroughly chum the waters every morning to make sure the sharks get anyone who decides to make a swim for it.”
The alt-righters giggled amongst themselves.
“But we built misery right into Anaconda Alcatraz’s design. All prison cells have their far walls open to the elements.”
“Like the sky cells in Game of Thrones?” asked a neo-Nazi toward the back.
“Exactly like the sky cells!” enthused the governor. “So, the illegals are directly exposed to the heat, rain, hurricanes, and anything else the Atlantic Ocean wants to throw at them. Finally, we couldn’t find any dementors to haunt their waking hours, so we got the next best thing: Rick Scott in a Party City clearance grim reaper costume. Anyone who’s spent any appreciable time with that ghoul knows that five seconds is all he needs to suck the soul right out your body.”
The governor and podcasters guffawed heartily.
“Alright, everyone,” said DeSantis. “That’s all the time I have today. Thank you.”
The governor slid off the podium, chit chatted with the blood and soil crowd, and bit half a dozen journalists on his way out the door and back to his burrow.
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