My colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before my eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him; Bushie's Ghost!" and fell again. The same face: the very same. Bushie with his close-set eyes, usual Repug suit, usual license-plate-sized flag pin, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for I observed it closely) of ammo-boxes,rifles, unexploded IEDs, hand grenades, padlocks, desert-camoflage helmets, and too-thin armor wrought in steel. His body was transparent, as it had been in life, so that looking through it, one could see the lack of a spine behind.
I had often heard it said that Bushie had no guts, but he had never believed it until now. "How now!" said I. "What do you want with me?"
"Much!" -- Bushie's fake drawl, no doubt about it.
"Who are you?"
"Ask me who I was."
"Who were you then?" said I, raising my voice. "You're particular, for a shade."I was going to say "to a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate.
"In life I was your president, George W. Bush."
hat tip for inspiration: Fred