Scaramucci had at one point described [his relationship to Reince Priebus] as that of “brothers.” Later, he clarified that they were like Cain and Abel, two biblical brothers whose tumultuous relationship ended in tragedy. Cain murdered Abel before he was punished by God and condemned to a life of wandering.
— The Washington Post
Anthony Scaramucci has been cast out.
Reince Priebus’s blood cries out from the soil.
And also, and perhaps more pressingly, the blood of Steve Bannon’s ego cries out from the soil.
And now the curse of President Trump has fallen upon Scaramucci, and he has been made a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth. He is of no further use to Jared nor unto Ivanka, and so his iniquities cry out against him, and his loyalty is regarded not at all. And also the general, John Kelly, did not like his deeds, not one bit, and John Kelly has big braids on his shoulders and his burnt offerings to the homeland have received Trump’s favor.
So he has been cursed forth from Trump’s presence and he must wander the earth and lament until the end of his days.
He was escorted from the White House grounds, crying piteously to his maker, “Do not cast me out! For I have sold my business and destroyed my relationships, and if I must be hidden from your face, I must surely die.”
“Ye must go forth,” said Trump, “for I found your comments inappropriate and wish John Kelly to start with a clean slate and a team of his own choosing.”
“How can these things be?” Scaramucci inquired, though definitely not in those exact words, but of course I cannot print the exact words. “This cannot come to pass, for surely what I said, though vivid, was no worse than what thou thyself didst say, o Lord, and I seek only to do thy will and to slay all those who would oppose thee.”
But Trump did cast him out and did curse him, thusly, saying that when he tills the soil of Wall Street it shall no longer yield to him its strength, and his own home shall know him not, nor shall his son know him, (though some of this may be upon his head, as he responded (according to Page 6) to news of the baby’s birth by texting “Congratulations! I will pray for our son” and surprisingly this was not received with gladness.)
And so he cried out to Trump and said “My punishment is greater than I can bear! Today you have driven me away from the White House, and I shall be hidden from your face, I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and anyone who meets me may slay me.”
And Trump said to him, “Not so! I shall put upon thee a mark, the best mark, a mark that shall increase thy value sevenfold, the mark of Trump, and you shall bear it all your days, that none shall slay thee, but equally none shall hire thee.”
And Scaramucci went forth from the presence of the Trump and unto the land of Nod, north of Washington, and thence to New York City, where he had learned to speak in his curious way, but all there were strange to him and regarded him not, and Sean Spicer did he see in his wanderings there, and likewise numerous others did he behold who bore likewise the mark of Trump, which did render them unfit for any office and did make them outcast in the eyes of men.
And he did wander up and down the earth and those who cast eyes upon him did despise him, in spite of his excellent sunglasses and his high energy and his wavy hair and his fluid command of gesture, for upon his forehead he bore the mark of Trump. Whenever he tried to till the soil of Wall Street or of Hollywood, the seeds turned into salt, and the soil spat them forth and received them not.
He wondered at the thing that had come to pass. He had not advocated the alt-right, as Bannon had. Yet Bannon sat yet at the right hand of Trump.
(Ah, to sit there! To bask even for a moment in his reflected glory! To let Trump’s face shine upon him like a peach-tinted sunlamp and to hear, “You are my beloved Mooch, with whom I am well pleased.”)
Out here was only chaos. Everywhere where Trump was not was chaos, darkness, banishment.
And Kelly sat there, too, upon Trump’s other hand, wielding his flaming sword.
Scaramucci’s sin had been merely in ignorance. He had simply not known that you were not supposed to telephone a writer for the New Yorker out of the blue to say unto him vulgar and anatomically specific things on the record and make threats unto him to get him to reveal his sources and rave unto him about the FBI and accuse the whole White House staff of betrayal and paranoia and self-aggrandizement. This was a simple rookie mistake, which anyone might make, and he was a young man yet. Where was his forgiveness? He had not even taken a meeting with the Russians yet.
Yet Trump had cast him out. Even in the swamp Trump could not abide his presence.
Did Trump not see? All the world was a swamp where Donald Trump was not, with his shining tie and his golden tri-radiant nimbus, or whatever that was upon his head.
Trump had created his world in seven days and in only three he had destroyed it, utterly. He had banished from his presence the one man on earth for whom the thought of having no interactions with Donald Trump in the course of a given day was a horrible curse and not an undreamed-of happiness. The one man for whom Hell was the absence of Trump, he had doomed unto Hell. He had cast Mooch into the outer darkness to wander for the rest of his days. Unless there is another shake-up, of course.