Once upon a time, in the glittering ivory spires of the capital of the United States of Amnesia, there stood a mighty, unshakeable temple. It was said to be the final word on justice, the last breath of reason, and the ultimate guardian of the sacred scrolls known as the Constitution. This temple had nine thrones, each carved from the petrified bark of the Tree of Selective Memory, and it was known throughout the land as the Supreme Court of the Forgotten Republic.

The Court, as it was whispered in both awe and resignation, was not like other courts. It was not held in a strip mall. It did not smell faintly of burned coffee and panic. No, this was the Court where black robes were worn like armor and words like “originalism,” “precedent,” and “unfettered judicial review” danced like ghosts through marbled halls. Here, time bent. Logic sighed. And accountability checked itself politely at the door.

The High Justices were not quite mortal. Nor were they gods. They were something far more dangerous: unremovable. Appointed for life by elected kings and queens of questionable literacy, these robed oracles served until they died, retired, or achieved full integration with the leather of their chair cushions. And in the age of Amnesia, where memory was a misdemeanor and contradiction a national pastime, the Court became not a guardian of rights but a curator of nostalgia—preserving the past, selectively and at scale.

The Justices, of course, each came with their own mythical backstory.

There was Justice Clarence the Eternal, whose silence during oral arguments was once considered stoic but had since metastasized into something more akin to open contempt. When he did speak, it was to inquire whether the Founders had intended to allow women to vote or if the Internet should be regulated by 18th-century quill standards. His personal scrolls were scribed by a wife who stormed the Capitol on weekends and lobbied to overthrow reality on weekdays. This presented no conflict of interest. Because in the Court of Forget-Me-Nots, conflict required memory, and memory had long since recused itself.

Next to him sat Justice Samuel the Sardonic, a man whose opinions read like passive-aggressive chain letters sent from a boarding school in 1787. He famously wept during arguments—though only for the unborn, the unregulated, and the unelected. His home was decorated in the style of colonial cosplay, and his jurisprudence reflected the belief that rights, like powdered wigs, were best preserved by white men of property. He was recently found to be flying flags—not just of the nation, but of the nation he wished had won.

And then there was Chief Justice Roberts the Balancer, who fancied himself the last adult in the courtroom. With the self-delusion of a man adjusting deck chairs while telling passengers the ship was actually docking early, Roberts believed that the Court’s legitimacy could be preserved through tone, if not through content. “Sure, we may gut decades of civil rights law,” he would say, brushing his robe, “but we will do it nicely.”

On the other end sat Justice Kavanaugh the Indignant, forever nursing a warm beer of grievance and nostalgia. He wrote decisions like Yelp reviews from a country club losing its exclusivity. When critics pointed out that his record suggested a hostility toward bodily autonomy, he reminded them—tearfully—that he once coached basketball. He was a man of the people, he insisted. Especially if the people were rich, male, and alumni.

Justice Barrett the Beatific followed, often appearing in oral arguments like a cloistered librarian given a speaking role. Her judicial philosophy, often described as a “constitutional resurrection,” involved deep contemplation of what James Madison would have thought about frozen embryos and private jet travel. A devout believer in textualism, she read the Constitution with the same fervor others reserve for horoscopes, finding in every clause a way to affirm that liberty meant no free lunch—but lots of guns.

Rounding out the conservative bloc was Justice Gorsuch the Grammatical, who would kill your voting rights but spell-check the eulogy. And Justice Alito the Apothecary, whose remedies for the nation’s ailments often included generous doses of 13th-century canon law, salted with medieval Catholic resentment.

The so-called “liberal wing” of the Court was less a wing and more a folded napkin caught in a wind tunnel. Justice Kagan the Wry occasionally offered dissent so searing it could have been used to cook sausages, but always with the politeness of a woman raised not to speak ill of burglars while they were still in the house. Justice Sotomayor the Dissenting, meanwhile, bore the look of a woman forced to attend her own philosophical funeral every June. She spoke often about empathy, precedent, and the Constitution as a living document, only to be met with responses like: “We did our own research.”

The newest addition, Justice Jackson the Watchful, sat with the posture of someone reading a very complicated instruction manual while knowing full well that everyone else at the table had set the house on fire out of spite. She dissented early. She dissented often. She dissented like it was an Olympic sport and America had already lost the qualifiers.

Now, dear reader, you may think that in a land as prone to forgetting as Amnesia, such a Court might hold itself to strict ethical standards, if only to preserve its credibility. You would be mistaken.

The Code of Conduct for the High Justices was written in invisible ink and kept in a drawer labeled “Guidelines-ish.” Gifts flowed like ancient rivers—trips on yachts with private chefs, real estate transactions with oligarchs, briefcases full of gratitude from “friends” with legislative needs. Ethics were recused, like seasonal allergies. Conflict of interest was just another kind of interest—compounded, tax-free, and immune from prosecution.

Lower courts, too, caught the fever. In circuit courts across the land, judges upheld gerrymanders so convoluted they looked like abstract art and dismissed civil rights claims faster than DoorDash refunds. Decisions came wrapped in faux-originalist logic that translated roughly to: “If it was not a problem in 1791, it is not a problem now.”

This brand of judicial necromancy reached its crescendo with the rise of the Shadow Docket, a magical tool through which unsigned, unexplained decisions were issued in the middle of the night—like constitutional DoorDash, but with fewer delivery instructions and more apocalyptic consequences. Death penalty cases, immigration bans, and voting rights were decided like pizza toppings: quickly, quietly, and without regard for lactose intolerance or human suffering.

And what of the Constitution, you ask? That sacred scroll?

Ah yes. In the Court of Forget-Me-Nots, the Constitution was interpreted not as a guide, but as a Ouija board. Its meanings shifted with the fingertips of those most committed to summoning the Founders’ ghosts—especially if those ghosts shared their theology, real estate holdings, and retirement accounts. The phrase “equal protection under the law” was now conditional. “Free speech” applied to corporations. “Religious liberty” meant the freedom to impose your beliefs on others, while “establishment clause” was quietly rebranded as a suggestion.

When the Court struck down Roe v. Wade, it was not simply a ruling. It was a confetti cannon of constitutional revisionism. States rushed to criminalize miscarriage, restrict travel, and reward vigilantes. The High Justices washed their hands, citing “history and tradition”—as if the absence of rights in the past was a valid reason to eliminate them in the present. It was the legal equivalent of saying, “Well, we never had airbags in 1803, so buckle up—or do not, because the Founders never specified.”

The public, for its part, responded with a mix of outrage and learned helplessness. Protests bloomed like seasonal allergies. Hashtags trended. But memory, as always, was fleeting. By the time the next term arrived, most had moved on—to the latest spectacle, the next scandal, or a TikTok influencer explaining constitutional law using baked goods.

Occasionally, a brave senator or watchdog group would raise concerns. “Should a sitting Justice really be accepting gifts from billionaires with business before the Court?” they would ask.

But the Court, perched atop its marble pedestal, responded with the same answer every time:

“We decline to comment.”

And they meant it.

Not just about the gifts. But about everything. Ethics. Accountability. The growing chasm between their decisions and the lives they affect. For the Court did not see itself as part of the government. It saw itself as above it. Like a celestial body, immune from tides, elections, or mass shootings. Like Mount Olympus, but with less humility.

So here, in the United States of Amnesia, the Court of Forget-Me-Nots continued its work. Not of justice, but of memory management. Ensuring that what needed remembering—like precedent, compassion, or democracy—was quietly boxed away, while what was useful—grievance, fear, and originalist cosplay—was paraded through the halls with solemnity and smug satisfaction.

And still, the people forgot.

They forgot that “judicial activism” was now defined as any ruling conservatives disliked. They forgot that 60 percent of Americans could support a policy and still see it overturned. They forgot that rights, once given, could be taken back. Not with guns, but with gavels. And not by tyrants, but by scholars in robes, citing footnotes and flag-draped ghosts.

But do not worry.

The robes are still black.

The chambers are still secret.

And the gavels still fall—gently, firmly, and without appeal.

So grab your Constitution, check your uterus, and schedule your protest.

Just remember: if the Court feels less like a safeguard and more like a time machine set to 1857, it is not your imagination.

It is just America, doing what it does best.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until justice forgets how to knock.