After his tweet, here’s an inside look at how Trump Jr. schooled his three-year-old about socialism on Halloween, and the aftermath ten years into the future.

“I’m going to take half of Chloe’s candy tonight & give it to some kid who sat at home. It’s never to [sic] early to teach her about socialism.”

—@DonaldJTrumpJr Oct 31, 2017 via Twitter

Halloween, 2017. 8:00 p.m. Donald Trump Jr. and his daughter Chloe stand on the steps of a suburban home on a quiet street outside New York City.

“Okay, Chloe,” Don Jr. says, “this looks like a perfect place to teach you about socialism. Depressed neighborhood? Check. No gated driveways or servants quarters in sight? Check.” Craning his neck to look through a nearby window, “Child sitting at home on his computer during Halloween? Check.”

“Why are we here, Daddy?”

“Well, Chloe, like I told the entire world via social media, we’re here to give half of your Halloween candy to a child who did not work for it, thereby illustrating to you the unfairness inherent in socialism.”

“I’m three.”

“Doesn’t matter. You see that bluish flicker in that window? That’s a lazy kid just waiting for a handout. You’re going to give him half of your hard-earned candy for doing absolutely nothing.”

“I just held out the bag and your friends put candy in there, Daddy. There’s lots, and it’s heavy. I can give …”

“Forget about how you got it, Honey. The point is, I’m going to make you give away half of your loot. And the pain from that, the resulting anguish you feel deep down from relinquishing a portion of your treasure, well, that’s socialism, Dear.”

“Doesn’t that little boy have any candy, Daddy?”

“Nope. He does not. He sat there all night, too lazy to ask his parents to purchase him a costume and drive him from house to house to gather treats.”

“Oh, no! I’ll share some of my …”

“Quiet now, Honey. Someone’s answering the door. Get ready for your lesson.”

A man and a woman open the door. They see Chloe still in her Halloween costume, smile, and hold out a big bowl of handmade confections wrapped in colorful papers. Chloe yells, “Trick or treat!” and steps up to the couple.

“No, no, no,” says Don Jr. removing Chloe’s hands from the bowl and inserting himself between Chloe and the couple.

“¿Que?” The man looks to the woman. “No entiendo esto,” he says to her.

“Chloe,” says Don Jr. intently, “remember, there’s a lazy, no-good, entitled brat inside who didn’t work at all on Halloween. Never worked a day in his life. He expects candy just to fall into his lap. Remember, we’re giving the candy.”

“Oh, right,” says Chloe. “We’re giving candy. Let’s be so-shull.”

Don Jr. sighs, frustrated.

“¿Señor?” says the woman, leaning in. “¿Podemos ayudarte?”

“Oh, uh,” stuttered Don Jr., a bit stymied at the situation.

A ten-year-old girl emerges from behind the couple. “Déjame, Mamá,” she says to her mother, and then to Don Jr., “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yes. Hello, little, uh, girl,” says Don Jr., surprised. “We hate to interrupt your video gaming session, but …”

“I was doing my biology homework,” the girl interrupted.

“Right,” says Don Jr., winking, regaining his composure. “I’m sure that’s what you tell your parents. I could see your video screen through the window—all the colors and fun-looking stuff.”

“That’s Khan Academy.”

“Sure. Is that the latest martial arts game or something?”

“It’s a free educational website. A lot of kids use it.”

“Okay. Never mind that,” Don Jr. says, and then to Chloe, “Okay, Honey. Give half of your candy to this undeserving little girl.”

“¿Que? ¿Que está sucediendo aquí?” the ten-year-old’s father asks her.

“Nada, Papá. Es sólo otro neoconservador,” the girl explains.

[Ten years pass.]

A thirteen-year-old Chloe Trump sulks into the room and hands her father a letter she has just received. “They say I can’t get into that private prep school unless I get a tutor, Daddy.”

Don Jr. mutes his Fox News broadcast, visibly irritated.

“Listen. You’ve already got a colonial, a brownstone, a Cape Cod, and a Victorian. Now you’re asking for a Tudor?”

“A tutor, Daddy,” explains Chloe. “Someone to teach me.”

As Don Jr. studies the letter, the doorbell rings. He opens the door to find a young Latina woman waiting.

“Uh, no clean until Monday, por favor,” he says to the woman. “Lunes, Lunes!”

“Hi, Mr. Trump,” the woman says. “I’m Beatrice, Chloe’s new tutor.”

“Wow,” says Don Jr., “that was unexpectedly quick, yet convenient for the sake of storytelling.”

“You probably don’t remember me,” says Beatrice, “but you and Chloe showed up at my door years ago and gave me a bunch of Halloween candy.”

“Vaguely,” says Don Jr. “Were you the lesson in socialism or the one where we were just offloading Almond Joys?”

Beatrice continued, “When the school reached out to us tutors to work with Chloe, I volunteered my services. Her kindness and generosity years ago helped inspire me in my studies. I fed that Halloween candy to my lab mice and the next year produced an influential study on obesity in children. Then I used the candy wrappers to create a collage for an art exhibit that when paired with the study’s results so shamed the large candy manufacturers that they ceased using high fructose corn syrup in their products. The least I can do is help your daughter with her studies.”

“So, some mice got into your candy, you drew a picture about it. Got it,” said Don Jr. “But Chloe’s doing fine in biology. Why does she need a tutor?”

“She’s doing great, Mr. Trump,” says Beatrice. “She’s a wonderful and smart young lady. It’s her English that’s the problem. I’m just here to help her past a couple bad writing habits she picked up somewhere that we noticed in her application essay. For instance, our lesson today will be on the proper usage of the word ‘to,’ tee-oh, as a preposition and ‘too,’ tee-oh-oh, as an adverb.”

“I’m pretty sure you made that second word up,” says Don Jr., folding his arms.

“Maybe you could join us, Mr. Trump. This shouldn’t take too long.”