The year is 2045. The marble sarcophagus of King Trump still gleams in Washington, though the man himself has been dead for over a decade. His reign lasted thirty-three years, outliving two pandemics, a dozen superstorms, and the last free election. In the end, no one could unseat him, not with his self-pardons, his armies of loyal judges, and his perpetual emergency decrees that locked away every rival who dared to rise.
By the time he died, the United States had long ceased pretending it was a democracy. His gilded crown sits on display in the Capitol, a makeshift throne room where Republicans still bow, swearing fealty to his memory. The old Constitution hangs burned and brittle behind glass, replaced by what state media calls “The King’s Compact.”
The planet never recovered from his green energy purge. Windmills were banned outright after Trump claimed they were killing whales, a decree cheered on by his base, even as scientists pointed out there was zero evidence of that. By now, the whales were long gone… most died in the soup that was the boiling ocean, the rest were hunted to extinction by Japan decades earlier. Coal-powered “Trump Towers of Freedom” blotted the horizon while methane pipelines ruptured unchecked. Summers now sear at 135°F across the Midwest. The Great Plains are dust. Hurricanes churn up the East Coast every season like clockwork, sweeping away what remains of the outer states. Florida has been swallowed whole by the rising oceans.
Corporations, unshackled by Trump’s Genius Act, print their own currencies now… Walmart Bucks, Amazon Notes, Exxon Gold. The dollar collapsed long ago, and Americans trade loyalty contracts for food credits. Crops rot in scorched fields while executives hoard drought-resistant seeds in arctic vaults.
Health and safety died, too. With inspections banned, supermarket meat kills as often as it nourishes. “Shop at your own risk” signs hang like warnings for landmines. The government no longer tracks outbreaks of foodborne disease, pandemics are simply a seasonal expectation. Mask-wearing remains taboo in Republican strongholds, where infection is seen as patriotic sacrifice.
Public schools withered when federal lunch programs were stripped away. Hundreds of thousands of children starve each year, many orphaned when parents succumb to the rotating plagues. The lucky few beg outside fast-food churches for fries tossed out after sermons on “personal responsibility.”
A few dissenters remain, people who remember breathable air, safe food, functioning hospitals. But speak up, and you’ll hear the roar. Commie. Fascist. Pedophile. They scream it over and over, voices cracking in fevered ecstasy… “Let’s go Brandon! Let’s go Brandon! Ice cream! Laptop! TDS!” Most have no idea why they yell it anymore. It’s just noise now, a tribal war chant drowning out reason, ensuring that anyone who whispers common sense is buried beneath the din.
Even now, the Republican base thrives, outbreeding every crisis. Their banners bear Trump’s crowned face, flanked by slogans… “Eternal King. Eternal Nation.” They fight each storm, each famine, each plague with the same faith that carried them through the past, denial, defiance, and guns.
The rest of the world watches. As the USA pumps out more and more carbon, blanketing the skies in a permanent smog of freedom-branded exhaust, as SIDS skyrocketed, and the elderly dropped dead in the streets, they know they can’t just stand by. Nations have banded together, combining their militaries, fleets, and whatever scraps of functioning diplomacy and patience they still have left.
It’s time. The world can no longer allow the United States to remain a sovereign nation. It is not a country anymore… It’s a rogue furnace, a climate weapon, an exporter of deadly viruses, a monarchy of madness ruled by a corpse in a crown. And for the sake of every living thing still gasping for air on this planet, it must be stopped.
