The orange menace returns to his city of Geld in triumph. He is the anointed one. From atop his fortress he scans the southern coast.
– “My city,” he says. “The everperning gyre, of depravity and appetite unbound, subjugated to my warrior will.”

Holt, the manservant, floats into his vision bearing a gilt tureen on a Persian hammered tray.
– “Ah!” says the orange menace, pleasantly dispossessed of his reverie. Holt removes the tureen lid and the orange menace receives the appointed Diet Coke. The manservant has encrusted and filigreed the cans to protocol. The muted crush of tin pops and clicks like the hooves of a gingered mare on cobblestone. The orange menace closes his eyes as he chews. He smiles.
– “An explosion of juice,” he says. He is happiest when something is about to explode, or has exploded, or is exploding.

Holt brings him the day’s papers. The glorious name leaps from every tabloid:

PRESIDENT-ELECT CRUSHER APPEARS TO SOFTEN: MAY NOT MAKE BACON OF EVERY UNDESIRABLE AFTER ALL!

Detractors fill the streets to denounce the victorious orange menace, but Mr. Crusher is indifferent. He can not hear their insolent yapping a full 665 floors below. He retires to the marbled Apollonian anteroom, reposing in a Louis XIV chaise before an enfilade of Corinthian columns. On the carved mahogany-and-gold table, next to the gilded candelabra and below the crystal chandelier, there is a photograph of his father, Viro Crusher. The orange menace comes here often to consult the Patriarch.

– “I’ve done it, Father,” says the orange menace.
– “Yes,” says Viro. “You’re the greatest of the great.”
– “I have a Tremendous Empire. I mean, it’s the Best. I Win. I’m the Winner.” He is nodding.
– “Yes,” says the Patriarch. “You have won. You are the winner.”
– “I Win,” says the orange menace. “I am the Winner. I am the Best.” More nods.
– “Right,” says the Patriarch.
– “No one has More Gold in their Home than I Have,” says the orange menace. “Tremendous Amount of Gold. The Best Gold. Twenty-Four Karat Gold.”
– “M-hm,” says Viro. “That’s a good gold.”
– “The Best Gold,” says Mr. Crusher. “I Win.”
– “Right,” says the Patriarch.

This type of soul searching would do Mr. Crusher a world of good, were his existence not unmolested by the rumbling of a soul.

– “Father,” says the orange menace. “There is hardly any gold in the White House.”
– “My son,” says Viro. “There is more to this life than gold.”
– “I understand,” says Mr. Crusher. “There is marble. There is crystal. There is winning, being the best, and there is big league. There is crushing everyone who gets in your way to winning at being the best.”
– “Is this what you have learned from me?” says the Patriarch.
– “What I have learned is that you are a great Father,” says the orange menace. “I am your Son, the best Son. Tremendous Son. You did a Great Job.”

This talk of men among men is the lead in Mr Crusher’s pencil. A pity there is no one here to applaud and admire him. It’s been minutes since he’s received the obsequious deference of an underling. Hours since he’s autographed something with a golden Sharpie. Days since he’s addressed a rally. In every face he sees himself, with every bending of every knee he is taller. These lapses of ordinary servility simply won’t do. Someone needs to notice that he is their better, indeed the best, and quick. But no sooner has this realization come upon him than the answer arrives. He searches his pockets and finds the Louis XIV gold-encrusted smartphone. He types.

– “Everyone look at me I am the best.” He presses Tweet.

Likes mount by tens, and then thousands, then tens of thousands. He attracts 1,000 new followers every two and-a-half minutes. Fifteen seconds pass and the Geld Times headline appears: PRESIDENT-ELECT—‘EVERYONE LOOK AT ME I AM THE BEST.’ The blood of relief replenishes his veins. He will be whole for an hour now, maybe more.

Soon all the papers are parsing the message for deeper significance. Within an hour the Stock Market has lost a record number of points. A trillion dollars evaporate in an instant. A leading columnist takes to the Internet to inform the world: “When he says ‘I am the best,’ the President-elect is signalling his administration’s turn to pragmatism.” Within two hours, the Stock Market has rebounded to a record high. Others wonder if the Russians aren’t somehow involved. The networks crackle with nervous energy. The world reacts.

The inspired Patriot denounces the cuck, the woke excoriate the Manosphere, the slightly-left piles upon the slightly-more-left. Everyone who has not yet done so is choosing a tribe. Hurry up please, it is time. Hurry up, please, and choose a tribe. The time has come for battle.