The sky over Palm Beach was an open sore, oozing a thick red that stained the ocean with a crimson, rotten glow. Donald J. Trump, the golden titan, the supreme king—believe me, folks—stood atop a makeshift throne of steel and skulls in front of the ruins of Mar-a-Lago, his suit in tatters but his tie gleaming like a severed tongue. In his hands, a blood-soaked mallet, forged from the wreckage of a congressional desk, dripped with every swing he took at the air. “We’ve crushed the weak, folks—the biggest victory, the most brutal, nobody does it like me!” he roared, his voice a bellow that shook the blood-drenched earth. To his right, Elon Musk, the mad prophet of tech, projected a flickering hologram of his new Social Security System—a death sentence for the poor—his laugh a short-circuiting screech echoing through the chaos. Curtis Guy Yarvin, the necrotic brain of Yarvinism, scribbled on a circuit board with dried blood, his eyes glowing like embers from a quenched fire. And above them, Peter Thiel, the living gargoyle, his black stone wings beating storms of dust and blood-stained bills, his claws tearing chunks from the sky as he growled his approval.
“The old Social Security was crap, friends—a total disaster, keeping useless old geezers alive, weaklings, a disgrace!” Trump bellowed, smashing a femur under his boot while spitting a clot onto the ground. “Elon, my number-one genius, designed something incredible—the best system, tremendous! He said, ‘Donald, if they don’t have five million at retirement, they die,’ and I said, ‘Elon, you’re a killer, let’s make it bloody!’” He laughed, a guttural, savage sound, as he ripped apart a battered “Social Security” sign and tossed it into a bonfire of burning bodies blazing before him.
Musk activated the hologram, and an infernal vision sprang to life: at retirement age, every citizen had to show five million dollars in cash. If not, instant execution—automated guillotines, buzzsaw drones, plasma chambers, all Tesla-designed. “The federal government doesn’t prop up weak old folks,” Musk cackled, firing a beam from his handheld cannon at an old man begging for mercy, his body exploding in a shower of flesh and bone. “No five million, you’re trash—pure efficiency, like Urbit, like my rockets. The strong thrive, the losers burn.” A swarm of drones erupted from his back like mechanical wasps, beheading a line of cashless retirees, their heads rolling into puddles as Musk laughed like a maniac, his hair wild like a nest of scorched wires.
Yarvin hunched over a pool of blood, his bony fingers tracing lines in the red muck. “Yarvinism demands this,” he hissed, his voice a poison that corroded the air. “Social Security was a disease—a crutch for the inferior, a progressive cancer. Now we have purity: the rich live, the poor are sacrificed. It’s nature, not charity.” He pointed toward a plaza where Musk’s machines mulched the “unfit”—old folks, the sick, anyone without the cash—their screams drowned by the hum of saws. “The reboot clears the scum. Five million or the guillotine—it’s coded nature.”
Thiel swooped down from the sky, his gargoyle wings crushing a bus full of dissenters, his claws ripping through metal like soft flesh. “I’ve funded this purge,” he growled, his mouth a cavern of rotten fangs spitting black saliva. “Tlon, Urbit, this system—my gold made it real. Life is for titans, the rest are fuel.” He opened his jaws and vomited a torrent of blood-soaked bills that rained over Musk’s executioners, while his claws gutted a penniless retiree, devouring the heart with a wet crunch, blood streaming down his stone chest. “Five million or death—clean economics,” he roared, flapping his wings to unleash a gust that tore rooftops and bodies alike.
Trump leapt from the throne, swinging his mallet as he caved in the skull of a protester holding a “Save the Elderly” sign. “Peter, you’re a luxury gargoyle—the best, a total monster! Elon, your system’s art—weak old folks out, like Curtis said, total RAGE! We fired all those bureaucrats, replaced ‘em with our boys—loyal, tough. The judges? Ha! I told ‘em, ‘Shut up or I’ll cut you to pieces!’” A colossal guillotine rose, its blade etched with “MAGA or Death,” and sliced through a group of pensioners in one stroke, guts splattering as Trump danced in the puddle, his laughter a primal howl.
Musk fired a rocket that exploded over a crowd of “unqualified,” raining limbs and ash. “Perfect neo-cameralism,” he shouted, “a sovereign corporation—I design, Trump executes, Thiel pays.” The gargoyle Thiel ripped a Statue of Liberty apart and hurled it into the sea, while Steve Bannon, coated in clotted blood, recited Burnham amid mad laughter. Michael Anton sharpened an axe, plotting the next slaughter.
Yarvin knelt in the blood, writing on his board: “Passivism—we let the weak collapse, and now we rule. One king, one code, one iron caste.” He eyed the executed, their bodies piled like firewood, and smirked, a shark’s grin. “Five million or nothing—it’s science.”
Trump raised his mallet, drenched in sweat and gore, his laugh an earthquake. “I’m the king supreme, folks—the best! Elon, you’re a genius butcher, Peter, a trillion-dollar gargoyle, Curtis, my dark prophet—Yarvinism forever!” A throne of bones and circuits rose, and Thiel crowned Trump with a dripping skull. The air reeked of death and power, and the new world was born in a river of blood.