Chapter Text
We fight like hell. And if you don't fight like hell, you're not going to have a country anymore.
(Donald J. Trump, January 6, 2020)
This nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom and government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth
(Abraham Lincoln, The Gettysburg Address, November 19, 1863).
We hold these truths to be self-evident… that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive… it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government.
(Declaration of Independence, 1776)
Behold, I have given you authority to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing shall hurt you.
(Luke 10:19)
Let the rulers tremble at the people’s revolution. The working people have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Working men of all countries unite!
(MLK Jr, April 3, 1968)
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, SOVIET REPUBLIC OF RUSSIA
MARCH 1, 2022, 1800 GMT
"Mister President, the European Union and the Americans have imposed additional economic sanctions," said the doughy-faced Russian oligarch.
“Sanctions!” Laughter boomed through the halls of the Kremlin, echoing off Swarovski crystal fixtures and white marble tiles. Russian President Vladimir Putin sat behind his desk in a high-backed leather chair, head thrown back in the throes of maniacal cackling.
His national security council looked on, timid but acquiescent, awaiting the guidance of their visionary leader.
Putin's fists fell like twin thunderclaps on the wooden desk, carefully carved from the finest Siberian whitewood. His laughter abruptly stopped. Beady eyes reminiscent of a falcon in flight surveyed the assembled council.
Uneasy chuckles eeked from a few of the oligarchs. They were seated on white pine chairs a safe distance from the Russian President. A good twenty meters was enough space for Putin to keep all of them in his field of vision. If any of them pulled a gun, they would be dead before it left the holster. Putin's mastery of Tae Kwon Do, the ancient Japanese art of kickfighting, was universally known, but slightly less well known was this: never go in against a Russian when death is on the line.
Putin rarely bothered with guns. Razor-sharp tactical throwing daggers, poisons, venomous snakes, imprisonment in a Siberian gulag -- such were the tools of the gentleman dictator. Guns were a coward's weapon. Cowards like the American pigdogs. Like Sleepy Joe Biden and Crooked Hillary Clinton who wouldn't lift so much as a single wrinkled old finger to stop the mighty Soviet army from rolling over Ukraine, Belarus, and beyond. Soon all of eastern Europe would be brought safely back into the fold of Mother Russia and the weak, cowardly, impotent American President would wet his pants before he would speak so much as a word against Putin.
"Sanctions,” he repeated derisively, “They think to stop tanks with sanctions? Ha! To block bullets with words? Nyet!**"
"But Mr. President," simpered the fattest council member, his words oozing from his puffy lips like old frying oil, "they are targeting our financial markets and blocking trade. We cannot--"
The fat man's words cut off abruptly, a ninja throwing knife (known as a kunai or naruto ) protruding from the fat folds of his thick neck. Blood gushed out onto his jacket. Putin's hand had barely twitched and his expression had not altered in the least. He continued speaking as the fat man slumped forward off his chair onto the floor, dead, "The American sanctions mean nothing. They are as impotent as their leader. Why should we fear their sanctions? What has Russia ever needed from America? American cars? Russia's are better. Oil? Nyet. They buy that from us. American films?" He spit on the floor in a show of disgust. "Filth and propaganda. My babushka always said a man is only as strong as his erection. Biden's penis is tiny, old, flaccid, and shriveled. Russia's penis is mighty. It stands tall and proud like the well-oiled barrel of an AK-47." He paused a moment, scowling at his security council, then added, "But of greater girth, of course." The Council members nodded fervently. "Russia's phallus is powerful and vital; America's is puny, its seed sterile. There is no strength left in America. They are scattered, divided, leaderless."
"Da, Mr. President," said the sole female member of the Security Council. She adjusted her spectacles and pressed her thighs together, squirming a bit as she spoke. "But there is one who could unite them. What about... Him? What if He should return?" The fear in her voice was tangible, the musk of her arousal perfumed the room.
Putin's fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. His eyes narrowed to serpentine slits and the thinnest of smiles tugged at the edges of his thin lips. The Russian President was not known for his good humor. He smiled rarely and in unique circumstances, all of them involving either the deserved and gruesome death of his enemies or victory on an international scale. "He is no longer a concern. I have personally seen to that."
** No
MAR A LAGO, FLORIDA, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
MARCH 1, 2022 1800 GMT
“Can you believe this?” Donald Trump asked with a laugh. On a wall-mounted flatscreen, high-definition footage of Russian tanks rolling into the Ukrainian capital of Kyiv played as newscasters repeated toothless talking points. “What Putin is doing? It's genius. Total genius. Very smart. He’s just walking right in. Can you believe it? He just walks into Ukraine and takes over the country for two dollars worth of sanctions. It’s genius. He walks in and takes this big, beautiful piece of land, a whole country, and they don’t say boo.”
Shaking his head, Trump turned away from the television report and flashed a winning, white-toothed smile at Melania, Ivanka, Kellyanne and Don Jr, all of whom were seated in high-backed chairs lacquered with gold and upholstered with rich red velvet. The room itself boasted mid-century gothic architecture rich with supple, luxurious curves and appointed with golden fixtures and a chandelier dripping with diamonds. The sconces and baseboards were also plated with gold.
“But daddy,” Ivanka simpered, “can’t you talk to him? Can’t you do something?”
“Yes, Donald,” said Melania, leaning forward, her eyes narrowed with a sultry intensity, “you must do something.”
Donald Trump settled back in his Corinthian leather chair and took a sip from the can of Diet Coke on his rich mahogany wood desk. “What can I do?” he asked rhetorically. “They rigged the election. Biggest crime we’ve ever seen. Then unleashed a terrible, terrible virus, the Wuhan virus, on the country. So many people have died, Melania. So many people. We were costing them too much money so they rigged the election. They stole the election. And the RINOs and fake news media let them get away with it. And Sleepy Joe Biden, you know how he is, and his son and his Ukrainian connections. Burisma. You want to talk about corruption? It’s all about money. They don’t care about America. They don’t care about working Americans. We wanted to keep America great again but they wanted to keep themselves rich. And Putin, believe me, Putin waited until Sleepy Joe was asleep at the wheel to make his move. He would never have tried it if I were still President. Never would have tried it. Wouldn’t even have thought of it. He knows better. I would have bombed the hell out of them. Blown them right back to the 1700s. But what can I do? They rigged the election. The Democrats and fake news media pocket their rubles and fall in line.”
“You must keep fighting!” Melania wailed, tears glistening in her thickly mascaraed eyes, her hands clutched as if in prayer. “When I was a little girl growing up in Slovenia, we had a weak leader. So weak. He did not defend us. I was a lucky one. My family came to America and I met you, my Donald. But Slovenia… my motherland… is forever gone. Please, Donald, you must not give up. Ukraine needs you. America needs you!”
Trump lifted his eyes to the television screen which now showed an image of a smirking Nancy Pelosi and a ticker which read “WHITE HOUSE ANNOUNCES NEW SANCTIONS.” A steely resolve gripped the former and current President of the United States of America.
“Don’t worry, Mel. I haven’t stopped. I won’t stop. Putin may be a genius, but he’s unstable and reckless. And if I know one thing, I know this: it takes a stable genius to stop an unstable one.” He stood. His presence filled the room, his stature as grandiose and imposing as any statue of a Civil War general. All eyes were fixed on him, their collective breaths held as they awaited his orders.
“Kellyanne, let Tucker know I’ll be making an appearance tonight.”
“At once, Mr. President.” She stood, nodded and rushed to the door.
“Don Jr, I need you to reach out to Q. Tell him ‘Unleash the Storm.’ He’ll know what to do.”
“Sure thing, dad.” He said, grinning. “President Dad,” he added.
Donald Trump strode around his desk, his expression fiery and intense. He set his gaze on Ivanka. “Get your sister on the phone.”
“But daddy, Tiffany?” Ivanka asked, incredulous. “She’s been undercover for so long… can we really trust her?”
Trump grinned. “She’ll be ready.”
“And Mel, sweetheart, wipe those tears,” Trump said, stepping up to his supermodel wife and catching a single crystalline teardrop on the tip of his finger as it rolled down her cheek, tracing a line through her rouge. “Daddy Donald never goes down without a fight.”
He pulled her into his arms. She sighed, breathless, as she fell into his strong embrace. They kissed. Perfectly warm, full and supple lips brushing against her own, a sensual spark igniting between them in that one perfect moment.
“I know, my Donald. I love you,” she whispered.
“I know, Mel,” he replied. “I know.”
OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON DC, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
MARCH 2, 2022, 0800 GMT
Joe Biden sat slumped and puffy-eyed on a sofa in the Oval Office, a nightcap askew on his liver-spotted head. The chair behind the Resolute Desk sat empty. The room looked small and its occupant frail. “Come on now, Jack. It’s two in the morning and Uncle Joe hasn’t even had his coffee yet.”
“It’s Milley, Mr. President, sir. General Mark Milley.” A broad-shouldered, square-jawed man with crew cut blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, Milley cut an impressive figure standing at attention in his Army uniform, particularly in comparison to the hunched, withered figures occupying the couches.
“I’m here too, Joe,” croaked Nancy Pelosi, moths fluttering from the cursed tomb of her open mouth.
“He’s asleep, madam Speaker.”
Biden had slumped further to one side and was presently drooling on his shoulder.
The General cleared his throat once, twice. “Ahem. K-ahem.”
Biden jolted upright for a moment. “What’s that? Oh, right. We may be down by three going into the second half but let’s get out there and show them what the West Scranton Warriors are made of!”
Pelosi attempted a smile. It was unsettling. “Mr. President, the Russians have surrounded the Ukrainian capital of Kyiv.”
Biden blinked sleepily. “What about the UN sanctions?”
“The sanctions don’t appear to be a sufficient deterrent, sir,” said Milley.
“Also, we don’t expect to last long without Russian oil,” Pelosi said. “Gas is already at an all-time high and we anticipate a spike of another two dollars per week until this Ukraine mess is resolved. Christ, Joe, you’ve got to do something about this or we’re all gonna be out on the street!”
“Well,” ventured Biden, a thought slowly forming in his addled old brain, “can’t Congress pass some sort of, I dunno, relief bill or oil subsidy or… something?”
Pelosi frowned, her wrinkles forming wrinkles. “Maybe if we hadn’t blown the budget and the deficit all to hell by forcing through the Green New Deal.”
“There must be money somewhere?” Biden fussed. “What about corporations? We could hike their taxes a few points, buy ourselves some time?”
“They’re already paying 96.7%, as are most Americans with halfway decent jobs.”
“That much, huh?” Biden asked, nodding back toward sleep.
Pelosi’s frown deepened somehow, her face collapsing in on itself like a dying star. “Face it, Joe, America is bankrupt. Financially, morally, spiritually, ethically. We’re at a dead end here. Two more years and China will own more than half of all American debt, not to mention they’re gobbling up real estate in California, New York, Florida and Massachusetts at obscene rates. If something doesn’t change soon, we’ll all be talking Chinese before AOC is old enough to vote.”
Biden gave a little snort, then began to snore, low and steady.
Pelosi dropped her head. “For God’s sake, Joe. General, fetch the President a cup of coffee, would you?”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was not accustomed to fetching coffee for anyone, not even the illegally elected President of the United States, but he was a man who did his duty, even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard. He saluted. “Yes, Madam Speaker.”
He exited the room and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The Oval Office these days was rank with the smell of liniment and vapo rub and those lingering fumes coupled with the constant frustration of dealing with a senile and illegitimate Commander in Chief were wearing on his sanity and resolve. Milley had served three tours in Vietnam under one of the greatest generals of the era. He’d taken two bullets and a claymore land mine for his country. He’d served with men of strength, men of valor, men who gave life and limb for their country, only to get promoted over and again until he sat at the very top of the military chain of command, second only to the President and Vice-President of the United States. And here he was, a four-star General at the helm of the most powerful military force the world had ever seen, pouring weak coffee into a styrofoam cup at 2 in the morning because his boss couldn’t stay awake long enough to hear vital information about an international humanitarian crisis.
He reentered the Oval to find Pelosi holding a tasseled throw pillow over the President’s face while he slept, oblivious. The Speaker stood erect the moment Milley appeared, holding the throw pillow in front of her and flashing a false smile that sent a chill down the General’s spine.
“Bit of a joke between old friends,” she said, a maniacal red glint in her eye. She dropped the pillow like a hot potato and perched like a gargoyle on the edge of her chair.
Milley gave the President a little shake. Biden snorted, mumbled, “Malarkey,” and opened his eyes. “Your coffee, Mr. President.”
Biden clutched the styrofoam cup with both hands and took a small sip. “Woo! Good strong stuff. Reminds me of this little old negro fella back in Scranton. Went by Foxtrot. Don’t know his real name. Anyway, he lived in a rusted out Chrysler Continental up on cinder blocks in Old Man McCauley’s scrapyard and… what was I saying? Oh! Right, Foxtrot was a cook at the local diner. Brewed the best coffee you ever had. The sort to put hair on your chest. Not any of this froo-froo Starbucks cappuccino nonsense. Real coffee for real men. Good scrapple, too. No bacon for this Scranton boy, no sir. Scrapple and eggs. Coffee so dark you could chew it. Christ, Mark, why don’t they make ‘em like they did in the good old days?”
“I assure you, I don’t know, Mr. President,” Milley said, breaking in at the first pause in Biden’s meandering reminiscence, “But I do know that something needs to be done about the crisis in Ukraine. Putin is riding roughshod over treaties, conventions, and basic human decency. He’s making a mockery out of us, sir. Out of you.”
“Okay, Jack, hold your horses. What is it, exactly, you want me to do? I’m not about to start another war.”
“Respectfully, sir, you didn’t start it. Russia did. And if you don’t stand up to him now, you’ll never be seen as a real man. Not by Putin. Not by me. Not by America.”
Pelosi started to object but choked on a moth that got caught in her teeth.
Biden shook his head and frowned. “I know Putin, General. I know him like the back of my own head. He’s not gonna back down. We could send a hundred troops or a hundred thousand and he’d keep right on marching. I hate to say it, but Putin’s too smart. And too ruthless. He fears nothing and nobody.”
Pelosi swallowed the chewed-up remains of the moth and interjected, “That’s… not entirely true, Joe.” She averted her eyes, unwilling to say what they both knew needed to be said.
General Milley reached into his lapel pocket and fished out a small medallion that he carried with him always. “Putin has us over a barrel, Mr. President, Madam Speaker. He’s stacked the deck and he holds all the cards.”
Biden let out a low, mewling groan.
“But,” Milley continued, clapping his hand down on the coffee table in front of the President, “we still have one Trump card left.” The General lifted his hand to reveal a medallion about the size of a silver dollar. It was made of solid gold with a platinum engraving of the profile of Donald J. Trump, America’s 45th and Greatest President.
Milley turned to face Biden. “There’s only one man we can call in this time of crisis. Only one man Putin fears.” He pointed emphatically at the Trump Commemorative Presidential Gold Coin. “You both know what needs to be done. America needs Donald Trump.”
Biden frowned and shook his head in silent defeat. “I don’t know. Nancy–?”
Pelosi’s face was as pale as a harvest moon and her voice as hollow as a novelty chocolate Santa. “I hate to admit it, but… we need the D, Joe. America needs the D.”
Biden sighed. “Kamala isn’t going to like this. Alright, start making calls. I want everyone dialed in on this: the full cabinet, Shumer, The Squad, Sotormayor, Garland, CIA, Clinton (both of them), Kerry, FBI, NSA, EPA, 2Pac and Deep State. Everybody. But not a word to the press. The shit’s about to hit the fan and I don’t mean to be standing downwind.”