Image by Phil Eiger Newman

6,853 words

Although I have a bit of a following from my articles here and elsewhere, I also write literature, mostly irreverent pastiches of science fiction and fantasy. I’m far less known for that; much like HP Lovecraft, I’ll probably be dead before becoming famous for my books. (Perhaps I should’ve written about sparkly vampires instead? Or maybe wish fulfillment chick lit featuring a billionaire with washboard abdominals hell-bent for BDSM?) Anyway, it is what it is. Here I’ll present a timely timeline of alternative history dunked in political satire, ripped from the headlines—well, kinda sorta.

Timeline 7-13-2024

On July 13, Donald Trump delivers a speech at a rally which goes off without a hitch. He continues to run a successful campaign, leading the polls by a significant margin. Democrats tearfully brace themselves for another four years of the orange tyrant. A minor kerfuffle occurs shortly before Election Day when a media executive is caught on hot mic bitterly opining, “Why didn’t someone just try to shoot the bastard when there was a chance?”

Then a miracle happens. Harris wins! Apparently her team was a lot more prepared than anyone expected. Key to the success was that Texas and Florida, together expected to deliver 70 electoral votes to Trump, had flipped blue at last. Although proceedings in the usual swing states were closely watched, nobody expected a major reversal in the Republican bulwarks. Other than that, the election brings a Democratic majority to the Senate and the House of Representatives. Expert pundits explain this surprise victory as the result of changing demographics—apparently something that just happens, unbidden much like the migration of birds—and elderly “racists” dying off who would have opposed the wonderfully diverse candidate.

Meanwhile, rumors abound about election irregularities in Texas, Florida, and key Congressional races: record turnouts of over 100% in some counties, mail-in ballot gimmicks, software “glitches,” vans unloading boxes late at night behind polling places, observers barred from tabulation locations, enough dead voters to look like a zombie apocalypse, and so forth. Once again, an illegitimate junta would be in power, a continuation of the last one. The mainstream media is completely silent about any of that—much as they were four years prior. The exception is a few talking heads declaring the election to be the fairest and cleanest in American history (though of course not mentioning the last one) and pooh-poohing the troglodytes who don’t believe the media. As happens so often, “conspiracy theory” is a code phrase for “nothing to see here; move along!”

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On the other hand, an unprecedented firestorm of outrage erupts online, seeming almost as if it would melt the fiber optic cables connecting the Internet. They stole the election again! A high-level conference of Silicon Valley executives takes place, considering outspoken dissent to be an emergency. Taking a cue from Palantir’s Tolkien-inspired name, this new advisory board calls themselves the Mordor Group. As for the only major nonparticipant, a consortium led by an elderly financier soon spearheads a surprise leveraged buyout. The new executive quickly shakes up the management, renames it Twitter, and joins the Mordor Group. A week later, the united social media platforms simultaneously ban thousands of prominent Rightist influencers, using a blacklist helpfully compiled by an unnamed tricky “watchdog” foundation known for conducting domestic spying for the government. The exploited drudges in the “trust and safety” departments within the Mordor Group go on overtime to hunt down the small fry and purge them from the digital Town Square. The Tech Tyrants return to aggressive censorship, much like their reaction to Trump’s election in 2016.

Although tensions are on edge, the January 2025 inauguration—once more heavily guarded by ideologically vetted troops—proceeds normally. There’s not even as much as a protest outside the hastily constructed walls around the mephitic DC swamp’s inner sanctum, which will stay up permanently this time. Nobody wants to risk a demonstration. If things get ugly, they might end up like the participants in the ill-fated J6 sit-in, who by now have spent over four years in federal dungeons with no end in sight.

That night, President Harris delivers a touching, beautiful, and remarkably eloquent speech promising reconciliation and ideological balance. This soothes nerves all around the country. (Months later, there would be much snickering when an insider let it slip that it was written by a chatbot.) Even some conservatives were cautiously optimistic. Although a political lightweight, she was quite spry and quick-witted compared to her senile predecessor. As for liberals, they’re swooning in ecstasy about the historic occasion—our first Indian-Africa-American President, and a Female-American too!

The new President picks the Cabinet. (More accurately, it was picked for her.) This consists of Jews and diversity hires. The only WASP is Secretary of Education Galadriella Lollipopp, a nonbinary fruitcake formerly named Gaylord Fugglebutt. After the Cabinet’s approval, considerable embarrassment begins after Galadriella’s fringe Onlyfans videos come to light.

Opening Game

In the Harris junta, one of the first orders of business is to enact the Department of Government Equity. Muhammad V.32bis is appointed chief, much praised in the mainstream media as a towering public intellectual and illustrious expert on race relations. The mouthy activist was formerly an Ivy League black studies professor, and prior to that, a bartender moonlighting as an imam for Detroit’s sprawling Al-Iblis Mosque. DOGE immediately pledges to rid the military of “racists” as well as align the ethnic composition to meet new diversity targets. Within a month, a massive purge takes place in the ranks, from top brass to assistant cooks—all white, of course.

The government’s second order of business is to secure the border. President Harris delivers a speech—again ghostwritten by her trusty chatbot—announcing decisive measures to stop the flow of “undocumented workers.” This allays much conservative grumbling; several prominent milquetoast Republicans join the chorus of praise. Not long after, the enthusiasm fades when videos emerge showing military engineers demolishing key sections of the incomplete southern border barricade, black vans dropping off migrants at night in small towns, and tourist footage of greenmarchers in massive caravans headed northward from Mexico and Central America. The mainstream media says nothing about it, except to concoct alternative explanations and haughtily denounce “wild conspiracy theories.”

In February, the Secretary of Commerce announces the abolition of tariffs, touting the efficiency of free trade. Several Fortune 500 manufacturers see a big uptick in their stock. A few multibillionaire investors profit tremendously, because their uncanny intuition told them to buy up massive shares in the week before the announcement. Many labor leaders enthusiastically praise the measure, boasting that American workers were ready to compete with anyone on an even playing field! Unfortunately for them, most of these peppy labor leaders would be out of work within months, along with those they represented. Entire industries in what remained of our manufacturing sector would be exported to foreign sweatshops with no unions, no labor protection, nonexistent safety and environmental standards, and, most importantly, where exploited drudges are paid peanuts.

The next month, the Harris junta announces a new guest worker program. Moreover, the cap on legal immigration is doubled. Certain conservatives aren’t amused, though as usual they have difficulty articulating why this is a bad thing. In response, the junta states that it’s an effort to reduce undocumented immigration. Well, isn’t that exactly what those regressive conservative complainers had been demanding? If the poor dears are classified as guest workers and legal immigrants, then they’re not undocumented any more, so what’s the problem? When it comes to pass, most MS‑13 members apply immediately. Not long before, the junta officially declared the darlings to be a persecuted category for their harsh treatment and mass incarceration by the government of El Salvador.

You can buy Greg Johnson’s The Year America Died here.

President Harris makes a few trips to assemblies of Europe’s top globalists, praising their wonderfully progressive governments for their mass migration efforts staying right on target and their policies of imprisoning citizens guilty of “hate speech.” This gets her thunderous applause from these gatherings of tricky wannabe Bond villains, while demoralizing the European public. At a conference of globaloney wholesalers in Britain, Prime Minister “Two-Tier Keir” is so ecstatic that he rushes the stage. He gets up after tripping over his shoelaces and plants a big wet one on her until the emcee pries their lips apart.

The President’s AI-generated speeches praising globalism also earn her a nice, shiny Kalergi Prize. (She’d proudly wear it until the end of her days.) Even so, she later sends an intemperate letter to the Norwegian Prime Minister, asking what the hell was taking so long with her Nobel Peace Prize. “Come on, Jimmy Carter, Al Gore, and Barack Obama all got awarded for not being George W. Bush, so where’s my goddamn medal?”

Setting sights on territorial aggrandizement, the junta looks abroad. Much ado is made about Puerto Rican statehood. This is much to the dismay of Puerto Rican Nationalists favoring independence, as well as those who prefer the status quo arrangement as a semi-sovereign territory. Still, threats are made to take over the place entirely whether they like it or not. Other than that, the junta also discusses annexing Mexico. The Mexican government replies that it’s a big no bueno.

On the digital front, the Rightist influencers simultaneously purged during the Day of the Gag file a class-action lawsuit against the Mordor Group, citing the Marsh v. Alabama decision, the Sherman Antitrust Act’s provisions forbidding illegal boycotts, and many other solid arguments. Still, it’s a Bambi v. Godzilla case, opposed by a dream team of the nation’s top pettifoggers from Leftist lawfare foundations. Later, the suit gets shot down in Judge La’Zahnyah Washington’s court, basically because she can’t understand it. The appeal would go worse; after much delay and one enormously costly motion after another, the illustrious Judge Momser Peloni—a very elderly Holobunga survivor who frequently nods off at the bench—would get sick of the charade and throw the case out of court with prejudice.

Midgame

Finally, Donald Trump emerges back into the spotlight. He proposes a nationwide one-day general strike followed by an evening of candlelight vigils to mourn America. Promptly a SWAT team raids his residence in Mar-A-Lago at midnight, kicking in the doors and dragging him out of bed. He’s charged with a raft of crimes, everything from high treason to conspiracy to commit arson with all those candles. Eventually sent to solitary confinement in the ADX Florence supermax prison, much to the delight of enlightened liberal apostles of tolerance happy to see their opposition locked up, the greatly loathed Orange Man will never see the light of day again.

The day of the would-be general strike is repurposed. Several large “Free Trump” demonstrations arise. Although they take great precautions, one of them in Dallas turns ugly. It begins quite peacefully, until they are confronted by a horde of masked radicals from both sides, most of them bused in from out of state. One of these lovely creatures is a rapper with the stage name HipHop IggglyBiggglyy DookeyDuke. Tragically, he dies in the Dallas “Trump riot” and quickly gets elevated to national martyr status. This is despite his long rap sheet of drug trafficking and armed robbery. What really happened is that he fired a badly-aimed shot from his gun held in the fashionable horizontal position, and the bullet ricocheted off a dumpster and hit him in the chest.

At the insistence of Secretary of Equity Muhammad V.32bis, plans are made hastily in Washington DC for the construction of a lavish mausoleum in Arlington National Cemetery to honor the “murdered” rapper. To prepare the ground, soon backhoes begin digging up graves across the road from the Memorial Amphitheater and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. On the other hand, little is said about the deaths of five unarmed protesters on the Trump side. Their dastardly criminal offenses between them amounted to a jaywalking citation, three speeding tickets, and a fine for an expired parking meter.

Mainstream media reportage of the “Free Trump” demonstrations—especially the Dallas one—is so distorted that none of the participants would have recognized it. Much bystander footage was available, and television editors used carefully selected unphotogenic snippets at favorable angles to cobble it into the version of reality they wanted, which of course was digitally enhanced in post-production. The Harris junta reacts to the event by declaring it an “insurrection.” Three days later, Congress passes the Anti-Domestic Terrorism Act, in which the government grants itself emergency powers; no end date is specified. None of the politicians actually read the document prepared for them long in advance, since the printed copy was over 17,000 pages in length.

Soon after, while hysteria from the “insurrection” was still astir, politicians rush the much terser Stop Hate Act through Congress. It forbids the expression of “hate” in every form, whether spoken publically or privately, written, printed, posted online, performed or suggested by gestures or facial expressions, or even in one’s own thoughts. However, it says nothing whatsoever about what the definition of “hate” is, leaving it entirely up to the judge’s discretion as to whether or not any “hate” occurred. Moreover, the sliding scale of penalties is vast, and to keep dockets from being overwhelmed, structured to encourage arrestees to accept a plea rather than fight it in court. The bill was voted on unanimously by Democrats. So did nearly all Republicans. The latter knew very well who the Stop Hate Act was aimed at, yet they dreaded being labelled “racists” by their opponents if they didn’t vote for it. After all, getting called names by their opponents is a fate worse than death.

In July, the Big Baloney Bill Act passes Congress, signed by the President’s favorite autopen as she vacations in the Bahamas getting schnockered on margaritas. This includes a hefty income tax hike mostly falling on the middle class, but sold to the public as a tax on the rich. Still, the deficit is due to increase because of a massive expansion of government offices. Several rent-seeking rackets get a nice boost. The biggest beneficiaries are agencies involved in domestic spying. Propaganda bureaus get a hefty increase too, ensuring that the world catches a bad case of USAIDS.

The Harris junta scores its first foreign policy victory during the historic Gaza peace talks. She generously promises economic aid, and in the name of humanitarianism, offers refuge in America for Palestinians who didn’t starve or get bombed in their apartment buildings. There are some takers, but many would prefer to stay, bury their dead, rebuild their city, and try to get on with their lives as best they can. A few months later, Israeli forces would begin clearing Gaza block by block, packing Palestinian holdouts like sardines on overloaded American troop transports whether they liked it or not. Long overdue, the economic aid to rebuild Gaza arrives, lavishly enriching the Israeli contractors who bulldoze every trace of the Palestinian past off the map and redevelop it into a gaudy resort.

Under intense public pressure, the junta begins to release the Epstein files following much protracted hemming and hawing. Documents begin to trickle out of the massive collection, very heavily redacted, including many completely blacked-out pages. A procuress deeply involved in his honeypot operations—the heiress of an obscenely wealthy “British” arch-crook and triple agent, buried in an Israeli state funeral on the Mount of Olives—is brought to testify. She vows that a major Democratic notable under the cloud of suspicion always had behaved as a perfect gentleman. This performance earns Her Ladyship a transfer from a grubby, vermin-infested prison to Club Fed, as well as a nomination from the Academy Awards as “Best Actress.”

Many offbeat pundits take the odd position that the Israeli kompromat factory on Lolita Island was a big nothingburger. For all anyone knew from the released documents, perhaps only Epstein himself was enjoying his extensive seraglios of jailbait “masseuses.” Furthermore, he actually was a cool dude, someone to be admired. Recovering from extensive cosmetic surgery in his remote Brazilian villa, Epstein gleefully soaks up the praise as he sips another delicious, ice-cold caipirinha served up by one of his topless favela teenagers on staff.

In other espionage-related events, the President releases Jonathan Pollard from prison. The superspy promptly arrives in Tel Aviv, ready to enjoy the hefty Swiss bank account awaiting his return, which received monthly deposits from Mossad since the late 1980s. He’s delighted to be greeted by the smiling Prime Minister handing him a new Israeli citizenship card.

The Anti-Domestic Terrorism Act had created a new category of crime called illegal instigation, clearly aimed at Trumpers and “racists,” categories which were basically one and the same according to official rhetoric, despite the fervent denials by many of the former. Immigration functions are transferred to the Department of Transportation, and ICE gets rebranded as a political enforcement unit. Policing becomes more militarized when large numbers of Instigation Control and Enforcement agents hit the streets. It’s no longer uncommon even to see ICE armored personnel carriers roaming about in cities notable for harboring illegal instigators. Rumors begin about the ideologically purified Army conducting anti-insurgent drills with American citizens in mind as the intended targets.

Nearing the end of the year, tensions are on the rise. As winter continues in early 2026, two anti-ICE protesters are shot in separate incidents. On each occasion, this inspires wild guffaws by noble, enlightened, fair-minded, angelic liberals. Still, public discontent causes the Harris junta to dial down the program—at least for now.

On January 23, the American military deposes the President of El Salvador in a surprise lightning raid. The MS-13 prisoners are freed from their internment camp. Some go back home, both repentant gangsters and others eager to return to their old tricks. Still, over half of the persecuted darlings sign up for the guest worker program, and soon the first batch is on a plane bound for the Midwest.

On the Middle Eastern front, the junta fumbles the ball with Iran yet again, attempting to instigate a public uprising but failing to back it. All that happens is that the Iranian dissidents are crushed brutally. Then on February 23, a call comes in on the Oval Office batphone from Israel, giving a hot tip that several Iranian top officials will be gathered at a certain location. Very well—orders are orders!

Five days later, a devastating American airstrike takes out Iran’s Supreme Leader and forty of his associates. Apparently that failed to win hearts and minds over there. Iran retaliates promptly, leading to a mutual missile barrage. However, the ideologically purified Navy is short-staffed and lacking competence, missing an Iranian drone carrier with what should’ve been an easy shot. Consequentially, much devastation erupts. The price of gasoline promptly jumps to $6 a gallon, prompting renewed worries about inflation, though the junta has been doing the best it can to wallpaper over price hikes already under way.

On March 8, Iran hastily elects a new Supreme Leader, the late Ayatollah’s son. Earlier, an Israeli official had remarked smugly that whoever they chose would be a legitimate target for assassination. A few days later, the President promptly declares victory even as Iranian missiles are still falling on ships. In historical hindsight, it wasn’t entirely clear how all this had advanced America’s interests.

Endgame

Back on the digital front, the Mordor Group announces a $25 billion initiative to create a central AI data center to scan postings and emails in order to delete “hate speech” and “conspiracy theories” in real time. A venerated civil liberties foundation answers criticism by commenting that it was only private businesses conducting high-tech mass censorship, so what’s the problem? The snippy message added that complainers can go build themselves another Internet.

The Stop Hate Act comes to a long-awaited Supreme Court challenge. The issue at hand in this landmark test case was a much-faded Confederate flag bumper sticker which a visiting journalist spotted among a collection of classic trucks. What would’ve been a folksy writeup about a ranch tour was instead a blistering hit piece, and soon the cattle baron who owned the place got charged with “hate.” He had the determination and resources to fight the case to the very top. Legal observers predicted that the law will be struck down in a 5-4 split decision.

Then Secretary of Equity Muhammad V.32bis comes to the rescue. For the last year, he’d busied himself with issuing bizarre diktats, but now it was time to take off the gloves. During SCOTUS deliberations, a political police detachment walks right into the proceedings, hands out pink slips to five Justices, and drags them out of the stately building. All this was in accordance with verbiage hidden in the lengthy Anti-Domestic Terrorism Act, which granted the Department of Government Equity plenary power to fire any public official whatsoever. Of course, the measure was unconstitutional as hell, but at that point, who was going to do anything about it?

You can buy Greg Johnson’s Is America Doomed? here.

The remaining four judges carry on throughout the day’s court session as if nothing had happened. The defense attorney is flabbergasted, quite understandably, but the mouthy black woman now running the circus snaps at him to sit down and shut up. After one day’s recess, the diminished Court’s unanimous ruling produces a novel “reinterpretation” of the First Amendment. Their decision includes much impenetrable legalese verging on postmodernism—Jean Baudrillard would’ve been impressed—as well as lengthy excerpts in verbatim from Herbert Marcuse’s monograph “Repressive Tolerance.” The glum cattle baron is remanded back to prison to serve the rest of his five year sentence—the minimum penalty for those who don’t cop a plea to keep the judicial assembly lines running smoothly.

Not long after, a weird-looking fourteen-year-old—an under-parented genderqueer therian who identifies as the Easter Bunny—has a bad day when his hefty stack of high-octane psych meds was working more counterproductively than usual. Tragically, he decides it’s a fine time to copy/paste a manifesto together, dress in camo, and shoot up his school. In the aftermath, news desks across the country spring into action. Mainstream media pundits express great confusion about why the “Gun Free Zone” placard on the front door failed to stop him. (Perhaps he couldn’t read?) Much later, the juvenile mattoid would get off on a temporary insanity plea. Still, the trial was full of amusing courtroom antics, such as random howling, demanding to appear in his bunny suit, threatening to bite the face off his public defender for calling him a nut, etc.

On a legislative roll, the junta seizes on the school shooting. They don’t really give a crap about the dead kids, but never let a good crisis go to waste! The lurid media coverage remains in overdrive about the four slain children. (Curiously, the talking heads remain remarkably silent about the usual dozens of black-on-white homicides nationwide that month, as always.) Why, if mentally disturbed teenage screwballs doped up to the gills can’t be trusted with guns, then nobody can! It was high time to join the ranks of civilized countries at last. America must trade liberty for safety.

The gruesome school massacre leads to the hasty passage of the Think Of The Children Act. Enough is enough! It forbids the private ownership not only of firearms, but also many other prohibited items, including pepper spray. A bit more debate about it happens in Congress than there’d been with the Stop Hate Act. However, this resistance to the top-priority initiative settles down when the guy with the compromising pictures drops by to pay a visit to some recalcitrant Senators who threatened to filibuster.

Soon, surprise inspections for firearms begin. By now, many ICE agents are MS-13 members. It turns out that they’re naturals at dealing with “illegal instigation.” The guest worker program had been a stunning success, transforming these wayward Salvadorans into true blue Americans. The confiscated firearms were to be melted down into sixty-foot statues of the gentle giant George Floyd and HipHop IggglyBiggglyy DookeyDuke to decorate the White House lawn by the Pennsylvania Avenue gates. (It would be a nice architectural addition, along with a planned major remodeling of the West Wing into a tacky shrine of repentance for America’s racial iniquities.) Quite unexpectedly, there’s a materials shortage since most of the contraband confiscated by ICE vanishes into thin air. Then the junta decides to commission massive marble statues instead, produced by the Chinese sculptor famous for the MLK Memorial and much Chairman Mao iconography before that.

The gun-grabbing resulting from the Think Of The Children Act practically was ripped from the pages of the Turner Diaries:

What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave talk by patriots, “The government will never take my guns away,” and then nothing but meek submission when it happened. [. . .]

For a second thing, I am sure now that we were overoptimistic in our judgment of the mood of the public. What we mistook as general resentment against the System’s abrogation of civil rights during the Gun Raids was more a passing wave of uneasiness resulting from all the commotion involved in the mass arrests.

As soon as the public had been reassured by the media that they were in no danger, that the government was cracking down only on the “racists, fascists, and other anti-social elements” who had kept illegal weapons, most relaxed again and went back to their TV and funny papers.

Criminals, being a forgetful lot, failed to turn in their firearms—not that the top echelons of government were particularly concerned. The Think Of The Children Act wasn’t really aimed at street thugs, just as school shootings were only a pretext. Consequentially, the muggings, carjackings, home invasions, murder, and so forth become a skyrocketing crime wave with no end in sight. Golly, who would’ve ever guessed?

Late in 2026, an eminent psychological association declares “Minor-Attracted Persons” as a legitimate orientation; it was just another personal lifestyle choice. Soon after, the fruitcake coalition adds a “P” to the alphabet soup designation at long last. Love is love, right? This attracts merely the usual grumbling at first. “See? Told you so.” Still, it’s stunning how many sickos begin crawling out of the woodwork, especially in high places. Then Secretary of Education Galadriella Lollipopp, chafing at the bit for such a golden opportunity since the beginning, soon pipelines new curricula down the scholastic transmission belt.

A wave of resignations from disgusted teachers follows. It had been one thing for the schools to evangelize the transgender fad to impressionable children for over a decade, but this new agenda was a bridge too far. Most of the rest plan passive refusal one way or another. Still, soon enough, classrooms are full of kiddos listening in fascination to lectures (typically delivered by faculty with nose rings and green hair) describing the wonders of special “pizza parties.” Children are strictly instructed to keep the new teachings secret—”Your parents just wouldn’t understand.” However, some students did talk, and word eventually starts getting around.

The junta is wildly unpopular at this point. Galadriella Lollipopp’s “Mister Tinkertrain” stunt certainly was a little much, but at this point, it was merely the cherry on top—if one will pardon the expression. Truth be told, President Harris was the least to blame for this and many other atrocities; little more villainous than a Shakespearean actress playing Lady Macbeth. All along, she was only an airhead doing as instructed. Few actions were of her own initiative. The moment that she took the oath of office on her personal copy of the Bhagavad Gita, she became a figurehead, much like her addled predecessor Mr. Retardo. If she’d resisted The Agenda decisively, then sooner or later, she would’ve been replaced by a different proxy—one way or another.

The War On Hate

Just in time to save the public morale situation, the Mordor Group’s hastily assembled Project Sauron is readied. Earlier, they’d done a pretty thorough job of picking their platforms clean of dissent. Still, some content escaped the dragnet or slipped in the truth with code words, innuendo, or strategically bleeped videos. The weary professional censors were playing an endless game of Whack-A-Mole with new content, as well as slightly modified versions appearing under new accounts with burner email addresses.

When the All-Seeing Eye of Sauron awakens, the power draw causes a lengthy brownout in the desert southwest, an inconvenience ultimately solved by plundering the Texas electrical grid. Not only is it faster than all previous censorbots, it can watch videos and evaluate their ideological content, sucking up an hour-long clip in less than a second. Social media dissent begins vanishing into the memory hole. (The AI algorithm’s parameters were a closely-guarded “trade secret,” but in effect, anyone even a millimeter to the right of John McCain was on target.) For Narrative Violations exceeding a particular threshold, Sauron files arrest warrants under the Stop Hate Act at lightning speed.

Still, the system wasn’t entirely perfect. Many random false positives got people locked out of their digital lives for no reason. Sauron was bad at discerning irony too. Even a few liberals wer bagged and tagged by the political police merely for presenting an argument to refute it. Soon the jails would be overwhelmed, and violent criminals would be released to prowl the streets again, making room for Stop Hate Act violators. Even so, the program is declared a success. The power bill is enormous, to say nothing of the development and cutting edge equipment reaching $45 billion of initial outlay plus massive cost overruns. Still, at least the Tech Tyrants of Mordor don’t have to pay Sauron a paltry salary like their now-obsolete drudges.

After phase one of the Big Wipe is complete, the All-Seeing Eye takes on the very laborious task of scrubbing the World Wide Web of dissent and inconvenient facts. It files an avalanche of injunctions robotically to take down websites hosting “hate.” The first to go is the digital ghetto of social media platforms, blogs, and video services not affiliated with the Mordor Group’s massive monopolies. A few minutes later, the rest of the scouring begins in earnest. Even the weaksauce neocons at National Review lose their domain, and most of the writers get a visit from the political police. When webmasters around the country catch wind of all this, they scramble to self-censor before they’re next on the chopping block.

Domestic spying was nothing new, of course. In the aftermath of the “Global War on Terror,” the public’s phone calls, emails, text messages, web browsing history, financial transactions, and so forth—basically everyone’s digital paper trail – had been recorded for the last two decades. Personal connections could be discovered with merely a few mouse clicks. (There was a middling kerfuffle about it, yet ultimately public outcry about this enormous violation of privacy amounted to a fart in a tornado. The silence from venerable Leftist civil liberties foundations was deafening.) Put up to a court challenge later, a judge had manufactured wiggle room around the Fourth Amendment, of course.

A Sauron Group programmer, fed up with being a digital prostitute, had gone rogue. He finishes a document about the real extent of domestic surveillance which just began. For one thing, with merely a software update, cell phones, webcams, home virtual assistants, routers, and security systems could be used as spying devices. Moreover, an initiative was under way to track all citizens via GPS and RFID telemetry. Worst of all, enabled by vague language tucked away in the Anti-Domestic Terrorism Act, Project Sauron had been granted access to comb through all the information illegally gathered by the government since 2007. The data mining even extended to all the census records intended to be kept sacrosanct for 70 years after compilation—naughty, naughty. . .

The final phase of Project Sauron would be compiling psychological profiles, ideological dossiers, personal connections, and much other private data all the way down to brand preferences. The All-Seeing Eye would know most people better than their own spouses. If push came to shove, the political records would be used to detain dissidents for pre-crime. The software developer prepares a mass distribution; it was now or never. In his bare apartment, he presses “send,” packs his laptop, takes his luggage, and leaves for good. At the airport security checkpoint, the would-be whistleblower is arrested, never to be seen again. Nobody got his file: Sauron’s email scanning had begun a week ahead of schedule.

The Endless Night

After running on smoke and mirrors for the last year, the economy begins foundering badly. It was shaping up to be the worst recession since the 2007-2008 mess. Then a clever pundit, lauded for his economics chops as well as his titanic loathing for Orange Man, had an idea. Central bank digital currency is the answer. Soon the junta announces that cash will be phased out; everyone will get a card with a special chip linked to their bank accounts, credit balances, and financial portfolios. Why, imagine all the convenience! It’s never made clear exactly how this would help the economy. Also left unsaid, anyone’s chip could be turned off at any moment. Another undisclosed item is that the system eventually was planned to be merged with universal identification. One day, the RFID chip will be implanted in the hand or marked with quantum dot technology, and barcoded with fluorescent tattoo ink on the forehead as a backup.

The suppression of visible dissent gradually leads the junta into believing that public morale not only had recovered miraculously, but was at an all-time high after several months of calm. (Their coterie of lickspittle yes-men certainly wasn’t about to deliver any bad news.) This was an excellent development, since the midterm elections were coming up before long.

Then an official conducted a candid and objective poll, in a way that wary citizens could be assured of anonymity. The results were a carefully-kept secret. Their popularity is lower than worm shit. Even high-functioning liberals regretted voting for the multiply-intersectional Female-American President they’d once lauded. If the junta lost the Congressional majority, then even the Republican weaklings could throw a monkey wrench into the works, blocking further wonderful progress.

A nervous functionary reads the chilling report to a select few. The carefully nuanced conclusion is that after five and a half years of the public perceiving sustained incompetence, unfettered globalist misrule, and the pauperization of the middle class, conditions for revolutionary ferment were merely another crisis or two away. After listening to the particulars, the once-overconfident President stops cackling, finally swallowing her bubble gum during the conclusion. What could be done? As the strategists convened, it never occurred to them to mend their ways and roll back the long chain of abuses.

Three days later, the mainstream media simultaneously runs nonstop coverage of the immigration crisis. One hardly could watch TV or read online news without a seeing parade of sad brown faces and crying kids in carefully-staged photo ops, or woebegone-looking talking heads reading identical boilerplate. After three weeks of the nonstop media blitz by professional liars about the immigration crisis (a catchphrase repeated like a constant drumbeat), President Harris appears before a press conference to solve the problem decisively with an executive order. All resident aliens waiting on naturalization, H1‑B scabs, “guest workers,” visa overstayers, and remaining “undocumented workers” are offered unconditional immediate citizenship.

With the squiggle on a golden pen specially crafted for the historic event, white Americans at last would be a minority in the country their forefathers had built from wilderness. Moreover, the USA also would become a de facto one-party state. There’d be no further need for rigging elections, since the ballot box would be stuffed decisively forever. With the sudden demographic overthrow, the long game initiated in 1965 is finally at the finish line. Back in the Lincoln bedroom that night, the President delights herself, cackling as she imagines the upcoming midterms and her eventual reelection. After the final satisfying gasp, unknowingly riffing on Gothmog the Orc, she declares, “The age of white men is over!”

At midnight, a hastily-created website comes online, hosted on a high-capacity cloud server to process the applicants, helpfully with instructions in over 180 languages. For benefit of those not too computer literate, citizenship booths popped up like toadstools in practically every municipality with more than one traffic light. Within two weeks of the announcement, well over sixty million non-whites had signed up—a figure surprising even the junta—and applications were still pouring in. Meanwhile, government bureaus were working around the clock to crank out backlogged documentation for the deluge of paper Americans.

Since there was no end date or residency requirement specified for the amnesty program, international airports suddenly became stuffed with wretched refuse from teeming shores all around the globe, helpfully assisted by government-funded ticket vouchers. For those who hadn’t pre-applied, long lines huddled around self-serve citizenship application kiosks, creating an unbearable stench for the assistants to endure. And the deluge kept coming.

Government social service agencies ran at maximum capacity to serve up the full meal deal buffet of bennies for the new Americans in Sugar-Daddy-Land, for which taxpayers would foot the bill. Some of the arrivals were disappointed to find that it was no longer the land of milk and honey that they’d expected so eagerly according to movies, TV shows, or tales from afar. Although they felt let down, they certainly weren’t going back. Others from the more godforsaken parts of the world were quite impressed with the magic knee-high basins of drinking water, which refilled in a whoosh merely by pressing a lever.

Unfortunately, the immigration crisis turned into a housing crisis. Apartments were at full capacity already from the junta’s complete neglect of the southern border. The Department of Government Equity begins solving this problem by throwing suburban white homeowners out of their own property. This didn’t always end as expected; some of the less-enlightened new Americans (quite common with savages from Papua New Guinea, among others fresh out of the jungle) smash furniture and pry off wooden trim to build campfires in carpeted rooms, of course necessitating new housing for the survivors. These tragedies inspire many teary news stories.

With hordes of instant voters added to the rolls, the midterms go entirely as expected. Even so, more bad news follows early in 2023—which could be the worst yet. The much-beleaguered Ukraine front falters and suddenly collapses. Russian troops, recently reinforced by dozens of fresh ChiCom divisions, occupy the remaining disputed Russian-majority territories. Vladimir Putin offers peace, now that his war objectives are accomplished.

The Washington junta reacts indignantly—the proxy war must go on! American troops mobilize for Ukraine at long last. Russian satellite reconnaissance confirms that medium-range nuclear missiles are part of the large detachment. Putin gets on the batphone to the Oval Office and issues a curt ultimatum. The President, already strictly instructed by her handlers to refuse all offers, simply cackles and hangs up. The Kremlin orders nuclear armed air detachments, missile silos, and submarines on high alert. So do the ChiComs. The Pentagon quickly follows suit and moves to DEFCON‑2. . .

What could be, unburdened by what has been:

Again, this was just a silly satire all in good fun about certain politicians who voluntarily put themselves into the public spotlight. Even so, imagine the likely result if the 2024 election had gone the other way. It wouldn’t have been quite as zany as described above—at least one would hope. Still, what might a successor régime do after granting itself unlimited power? If one were to draw an unbroken straight line trajectory from January 2021 to the present and beyond, real-life conditions surely wouldn’t be too encouraging. Although this was exaggerated dystopian fiction, much of it does have precedents, has been implemented elsewhere more or less, or at least has been the subject of serious discussion in certain “elite” circles.

It takes little imagination to postulate that a Harris administration would’ve made many—or perhaps most—of the remarkably boneheaded mistakes that the Trump administration made. (Much of this part isn’t about ideology; it’s because the government on both sides of the aisle is full of neurotic Zionists and their bootlickers.) Moreover, as for the good things that Trump did, Harris might have done the exact opposite. Other than that, it’s entirely plausible that there would have been more technocratic encroachment, anarcho-tyranny, and rapidly accelerated population replacement migration, much as there was during Mr. Retardo’s term. Perhaps the results would have been cataclysmic. Anyway, all that’s what my magic crystal ball tells me.

This thought experiment in alternate history is a parable, of course. There’s a wise saying, “Never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.” We might have to change it up a bit: “The mediocre is preferable to the disastrous.” Still, meanwhile we should work toward the better yet to come. The future is what we make it.