The air smelled of sweat, gasoline, and cheap beer. The makeshift field had been transformed into something between a carnival and a battlefield, where food trucks selling deep-fried patriotism lined the perimeter and makeshift vendor stalls hawked shirts, hats, and flags emblazoned with the Chairman’s face.
The people came in droves, their cars covered in slogans, their trucks waving banners that blurred the lines between national pride and open hostility. Some had camped out for days, eager to claim the best spot to witness the spectacle, to be close enough to feel the energy radiating from the man who had become their champion.
It wasn’t just a rally—it was an event, a religious revival masquerading as politics, a festival of resentment wrapped in the red, white, and blue.
When the Chairman finally emerged, it was to the sound of deafening cheers, the kind of raw, frenzied adulation that had long since crossed into worship. The crowd surged forward, their voices rising in an almost animalistic roar as he raised his hands, basking in their devotion. He grinned, taking his time, letting the moment linger.
He always loved this part the most.
He stretched it out, pacing the stage, pointing at faces in the crowd, nodding, smirking, feeding off their energy.
And then he began.
His voice crackled through the loudspeakers, raspy, uneven, a strange mix of performance and improvisation. He didn’t have a script—he never did. He didn’t need one. His speeches were less about substance and more about emotion, a jumbled, chaotic stream of grievances, boasts, insults, and promises that meant nothing but felt like everything.
He spoke their language. He told their stories, even when they weren’t true.
He started with the rage.
He railed against the establishment, against the corrupt politicians who had sold them out. He painted a picture of betrayal, of hardworking, decent people being crushed by an elite that laughed at them.
He mocked the educated, the intellectuals, the journalists, waving his hand dismissively as he sneered, “They think they know better than you. They think you’re stupid.”
The crowd booed on cue, shaking their fists at the invisible enemy.
He pivoted, seamlessly shifting to the fear.
“They’re coming for you,” he warned, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “They want to take what’s yours. Your jobs. Your homes. Your country.”
They.
He never had to define who they were.
The audience filled in the blanks themselves.
Immigrants. Liberals. The media. Foreign nations. The corrupt government. The “deep state.” The elite. The weak.
Whoever they already hated—that’s who he meant.
It was always shifting, always evolving, but always them.
The enemy was whoever he needed it to be.
The people ate it up.
They shouted. They pumped their fists. They jeered and cheered and stamped their feet as he fed their fury, as he made them feel powerful, made them feel like they were part of something bigger.
He wasn’t just a politician—he was their vengeance made flesh.
He was the reckoning.
Every insult he hurled, every crude joke, every dig at his opponents was a punch they wished they could throw. He gave them permission to be angry, to sneer, to feel righteous in their hatred.
And they loved him for it.
The rally wasn’t just a political event—it was a show.
The Chairman boasted about the crowd size, waving his hands at the sea of people before him, inflating the numbers even as they cheered in agreement.
“Biggest crowd they’ve ever seen,” he grinned, even if the drones overhead captured vast patches of empty space.
He would throw weird blue-collar stunts into the mix, gimmicks designed to make him look like one of them.
One week, he’d put on a hard hat, pretending to work a shift at a factory he had no intention of saving.
The next, he’d climb onto a tractor, awkwardly gripping the wheel, nodding solemnly as a farmer explained how crops worked.
Another time, he grabbed a hamburger and took a massive, exaggerated bite, then pointed at a reporter in the crowd.
“These guys don’t eat burgers,” he snorted. “These guys eat… I don’t know, kale or something.”
The audience erupted with laughter.
It didn’t matter how absurd it all was.
They weren’t here for reality.
They were here for the feeling of it all.
The Chairman wasn’t the only one profiting from the movement.
Around him, a cadre of grifters had formed, opportunists who saw the wave he was riding and clung to it like parasites.
They sold books, promising to reveal the “hidden truths” the media wouldn’t tell them.
They peddled merchandise, overpriced hats, shirts, bumper stickers that turned loyalty into a product.
They flooded the internet with donation links, rallying cries to “support the fight” that mysteriously disappeared into private accounts.
The Chairman didn’t care.
He encouraged it.
He was doing it, too.
The entire campaign had become a machine of extraction, siphoning money, energy, and blind devotion from the crowd that loved him unconditionally.
He would dangle promises in front of them, tease that he had a plan, that things would change, that he alone could fix it—but only if they stuck with him.
Only if they gave more.
And they did.
Again. And again. And again.
As the night stretched on, his speech spiraled further into chaos.
He jumped from topic to topic, ranting about old feuds, reminiscing about past victories, attacking people who had barely been relevant for years.
He lied openly, but it didn’t matter.
His people didn’t care about facts.
They cared about the performance.
And he gave them a hell of a show.
He was one of them—even when he wasn’t.
He was their voice—even when he only cared about himself.
He was their champion—even as he was robbing them blind.
By the time the rally finally ended, the people were electrified.
They had heard nothing of substance, but they felt invigorated, validated, empowered.
They left that field believing they were part of something bigger, that they had found a leader who spoke for them, that they were on the verge of taking back what was stolen from them.
And the Chairman?
He left knowing he owned them.
Knowing that he could tell them anything, and they would believe it.
Knowing that he had created something unstoppable.
And knowing that, soon enough, the old world would burn to make way for his new one.
Discover more from AJB Blog
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
