It was never about governance. It was never about policy or vision. It was about him. It was always about him.
The Chairman ran the country like a reality show, a grotesque spectacle designed to keep the cameras rolling, to keep the masses entertained, to ensure that his name—his image—dominated every screen, every conversation, every fleeting thought. He didn’t care about legislation or diplomacy or the crumbling infrastructure of a once-great empire. He cared about the ratings. He cared about the performance.
Through the hazy glow of the omnipresent telescreens that hung from every building and adorned every living space, his face beamed down, larger than life. His expression cycled between calculated rage and triumphant smugness, each movement choreographed for maximum emotional impact. The daily broadcasts were mandatory viewing, though few needed enforcement to watch—the spectacle had become the nation’s addiction, a voyeuristic glimpse into the machinations of power that felt both intimate and terrifying. Citizens gathered in silent groups, eyes locked on screens, expressions carefully neutral, never knowing which reaction might be deemed inappropriate by the watchful monitors.
He surrounded himself with television hosts, men and women who had spent their lives learning how to look good in a camera frame, how to spin the simplest sentences into compelling narratives, how to project authority without ever having to be authoritative. They worshiped him, not for his intelligence—he had none—not for his leadership—he had no plan—but for his power, and the sick, brutal thrill of standing next to it. Their faces were plastered across government buildings, their gleaming white teeth and lacquered hair becoming symbols of the new aristocracy—those who had mastered the art of agreeing with the Chairman while making it sound like profound insight.
To him, the world was a giant wrestling ring, the government a rigged match, and he was the undisputed champion. He made sure of that. He had even hired the wife of the most famous wrestling mogul to oversee the economy, as though balancing a budget was the same as choreographing body slams. He saw no difference. Everything was scripted. Everything was fake. The people were his audience, and the government was his stage.
The Ministry of Entertainment, a massive complex of glass and steel that dominated the capital’s skyline, operated twenty-four hours a day, producing the endless stream of content that starred the Chairman. Reality shows where disgraced officials competed for redemption, game shows where citizens answered questions about the Chairman’s numerous achievements, drama series that depicted his fictional heroics in suspiciously specific detail. In one particularly popular program, contestants who had been accused of disloyalty would plead their case directly to the Chairman, their fates determined by his thumbs-up or thumbs-down gesture, reminiscent of ancient Roman emperors deciding the fate of gladiators. The losers were never seen again, though rumors circulated of labor camps in the far north where the disloyal performed the most dangerous and degrading tasks to supply the luxuries the elite demanded.
He sat on his bloated ass in his gold-plated chair, a grotesque parody of a throne, watching, waiting, grinning like a god observing lesser beings scramble to react to his latest tantrum. His office had been transformed into a studio, with professional lighting that accentuated the artificial bronze of his skin and multiple camera angles that captured his every gesture. Behind him, massive screens displayed real-time data: his approval ratings, stock market fluctuations that followed his pronouncements, and a constant feed of social media reactions to his latest edicts. He loved the chaos. It was his greatest weapon, his truest joy. He would announce a crippling tariff one day, gut an industry the next, sanction an ally before dinner, and then reverse it all by sunrise—just to watch them beg, just to see them panic. Every world leader, every diplomat, every CEO, every general—they were all cast members in his show. And he laughed and laughed as they tried to keep up.
The daily presidential briefings had devolved into casting calls, with intelligence officials competing to deliver the most flattering assessments, economic advisers presenting only the statistics that supported his narrative of unprecedented success. Those who dared to present contradictory data were summarily dismissed, often via public humiliation broadcasts where the Chairman would detail their failures and inadequacies before an audience of millions. These spectacles usually concluded with the offending official being dragged away by the black-uniformed guards of the President’s Loyalty Brigade, their families already being relocated to the outer territories where food shortages and disease ran rampant.
There were no rules. No stability. No structure. That was the point. He kept his inner circle guessing, rewarding absolute loyalty one moment and discarding it the next. If they failed to amuse him, if they displeased him in even the smallest way, he would humiliate them publicly, force them to grovel before the cameras, before he tossed them aside like old scripts. The morning cabinet meetings were broadcast live, with ratings that rivaled the most popular entertainment programs. Citizens watched as ministers desperately tried to anticipate the Chairman’s desires, their faces slick with sweat, eyes darting nervously as they waited for his judgment. Some had taken to wearing the Chairman’s signature red tie, an obsequious gesture that sometimes earned a nod of approval, sometimes triggered a rage-filled dismissal for perceived mockery.
There had been a moment, early in his reign, when the illusion of order had fooled even his enemies. The rapid executive orders, the sweeping firings, the promises of economic resurgence—it had almost seemed like he had a plan. But six weeks into his second term, the world had begun to understand.
There was no plan.
The Chairman ruled by whim.
His desk in the Oval Office, now triple its former size and elevated on a platform to ensure he literally looked down on visitors, was cluttered with buttons. Not the nuclear kind—though those were never far from reach—but actual physical buttons that summoned various forms of instant gratification. One button ordered his favorite fast food to be delivered within minutes, another changed the lighting to what he called his “power setting,” casting deep, menacing shadows across his face. The most frequently used button triggered a barrage of patriotic music and released a subtle scent into the room that his team had assured him increased suggestibility in his visitors. Science had long since been subordinated to spectacle in his administration.
He had obliterated America’s alliances in fits of rage. He had slapped tariffs on Canada and Mexico, watched the industries scream, then lifted them for no reason beyond the thrill of watching people squirm. He had insulted the Prime Minister of England on a talk show, called the President of France “a little bitch,” then demanded their loyalty the next day. His cabinet meetings were live-streamed so the public could see his ministers compete for his approval, fawning and groveling like desperate contestants. Who would survive the next episode?
The diplomatic corps had been gutted, replaced by campaign donors and reality TV producers who approached international relations as if negotiating appearance fees for celebrities. Embassies around the world had been transformed into extensions of the Chairman’s brand, with giant gold-lettered signs and uniformed staff who resembled hotel concierges more than diplomats. Foreign dignitaries were welcomed with promotional videos highlighting the Chairman’s business empire and forced to listen to hours of testimonials from citizens describing how their lives had been transformed under his leadership. Those who maintained appropriate expressions of awe were granted trade concessions; those who betrayed even a flicker of skepticism found their nations subject to immediate sanctions.
Foreign leaders had given up trying to predict his moves. Mexico had begun forging new trade partnerships, unwilling to remain tethered to the mood swings of a lunatic. France had openly discussed extending nuclear protection to the rest of Europe, no longer trusting the United States as an ally. His own diplomats were forced to undo his damage daily, but they too lived under his paranoia. The wrong word, the wrong expression, the slightest sign of disloyalty, and they would be fired—live on air, if the Chairman felt like it.
The State Department operated out of what had once been a luxury hotel owned by the Chairman’s family. The grand ballroom had been converted into a situation room, though the crystal chandeliers and ornate wallpaper remained. Foreign policy was determined not through careful analysis or historical understanding but through a series of popularity contests where potential approaches were presented to focus groups selected for their loyalty to the Chairman. The winning strategies were those that played best with his base, regardless of their diplomatic or strategic merits. Maps around the room were color-coded not by alliances or economic interests but by the Chairman’s personal feelings toward each nation’s leader, with colors ranging from “Greatest Friends” gold to “Total Disaster” red.
Yet for his followers, the chaos was the appeal.
They didn’t want competence. They didn’t want stability. They wanted destruction. They wanted a show.
If the Chairman humiliated a foreign leader, that was a victory. If he sent the markets into freefall, that was proof he was “shaking things up.” If he forced a cabinet member to defend an absurd, impossible lie, that was power.
His rallies had evolved from campaign events to religious experiences, held in massive arenas retrofitted with enhanced acoustics to amplify the roars of approval. Attendees wore matching uniforms—red caps, white shirts, blue pants—creating a sea of patriotic colors that looked impressive on television. The Chairman would appear through artificial fog, backlit to create a messianic silhouette, as music specifically composed to trigger emotional responses blared through speakers. For hours, he would ramble, jumping from topic to topic, attacking enemies both real and imagined, promising impossible victories, rewriting history in real-time. And the crowd would cheer, their faces contorted in ecstasy, some weeping with joy, others trembling with hatred for the outsiders he described in increasingly dehumanizing terms.
To them, he was the strongman they had always wanted—not because he made things better, but because he made others suffer. The cruelty was the point. The corruption was the appeal.
And the Chairman? He knew it.
Each morning, he would sit before his array of screens, scrolling through reports of his supporters’ unwavering loyalty. He would read aloud particularly sycophantic comments, savoring the praise like a physical pleasure. Occasionally, he would summon the authors of the most flattering assessments to the White House, where they would be paraded before the cameras, given medals for “Patriotic Truth-Telling” and sent home with signed merchandise. These ordinary citizens, suddenly elevated to celebrity status, became powerful recruiting tools, their neighbors envious of their brush with greatness, their communities suddenly eager to demonstrate similar levels of devotion.
That was why he never stopped. That was why he kept pushing, kept escalating. The politics of tantrums were all he had ever known. He had built his fortune through deception and brute force, leaving a trail of bankruptcies and lawsuits in his wake. He had run his businesses like a crime lord, silencing dissent, rewarding sycophants, destroying anyone who stood in his way. Now, he ran the government the same way.
The once-independent judicial system had been remade in his image, with judges selected not for their legal knowledge but for their telegenic appearance and willingness to rule in favor of the Chairman’s interests. Court proceedings were broadcast as entertainment, with dramatic music and commercial breaks. Verdicts against the Chairman’s enemies were celebrated with ticker-tape parades, while rulings against his supporters were simply ignored, the judges responsible quickly replaced and subjected to public campaigns of harassment and intimidation. Law schools had been shuttered and replaced with “Justice Academies” where students learned not jurisprudence but the art of justifying any action the Chairman might take, no matter how unconstitutional or morally reprehensible.
But the problem with running a country like a rigged game show, with treating global politics like a reality TV script, was that real nations suffered.
And suffering, unchecked, always turns to rage.
In the forgotten corners of the country, far from the gleaming towers and carefully maintained facades of prosperity, people were starving. The Chairman’s economic policies, designed for maximum dramatic impact rather than sustainable growth, had created brief booms followed by devastating busts. Industries that had fallen from his favor collapsed overnight, leaving entire towns unemployed. The healthcare system, gutted to fund tax cuts for the Chairman’s allies, could no longer handle even routine illnesses, let alone the epidemics that swept through densely packed urban areas. Children went to schools where history had been replaced by the study of the Chairman’s business deals, science by testimonials to his intellect, literature by his ghostwritten memoirs.
Even as his devoted followers cheered, even as his loyalists spun his failures into triumphs, the rest of the country—the rest of the world—was beginning to wake up.
In basements and back rooms, in code and whispers, resistance was forming. Not the loud, easily crushed opposition of early protests, but something quieter, more determined, more strategic. People who had once believed in the institutions of democracy, who had trusted in the resilience of the republic, now understood that salvation would not come from within the system. The system had been hollowed out, replaced by a simulacrum that retained its outward appearance while serving only the Chairman’s insatiable ego.
The Chairman had always believed that chaos was invincible. That unpredictability made him untouchable. That fear would keep his enemies paralyzed.
But he had underestimated something.
The longer the fire burned, the brighter it became.
And there was always a point where fire stopped being a spectacle—
And became a reckoning.
In the shadows between the spotlights, in the silence between broadcasts, in the truth behind the lies, something was building. A force as old as tyranny itself, as inevitable as the dawn after even the darkest night. The Chairman, for all his cunning and cruelty, had forgotten the most fundamental lesson of history—that all performances eventually end, all masks finally slip, and all tyrants ultimately fall. Not to external enemies or rival powers, but to the very people they sought to entertain and control. The final episode was approaching, though it would not be announced in any program guide or previewed in any trailer. And when it came, the ratings would indeed be historic, just not in the way the Chairman had imagined.
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