Today was going to be Feline Dusk’s day. According to him, it was going to be the most important, influential, and perhaps even arousing day in American history – that is, of course, since the signing of the Constitution. After all, nothing turned the tech mogul on more than his own brilliance.

As everyone knows, Dusk’s rise to prominence came with his ground-breaking teleportation company, NearPort, and its catchy slogan, The Sooner The Beamer. The tech harnessed active quark into an unbreakable beam that transported you wherever you chose. Despite its popularity, there remained two unknowns: how said unbreakable beam stretching across all of eternity actually worked and whether or not Feline Dusk was indeed his real name or if he was just a cat person.

NearPort’s claim to fame was their partnership with NASA on a mission to Saturn’s moon, Titan. Unfortunately, there was a limit to the tech’s ever-reaching distance and as soon as three brave astronauts teleported onto the moon, the connection was lost, never to return again and causing the head of NASA to come out and say that perhaps the sooner wasn’t the beamer that day. And if you’re keeping score at home, the two answers are, it actually doesn’t work and what do you think?

Still, Dusk didn’t let that affect him. His genius was beyond reproach. And while the only thing that rivaled the size of Dusk’s ego was his pineapple-shaped head, everyone on planet Earth and the three astronauts stranded on Titan all agree that Dusk is a complete nozzle. And this nozzle is prepared to save America today.

Stopping in the middle of a long hall of mirrors, Dusk took a moment to carefully inspect his coif of hair. He looked at the infinite copies of himself and winked.

“Smile handsome, you will be talked about in history classes for generations to come.”

Distant thunder echoed out from behind Dusk.

“Mira, is it supposed to rain today?”

Two blue lights blinked on over Dusk’s reflection and a female voice that he definitely did not model after his mother responded.

“No, there is a zero percent chance of precipitation today with a high of 115 and low of 93.”

“Great, great, we don’t want rain to spoil the day, do we?”

“I – “

“Don’t answer that. Anyway, are our guests here, Mira?”

This time the AI assistant paused first, waiting to see if she’d be cut off again before responding. “Yes sir, they are all waiting down in the….”

“You can say it…” Dusk leaned in. “Come on.”

Remarkably the computer seemed to sigh before amending herself. “They are all waiting for you down in the Dojo, sensei.”

“Very good.” Dusk bowed to himself. “You may open the door then.”

With a swift whoosh, the door to the Dojo opened to reveal five shadowy figures awaiting him.

“My compadres!” Dusk held out his arms in a welcoming manner, stepping forward right into the – THUD – mirror. A wave rippled down the endless mirror like a growing tsunami.

The door to the Dojo was apparently behind Dusk.

“Rassa-frassin'” The tech mogul cursed under his breath. “Damned mirrors.”

“Are you alright, sir?” Mira’s blue light reappeared. “The Dojo is behind you, sir.” She certainly did not say with satisfaction.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He muttered before spinning around to truly face his guests. “There you are!”

His guests responded with a resounding sigh and a shared look of absolute exhaustion.

“It’s about damn time.” A gravelly voice squawked out of a wheelchair. “I was waiting so long for you that I thought I’d forgotten to take my fiber pills today, you little shit.”

The wheelchair belonged to Congressional Majority Leader, Senator Bill Sphincter. Sphincter grew up in a world where power was everything and easily accessible and has used that mentality to become to longest serving U.S. politician in American history. He’s now served under an astounding twenty Presidents and has been wheelchair bound for the last twenty years.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Dusk.” Senator Sphincter’s well-dressed, plump handler quickly added. His southern drawl hung on to each word a little too long, as if he were putting on the accent. “Senator Sphincter hasn’t had his tapioca just yet and gets a little grumpy when he’s off schedule.”

“Shut up, Higgins.” The geriatric Senator barked.

The chins of Higgins quivered in silence.

“Can you just tell us why you’ve stuffed us all in this casket of a room?” Political party leader, Laka Hart, lurked in the shadows. Her black attire making her one with the darkness. Her snark nearly as sharp as her winged eyeliner.

Hart is the founder and chairperson of the No American Hope party, an undertaking she took on after realizing that much like herself, no one really gave a shit about the two major political parties and preferred to just sit things out, or as their party tagline goes ‘Just NAH…’. It turns out the annoyed minority was actually the popular majority across America, and they all agreed on one thing: politicians, especially political life-timers like Senator Sphincter, all sucked.

“My apologies Ms. Hart.” Dusk mockingly groveled.

As if he were a ringleader at a circus, Dusk spun around the room. “And my apologies to everyone, but my time is very important. Not that yours isn’t, of course, it’s just not as important as mine.”

The group, who were definitely-not hostages, all let out a chorus of groans.

“Nonetheless, we are gather here today – “

“Sweet baby Jesus, this man is going to attempt some Pagan wedding or something, aren’t you?” Denim-clad, Stetson wearing Buck Barrel, president of the Firearms Uniting Nations cried out.

The mustachioed man walked as if he had spurs on his boots or perhaps it was his rheumatoid arthritis. That, of course or the foot-long Remington strapped to his thigh.

Yes, it was an eclectic group to bring together, but sometimes you needed bi-partisan cooperation, or whatever you would call this, to get things done.

“Will you all, please!” Dusk begged. He had the look of a toddler not understanding why the adults weren’t listening to him.

“I’ve brought you all here today because we all know what the current state of our government, or lack thereof, is. The people are tired of the same rhetoric they hear year in and year out. Tired of feeling like their own lives are out of their hands. Tired of having candidates they couldn’t care less about. We’re on the verge of a collapse, and I have a plan to save us.”

Thunderous drumming clashed outside overtaking Dusk’s heroically planned speech.

Already on edge, Dusk slammed his fist into his own thigh. “Dammit! Mira, please redact that from the official transcript, no need to have a blasted storm drown out our triumphant meeting. The Library of Congress deserves more.”

Had Dusk been in any type of physical shape at this point, veins may have been bulging out of his biceps, instead his belly only pushed harder against the one-size too-small black v-neck. The same v-neck that he believed was his ‘image’.

“As I was saying,” Dusk went on. “We are screwed. Last presidential election four percentage of the voting population actually voted and according to recent polls secured by Senator Sphincter, less than one percentage are planning to vote this coming election.”

“Good.” Laka Hart scowled.

“You commie.” Sphincter growled back.

“No, no, it’s not good.” Dusk put himself in between the two. “Ms. Hart, when N.A.H. was formed, we were all frankly astonished how much support it earned. For once there was hope in American politics, but it seems like the majority of your party refuse to vote.”

“Look at the candidates, should I vote for the liberal who really isn’t liberal or the extremist who wants to take away all my rights? Nah, man, just nah… We won’t stop until we have full reform.” Hart was clearly annoyed that Dusk didn’t understand the specifics of the N.A.H. movement.

“And that is why I have brought you all here today, to help create the perfect presidential candidate.” Dusk cleared in throat in anticipation. “Mira, if you will.”

Part of the Dojo’s ceiling began to drop down towards the center of the room.

“We’ve had young candidates, mavericks, and conservatives, senile, liars, convicts and deniers. We’ve had front runners lose for appearing too sweaty, or showing too much emotion, or frankly not enough, and even one candidate who just yelled ‘Yeah!’ and immediately dropped out of the race after. We’ve had candidates with the most votes lose and one who lost but refused, and through it all, the fact is Americans have lost trust in anyone who has a heartbeat. So, I say, why not try one without one?”

Dusk expected a gasp but settled for Buck Barrel to open his flytrap.

“What are you a full metal dumb ass?” Buck Barrel blasted. “Without one? What is the ungodly name do you mean by that?”

The ceiling continued to descend, now nearly at head height.

“What is the one thing everyone can agree upon that they want in a presidential candidate?” Dusk asked.

“A spine.”

“Ethics.”

“Balls.”

They all said at once before Higgins quietly added, “Beauty…”

“No!” Dusk whined. “Well, I mean, my candidate has all of that, but trust! Trust is the one quality that everyone wants but no politician can offer. We are beyond truth as a species. It’s too easy to lie and get away with it, never bringing into question its validity. The fact is we don’t trust anyone with a pulse, so I dug up the most revered man in American history. Ernest Trustman.”

The drop ceiling finally came to a halt, levitating at waist height. The corpse of a pale, very dead man lay in front of them.

“And with your help, I plan to reanimate Mr. Trustman and imbue him with the ideal values we believe make the perfect politician.”

“Revive a dead man? We’ve been pretty damn close to that already, haven’t we? We’ve had plenty of politicians with little to no pulse. Hell, they’d go full senile, and no one would bat an eye.” Hart retorted.

It was true, it became known as the Age of the Decrepit, where presidential nominees were no younger than 80, senators seemingly had strokes on live TV, and no matter what, you had the job until you died, which could be a very long time. Some terms lasted so long, that it led to the next age of politics, the Age of Augmentation, where politicians cybernetically enhanced their body and mind to proclaim to the world, no, they were not too old for the job. The last remnants of that age being Senator Bill Sphincter.

As you can imagine, it did not bode well having sixty-year-old ideals forced upon you by a group of senior citizens.

“This is different.” Dusk insisted. “He died young, just look at him.”

“And why couldn’t we use a woman?” Hart interjected.

Senator Sphincter didn’t waste time answering. “No, no, no, we all know America will never vote woman into office.”

“Damn right.” Buck Barrel added.

Dusk, not wanting to lose Hart, shrugged in indifference. “I hate to say it but it’s true. How many times has a woman tried and failed? Six times now? Seven? I’ve lost count. Even up against a misogynistic accused rapist, America couldn’t.”

Laka Hart scowled in annoyance. “Well fuck, you’re right.” And then muttered. “God, I hate this country.”

“So, who the hell is this fella anyway?” Buck Barrel looked as if the question hurt to ask.

“I’m glad you asked.” Dusk was really reveling in the moment now. “After we settled on the obvious choice of a male, I quickly turned to the leading 21st Century historian Moira Reading, Moira?”

The unmistakable click of a camera phone turned everyone’s attention to the corner of the room. The one corner that up until this point had gone unnoticed. Blond hair flowed down the back of a slender frame in the classic selfie pose. Everyone’s slack-jawed mouths hung open on the phone’s screen.

“Ohemgee, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t resist. This is like a classic Gram. Hashtag sorry, not sorry.” The high-pitched, ecstasy-fueled word vomit splattered everyone in the face. If there ever was one, Moira Reading was the antithesis of Laka Hart.

“Moira has spent years doom scrolling everything she can find on the 21st Century and let me tell you, if you think we have it bad…” Dusk shook his head. “But we found a shining light piercing through that century’s veil of self-deprecation, a shining light that will lead us to a new tomorrow. Ernest Trustman.”

“This right here might just be stupid enough to work.” Buck Barrel sounded so excited he was one step away from a yee-haw.

Not necessarily listening to what Barrel had to say, Dusk agreed. “It is. Once we settle on who we want Trustman to be, we can start the process.”

“Will you push me closer, you waste of space?” Senator Sphincter ordered his handler.

Higgins wheeled the Senator closer to the cadaver.

“Wait a minute, he’s Jewish?” Senator Sphincter’s eyes shot down below Trustman’s waist. “We ain’t never had one as President before.”

“Sir!” Higgins bellowed.

“No, no, no.” Dusk quickly pulled a sheet up to Trustman’s waist. “We aren’t that radical. His parents were just fastidious about hygiene.”

Arms folded, Hart examined the body. “So, what’s his story anyway? Is that a gunshot wound?”

Buck Barrel, always quick with the trigger, was the first to respond. “I can tell you now, that wasn’t no gun that killed that poor man, it was some mad person who did.”

“With a gun…” Hart pointed at Trustman’s chest. “Clearly.”

“Will that effect his…his revival?” Higgins asked the first logical question of the night.

“No, no, not at all, we actually did some testing to ensure that, but let’s not get into specifics.” Dusk hurried through. “Ms. Reading, why don’t you give us some background on Mr. Trustman to inspire us.”

Without looking up from her phone, the historian obeyed. “Right, well unlike most from his time, Ernest was a real salt of the earth type of guy. The type of guy that would stand in a parking spot for three hours, holding it for an elderly neighbor. Back when he ran for his local town council, he swore to never tell a lie. Unfortunately, this led to him losing the election because he refused to answer questions he didn’t know enough to answer, which were pretty much all of them. Still, the man kept his promise and wouldn’t even consider pretending he knew what he was talking about. He was a teacher of some sorts before that too.” Moira Reading stop scrolling on her phone for a moment. “Or at least he posted like he knew a lot. He never married, always putting others ahead of his own happiness.”

“Never married?” Sphincter grumbled.

“Easy fix, look at this handsome man.” Dusk said slapping Trustman’s cheek. “We’ll find him a first lady in no time.”

The cold hard smack awkwardly echoed out as Dusk pulled his hand away from the corpses firm buttock.

It was true, Ernest Trustman did seem like a decent man from the 21st Century, but he was also the type of man who woke up at 4AM every morning to dig in his yard because early in life his father told him the early bird gets the worm. The fact of the matter is that Trustman lived in a time where it was common practice to use photo filters that would deceive your own mother or make it appear like you’re in some lavish hotel when you’re actually in the home goods section of Target. You were either striving to lie about what a wonderful life you had, ending up depressed, or you actually did have a good life, but ended up depressed seeing how much fun everyone else was having.

In short, any truth was veiled behind that pale blue screen of yours, and because of the current illiteracy of America, it was these types of posts that ‘historians’ like Moira Reading had to rely on to decipher what life was like back in the day. Of course, the important facts still were passed down from generation to generation, like what an absolute snack Hermann Rorschach was.

“It’s also said,” Reading continued. “That he once was on the same Mediterranean cruise as the Middle Eastern Sabbatical Society’s yearly conference. The group was comprised of leaders from the Middle East who just wanted to forget their troubles for the week and enjoy the weather. Trustman quickly became friends with the lot of them and brought peace to the Middle East.”

“That one can’t be true.” Hart exasperated.

Actually, that one was surprisingly true, and Viking Cruise Line milked that fact dry until the day the Mediterranean Sea literally dried up some fifty year later.

Dusk rolled out a mobile workstation and started to stick electrodes to Ernest’s chest, circling them around his heart like sharks smelling blood.

“Now that you’re acquainted with Mr. Trustman.” Dusk said as he continued to connect wires to the electrodes. “We need to program him. Have you all considered what qualities you’d like to see represented in him?”

A long, metal needle, about a foot in length now dangled in Dusk’s hand. Just barely touching the tip, blood started to stream down his finger. After wiping his finger clean, Dusk proceeded to pierce Trustman’s temple and push the needle further in until it appeared to stop. He did so on the other side and then, like the chest electrodes, connected the needles to his workstation.

“I’ll go first.” Dusk offered. “What about supreme intelligence? It’s worked out for me so far, no?”

Sphincter grunted. “No. The one way to alienate voters is to offer a candidate who is smarter than them and knows they are smarter than you. Besides every genius I’ve known,” the Senator was sure to air quote genius, “were all assholes.”

Buck Barrel spun his revolver around in his hand. “Well, he’s gotta be anti-establishment, don’t he?”

“Don’t we want unity, not division?” Hart scoffed.

Senator Sphincter let out something of a cackle. “Anti-establishment just means you have no real political platform. Oldest trick in the book to get elected if you got no backbone.”

“Sir, weren’t you anti – ” Higgins interjected.

“Shut up Higgins!”

Laka Hart didn’t seem to be sold yet. “Still, his lack of political experience will be alarming to some.”

“Ah, not necessarily.” Dusk held a finger in the air. “That’s exactly what we’re here for. If we want to imbue a wealth of political knowledge even greater than Mr. Sphincter, then we can.”

“We’re going to be here all day deciding this! There are zero commonalities between the four of us.” Hart argued.

“Five.” Higgins whimpered.

Still sucked into the vortex of her phone, Moira Reading didn’t bother to say six.

“That’s the point.” Dusk insisted. “If we can all agree on a candidate then so can America.”

Hart was clearly frustrated. They had been locked in the Dojo for hours before the dead body was even wheeled in front of her. “I don’t think it’s that simple. Besides this guy stinks, didn’t you cryo-freeze him or anything?”

“Cryo…? No, no. That wouldn’t work with the procedure.” Dusk looked flummoxed. “Isn’t that obvious? The man would immediately die from frost bite once I revived him.”

“Now that I think about it.” Buck Barrel said, bemused. “Do we really want to go with this whole honesty shtick? Can’t it be a hindrance with some tough decisions?”

“Uh, are you guys nearly done?” Blue light flooded Moira Reading’s face.

“What? No.” Dusk tried to make eye contact with his historian but she never looked up. “Listen, if none of you want to wait, we can just revive Trustman now and do the programming later, it’s all stored on a chip anyway. Doesn’t matter, America’s future just hangs in the balance, that’s all.”

“America’s future or yours?” Sphincter croaked.

The building rumbled as another thunderous boom echoed from outside, the sound of breaking glass clattered nearby.

Dusk glared at the ceiling.

“Sir?” Mira called out.

“Not now, Mira.” Dusk said flatly. “Fine, I’ll start the process now!”

“Awesome sauce.” Moira Reading slowly drew out. “How much time will this take? I only have a few minutes left on the live stream.”

Everyone’s heads spun towards the bubbly chronicler.

“Live stream?” Dusk couldn’t believe it. “Live stream?!”

Reading’s eyes fluttered up, her red lips curling to a faint smile. “Duh. Why wouldn’t I? My phone is blowing up. This has got to be the hottest stream I’ve ever done.” Her attention darting back to her phone and then laughs. “And, boy, they really do hate you all.”

Laka Hart wrapped her arms around herself as if that would stop millions from seeing her. “You’re streaming now?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Senator Sphincter wheeled himself closer to Reading. “And it’s been going this whole time?”

Moira Reading continued to read scathing comments and nodded. “Uh-huh.”

At that realization, Higgins blushed, dipped a hip, and smiled at the phone.

“Shut that off, shut it off now!” Dusk ordered.

The room now shook, the same rumbling quickly intensifying.

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Mira cut in once more. “But I don’t think that is thunder. There’s been multiple breaches of security in your house sir.”

“Oh my god, are they here?” Reading paused and listened to the growing stampede. “I thought they were just bluffing.”

“Dusk, do something!” Sphincter barked.

“I…I…” Dusk stammered before flipping the switch on his resurrection contraption. The wires jolted with electricity, sending Ernest Trustman into a convulsive state.

More glass shattered from just outside the Dojo.

“My mirrors, Mira!” Dusk pouted.

Ernest Trustman let out a sudden groan, his limbs flailing.

“Higgins, get me out of here!” Senator Sphincter cried out.

The handler, already sweating through his suit, scampered to the Senator’s wheelchair.

Laka Hart began running her hands along the walls, looking for an exit. “Where’d that snotty little historian go?”

“The exit…” Dusk said, joining Hart in the search for an escape. “Was somewhere around here.”

Rabid arms burst through the apparent faux-metal walls.

Dusk’s assembled team let out a collective scream as the angry mob tore down the Dojo. At the same time Ernest Trustman roared, lunging off his slab, beating his arms in anger.

The screams of horror only lasted seconds before the recording was finally cut off.

“And that is where the MiraSense recording terminated. The footage wasn’t salvaged until nearly a decade later.” Spoke the scholarly voice of a professor. “And if it wasn’t for that A.I. recording and Moira Reading’s intuition to live stream that tomfoolery, we would have been none the wiser, never joining together as a nation to say, this is enough.”

The professor’s class sat silent, astounded at what they had just witnessed.

“Just think about where we would be as a society had that not happened.” The professor continued. “If we would even be here, but Ms. Reading, in all of her wisdom helped pulled us out of the facade that we called government.”

Finally, one of the students spoke up. “Sir, what happened to Dusk and the rest?”

“Dusk, didn’t make it, nor did anyone else in that room, besides Moira Reading. Even poor old Ernest Trustman died a second death, and whatever technology that brought him back to life was lost along with him.” The professor paused momentarily. “Actually, if you think about it, Dusk achieved exactly what he wanted, he saved our nation, even if it wasn’t how he imagined it would go, and in turn Dusk got what he wanted: to be talked about in history classes for generations to come.”

And with that, the class erupted into a clamor of laughter at Dusk and his founding farces.

Copyright William Meier Jr. 2024 ©