The 100 Days of Ruin
Part I: The Coronation
It was cold. Too cold for spectacle. And so the coronation of the Pretender took place indoors, beneath the rotunda, where frost clawed the windows and the breath of history fogged the marble halls.
The Democrats stood like pallbearers at a state funeral — silent, grim, unwilling — as the courtiers assembled. There were the oligarchs, in blue suits tailored to conceal their contempt: Bezos, Musk, Thiel, and the others whose coin greased the gears of governance until nothing moved but for profit.
Trump entered not to trumpets but to mutterings. He did not place his hand upon the Bible — not truly — for what is an oath to a man who swears only upon mirrors?
J.D. Vance stood at his side, pallid and poised like a haunted valet. Behind them, Melania in her funereal hat and young Baron, now taller than all, loomed like a silent rebuke carved from arrogance and Slavic marble.
It might have seemed normal, for a moment. The room had the air of ceremony, of state. But then the Pretender opened his mouth and ad-libbed. He spoke not of unity, nor duty, nor the burdens of leadership — but of scores to settle and enemies to jail.
He called it restoration. Others called it vengeance. The republic, alas, had no say.
