Chapter 12: The King in Exile
The Kingdom of Palm Beachonia
Chapter 12: The King in Exile
He left without ceremony.
No grand convoy, no final speech atop the ruins.
Just a battered SUV with tinted windows, a handful of loyalists still clinging to his promises like life jackets, and a hastily packed duffel bag filled with fast food coupons and fading loyalty cards.
The world outside Palm Beachonia barely noticed his departure.
They were too busy bulldozing the golden Wall, setting up mobile food kitchens, and quietly arguing over whether to list Palm Beachonia under Historical Tragedy or Performance Art in the national archives.
King Donald the First—still insisting on the title, even as the world had already demoted him to footnote—made his way across the Atlantic, bound for a refuge no one else wanted.
Arrival at the Edge
Trump International Golf Links, Aberdeenshire, Scotland.
A place once marketed as "the greatest golf course the world has ever seen", now mostly wind, broken windows, and empty luxury suites rented out occasionally to passing sheep.
He arrived under a thick gray sky, the Atlantic hurling salt and mist against the crumbling clubhouse walls.
The Royal Motorcade consisted of two aging golf carts and a luggage trolley held together with duct tape.
When he stepped onto the cracked pavement of the main drive, wearing his red "KING" hat and a tattered rain poncho,
no band played.
No crowd cheered.
Only the seabirds cried out, circling overhead in restless spirals.
"Beautiful welcome," he said to no one in particular. "Biggest crowd they’ve ever had here. Very emotional. People crying everywhere."
In the distance, a lone sheep stared at him, chewed thoughtfully on a strip of tarp, and then wandered away.
The Kingdom of Sand and Fog
He declared the golf course "New Palm Beachonia-in-Exile",
proclaiming himself King of the Links and issuing new royal decrees handwritten on napkins.
All citizens (population: two unpaid groundskeepers and a confused German tourist) were to address him as "Your Tremendousness."
Loyalty Cards were reinstated, now accepted for discounts at the empty pro shop.
A new Wall was proposed around the 18th hole, pending the availability of sandbags and good vibes.
The local government, after brief deliberation, decided to ignore him completely.
The staff—what was left of it—resumed their duties quietly:
Cutting patches of grass that no one would play on.
Replacing flags torn by Atlantic storms.
Politely nodding when the King hosted imaginary press conferences on the practice green.
The King’s Days
His daily routine became a ritual of stubborn dignity:
Morning inspection of the course, pointing out imaginary infrastructure achievements.
Afternoon Royal Addresses delivered to empty ballrooms, live-streamed to an audience of zero.
Evenings spent polishing a shrinking collection of trophies salvaged from Mar-a-Lago gift shops.
Each night, he dined alone at a massive banquet table meant for a hundred, eating cheeseburgers unwrapped like fine cigars, sipping Diet Coke poured into wine glasses engraved with "Palm Beachonia Forever."
Sometimes he gave toasts to himself.
Sometimes he awarded medals to his reflection.
He slept in the Presidential Suite, where rain leaked steadily through the ceiling, filling silver serving trays with cold, persistent puddles.
Through it all, he remained triumphant in his own mind.
"Nobody’s ever ruled a better kingdom, folks.
Even the weather loves me. Tremendous storms. Very loyal clouds. Very enthusiastic rain."
The Last Crowning
One evening, as a particularly vicious storm battered the clubhouse, the King decided to hold his second coronation.
He stood alone in the grand hall, wearing a bathrobe fastened with curtain cords, a Burger King crown perched askew on his head.
In his trembling hand, he held the Scepter of Freedom—an old five-iron wrapped in tinsel.
"I am still King!" he proclaimed to the howling wind, to the leaking ceiling, to the empty banquet chairs.
He raised the scepter high.
A ceiling tile gave way.
A soggy mass of insulation splattered across the floor at his feet.
Still, he smiled.
"Historic moment. Very historic. Greatest coronation ever held during a Scottish thunderstorm. Very few people could survive this. Very few."
The last official photograph taken of King Donald the First showed him standing proudly on the crumbling steps of the clubhouse, rain lashing sideways across his face, crown slipping over one eye, waving to an audience that was, and always had been, entirely imaginary.
And so it ended.
Not with a battle.
Not with a revolution.
But with a man shouting into the mist,
saluting the gulls,
ruling a kingdom made entirely of fog and stubbornness.
Somewhere across the world, historians quietly updated the textbooks, adding a small, forgettable line:
"Palm Beachonia — 45 days. 1 King. 0 Survivable Ideas."
And somewhere on a windswept Scottish coast, the last king waved and waved,
until even the mist grew tired of him and drifted away.
You’re such a good writer. Thanks.