Chapter 13: The Trial of the Courtiers
Back in what remained of the United States — the part that hadn’t built walls around golf courses or tried to rename ice cream "Patriot Cream" — a strange thing happened after Palm Beachonia collapsed:
Almost no one wanted to talk about it.
Congress had a few hearings but there wasn’t the political will to do anything other than get back to the business of the country that had been left unattended for a very long time.
Due to various reasons the Republicans lost the majority in the congress and Hakeem Jeffries became the speaker of the house. The vice president resigned under pressure and Jeffries became president. Canada became Canada again since it was only the 51st state by executive order. Jeffries rescinded all of Trump’s executive orders, cancelled all tariffs against all nations until proper negotiations were conducted, retrieved all disappeared people from foreign countries, released all of the gathered up immigrants from the jails, prisons and hastily constructed camps around the country, etc. and so on.
All of the various departments were returned as much as possible to their former condition, USAID was put back into motion, the Big Beautiful Bill was rescinded, the Plane from Qatar was returned, etc. and so on. It would take years to recover from the effects of the wrecking ball and the bull in the China cabinet.
It was as if the nation had collectively decided that the whole thing had been a bad dream, or a reality show that had gone on a few seasons too long, like "The Apprentice: Dictator Edition."
There was no ticker-tape parade for the survivors.
There was no great reckoning in the streets.
There was just paperwork, a lot of bad memes, and a lingering sense of national embarrassment, like waking up in the wrong house after a party.
But still, something had to be done about the Palm Beachonians. Donald Trump? Good bye and good riddance for the time being. He is Scottland’s problem until they deport him.
And so, quietly, politely, the United States government organized what came to be known as The Trial of the Courtiers.
The Setup
The courthouse wasn’t in Washington, D.C.
Too symbolic, too many cameras.
It was held in a converted conference room at a suburban Holiday Inn just off a major interstate, next to a Wendy’s and a tire repair shop.
The seal of the United States was taped to the podium.
The fluorescent lights buzzed ominously.
Free coffee was provided, although it tasted faintly of sadness and chlorine.
Summoned to stand trial were the surviving leaders of Palm Beachonia:
Randy, Royal Quartermaster and Minister of Monster Trucks.
Darla, Royal Press Secretary and Minister of Fabricated Facts.
Duke Ricky of the Red Hat Riders, General of the Freedom Convoy.
Lady Trixie of the Department of Eternal Loyalty.
Baron Buck, Official Golf Cart Czar.
The King, of course, was nowhere to be found.
Rumors placed him in Scotland, hailing sheep as his new subjects.
The courtiers shuffled into the conference room, still wearing fragments of their old uniforms:
Cargo shorts.
Glittered red hats.
T-shirts bearing slogans like "Keep Calm and Golf On" and "Real Patriots Don't Fact-Check."
They sat at plastic folding tables, looking variously defiant, bewildered, or just very tired.
The Charges
The charges were unusual.
There were no accusations of treason or armed insurrection.
There were no gulags or tribunals.
Instead, each defendant was charged with "Conspiracy Against Reality."
The prosecution argued that while mistakes could be forgiven, and even lies could sometimes be tolerated, the willful replacement of reality itself with a self-serving fantasy was a public health hazard.
The evidence presented was surreal:
Photos of the "Parade of Power" monster trucks stuck in roundabouts.
RoyalNet screenshots showing alternative weather forecasts ("It’s always sunny in Palm Beachonia!").
Loyalty oaths demanding citizens affirm that "2 + 2 = Trump."
Witnesses testified tearfully about being forced to buy "Freedom Dollars" at face value while watching their own houses be walled inside Palm Beachonia.
One man recalled:
"I just went to Florida to visit my aunt.
Next thing I know, I'm paying $50 for a hot dog and pledging allegiance to a golf cart.
I didn’t even LIKE the hot dog."
The Defenses
Each courtier offered their own defense, none particularly convincing:
Randy claimed he "just liked trucks" and had no idea about any politics.
Darla insisted she was "only following orders and algorithms."
Duke Ricky explained that monster truck rule was "the natural progression of democracy."
Lady Trixie said she thought Palm Beachonia was "an immersive art installation."
Baron Buck pleaded temporary insanity, citing repeated exposure to Kid Rock karaoke at loyalty rallies.
The jury — composed mostly of librarians, high school civics teachers, and one extremely patient retiree from Des Moines — deliberated for six minutes.
The Sentences
No one went to prison.
Instead, the court issued a far more fitting punishment:
Each defendant was sentenced to five years of mandatory public service at public libraries, community colleges, and voter registration drives —
tasks that required patience, humility, and exposure to facts.
They were forbidden from:
Wearing cargo shorts above the knee.
Using the words "freedom," "truth," or "patriot" without a footnote.
Operating a monster truck without a professional license.
Each was given a small badge that read simply:
"Reality Worker — In Training."
After the Trials
The country moved on.
New scandals rose like weeds.
New crises demanded attention.
Late-night comedians milked Palm Beachonia for a few more weeks before moving on to fresher targets.
Palm Beach itself returned to what it had always been:
an expensive strip of land clinging to its illusions by the fingernails, only now with a few more gold-plated ruins scattered among the luxury condos.
Mar-a-Lago was converted into the National Museum of Gullibility, where schoolchildren on field trips were encouraged to write essays on the dangers of believing your own marketing.
In one corner, a wax figure of King Donald the First still stood, smiling forever beneath a crumbling Burger King crown.
Visitors often said the wax figure was eerily lifelike.
The tour guides always replied:
"It’s not wax.
He just hasn’t admitted he lost yet."
And somewhere far away, on a windswept Scottish golf course, a lonely figure waved at the mist, convinced it was clapping back.