Chapter 5 - The Glorious Kingdom of Palm Beachonia
The Kingdom of Palm Beachonia
Chapter 5: The Glorious Kingdom of Palm Beachonia
The Fire Alarm Vote
It started with a podcast threat.
In mid-July, 2025, Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene appeared on Real Patriots Don’t Fact-Check and accused Speaker Mike Johnson of “performing globalism in a cardigan.”
“He’s soft. He prays too much. He reads. That’s not what the base wants,” she told her 6 million listeners, three parrots, and a rotating stable of AI-generated guests.
By the following week, she had filed a motion to vacate the chair—again—marking her third since spring. This time it worked. Johnson, caught mid-sentence in a prayer breakfast, reportedly said only, “I suppose this too is part of God’s plan.” before quietly leaving the waffles untouched and retiring to a basement prayer chamber.
The GOP fractured into even finer shards:
The "Silent Majors", who wanted less yelling.
The "Constitutional Rascals", who wanted more yelling but only in Latin.
The "Burn It Down But Nicely Caucus", who believed no government is the best government but felt strongly it should be polite on the way out.
With Johnson out, the Speaker carousel spun once again.
The August Spiral
Jim Jordan was nominated.
Then un-nominated.
Then re-nominated after pledging to wear a tie for at least one calendar week.
Steve Scalise was nominated but declined, citing “spiritual fatigue and a deepening allergy to microphones.”
Greene briefly nominated herself, withdrew, then nominated the concept of "unfiltered truth." The Parliamentarian ruled that "unfiltered truth" was not a recognized member of Congress. Greene appealed.
Vote #34: Labor Day
By Labor Day, America had lost track of how many Speakers the House had attempted to elect.
It was technically the 34th vote. The marble floors of the Capitol had worn down in a soft groove from the ritual pacing of defeated nominees.
What made this one different was the fire alarm.
Someone—no one ever claimed responsibility—pulled it just as the vote was about to close.
In the chaos, three GOP members fled the chamber, and one was knocked into the rotunda fountain by a roaming intern dressed as George Washington (part of the new Constitutional Spirit Tour).
Security footage later showed the intern calmly resetting his powdered wig and saying, “The Republic must be preserved.”
When the smoke cleared (there was no fire, only vape clouds from a Capitol staffer’s “Freedom Mint” cartridge), the Clerk read the tally:
“Jeffries, 216. Jordan, 213.”
A hush fell.
Hakeem Jeffries was, at last, the Speaker of the House.
Officially.
Unambiguously.
Unironically.
He rose slowly. Smiled politely. Straightened his tie.
“Let’s get to work,” he said.
The country squinted at their screens and muttered:
“Wait… really?”
The internet exploded.
Fox News ran a chyron that read:
“Jeffries Grabs Gavel — Could Grab Nation Next?”
MSNBC aired grainy slow-mo footage of Jeffries adjusting his tie to the sound of swelling orchestral strings.
The public, weary from months of procedural votes, televised tantrums, and something called “National Oversight Karaoke Week,” largely shrugged.
“He seems calm,” said one poll respondent.
“Calm feels revolutionary right now.”
Meanwhile, at the White House
President Donald J. Trump, having spent most of August in a public feud with both Taylor Swift and the U.S. Weather Service, was in Florida hosting a “Saudi Arabia sponsored golf tournament” when the Justice Department unsealed Indictment #7.
This one was different.
It included:
Obstruction of meteorological data
Unauthorized renaming of Fort Knox
And alleged telepathic attempts to influence gold prices via “quantum loyalty emissions”
The other 2,341 impeachable acts were left out to conserve several reams of paper and months of useless bickering.
“Total witch-hunt!” Trump screamed from the stage, holding up a raw potato labeled “Deep State.”
Within 72 hours, the House passed Articles of Impeachment.
By September 17, 2025, Donald J. Trump became the first U.S. president removed from office twice by the Senate, this time for “criminal reality distortion and constitutional trespassing.”
King Donald the First
When the Senate finally voted to convict, by the widest margin in history, Trump stood up, buttoned his jacket with regal solemnity, and declared:
"I hereby declare myself King.
Of something way better than this. Everybody is talking about it."
He stepped down from the podium, disappeared into the gleaming belly of Marine One that took him for his first test ride on Air Force 1.1 - the luxury Qatari jet - the one for his future presidential library, and vanished into the skies above the nation’s capital.
Below, on the South Lawn, the remains of his lectern were already being photographed by tourists who would tell their children: “I saw history that day—very weird, very sticky history.”
Soon the self declared King was back in Palm Beach at Mar-a-Largo. He brushed the dust of Washington off his shoulders and settled in with his secret service detail who began wondering if they were supposed to be there.
Then, sometime in the middle of the night or early morning if you were in the UK, it started with a tweet or whatever it is that Trump is calling it: an official decree maybe.
No formal speech, no declaration read into the Congressional Record.
Just a half-coherent, all-caps announcement dropped into the bloodstream of a nation already overdosing on nonsense.
"THE FAKE USA IS DEAD! LONG LIVE PALM BEACHONIA!!!"
The tweet included a badly photoshopped image of Trump wearing a golden crown, standing triumphantly atop a golden wall, while golden fireworks exploded behind him.
As the sun came up and people on the east coast were thinking about breakfast and the day ahead, they started texting each other about the tweet. At first, Washington chuckled.
Senators, sipping their seventh coffees of the day, rolled their eyes and mumbled about social media addiction.
Enter: President J.D. Vance
Vice President Vance was sworn in beneath a portrait of Andrew Jackson that someone had drawn sunglasses on. His speech was short, solemn, and deeply unsettling.
President J.D. Vance
September 26, 2025. 8:03 PM ET
"Good evening.
When I was a boy, my uncle used to say, “Don’t put your boots too deep in the mud unless you plan to stand there a while.”
That’s been on my mind today.
There are moments in a man’s life when the porch light goes out, but the house is still warm. You walk in, take off your coat, and realize you are in the wrong house.
I didn’t ask to sit in this chair. It’s a fine chair. The resolute desk and chair. The "Resolute Desk," often called "The Resolute Chair," in the Oval Office is a symbol of power, authority, and historical significance. It's made from the wood of the HMS Resolute, a British ship that was abandoned in the Arctic and later recovered by an American whaling vessel. The desk was given to Queen Victoria, who later gifted it to the President of the United States. Impressive, but to me it feels like sitting on a hot horseshoe, if you’re not resolute yourself it’s best not to sit in it.
I have faith in this country. Deep faith. The kind that doesn’t come from waving a flag, but from watching your neighbor fix your truck without being asked. From knowing when the barn's on fire, and when it’s just lightning passing through.
And right now... well, I smell smoke. But I’m not sure it’s mine to put out. I just fumbled my way into this whole situation.
America’s strong. It doesn’t need another voice yelling into a passing storm. Maybe it needs silence. Or at least someone who knows how to leave a gate open without letting all the animals out.
I’ll be reflecting on that.
And I’ll be brief.
You deserve someone who wants this hot seat. Someone who dreams of big things.
I’ve always been more comfortable with small ones — porch lights, kettles, a clean exit strategy.
I never liked Trump, I can’t stomach Trump, I think that he’s noxious and has been leading the white working class to a very dark place and, for reasons I cannot fathom, they are willing to vote against their own interests to support him. And I confess, I voted for Kamala Harris in the last election. Mr. Trump was unfit for our nation’s highest office and so am I.
May God bless whoever comes next.
Goodnight."
He then vanished from public view for five days. Fox News spent those days wondering what to do and what to say to their viewers while speculating about how great everything was or might be once Vance came out of hiding.
When he returned, he had shaved his head, announced the launch of The Appalachian Free Thought Renaissance, and issued Executive Order #999:
“Every American deserves the right to stop thinking for a while especially when all their thoughts are going in the wrong direction.”
During a midnight session of Congress, Vance issued a surprise letter of resignation, citing:
“the transcendental burden of unintended office,”
a desire to “seek meaning west of the Mississippi,”
and “a recurring vision of Huckleberry Finn and Lincoln holding a flaming scroll.”
MAGA influencers online started discussing the possibility that J. D. Vance might be Q.
Markets tanked.
The New President
By law and by fate, the next in line was:
Speaker of the House: Hakeem Jeffries.
On September 21st, 2025, at 2:44 a.m., he was sworn in as the 49th President of the United States in a quiet side room at the Capitol, surrounded only by two clerks, a sleepy Supreme Court justice, and a humming vending machine that refused to give up the M&Ms.
He did not hold a rally.
He did not tweet.
He did not gather the press or call the moment historic.
Instead, he said:
“Let’s get back to the People’s business.”
And America — stunned, bleary-eyed, and halfway through its sixth constitutional crisis in nine months — exhaled.
Markets soared the next day.
Marjory Taylor Green was indicted for insider trading, disturbance of the peace and general obnoxiousness.
By sunrise, newspapers were already printing headlines:
“JEFFRIES SWORN IN: FROM MINORITY LEADER TO PRESIDENT IN 263 DAYS”
“POLITE MAN IN SUIT MAY ACTUALLY BE PRESIDENT NOW”
“NO ONE YELLED FOR THREE MINUTES STRAIGHT, NATION UNSURE HOW TO FEEL”
J.D. Vance was last seen on a hand built raft on the Mississippi River.
Marjorie Taylor Greene announced a new podcast titled:
"I Meant to Do That."
And President Jeffries, sitting in the Oval Office as staff redecorated, reviewed a stack of folders and cabinet picks, reached for a pen, and began doing the one thing no one expected anymore:
Govern.
Markets soared.
The new sitting U.S. President, when asked about King Donald and Palm Beachonia simply said:
"Let them have it for now. We have bigger fish to fry for the time being, There are a lot of former executive doings to be undone first.”
Then compared Trump in Palm Beach to Napoleon’s exile to St. Helena.
The press corps treated it like a joke.
Late-night comedians produced a thousand punchlines in a thousand minutes.
Editorial pages ran pieces titled "The Curious Case of the Kingdom That Never Was" and "How Many Golf Carts Does It Take to Build a Nation?"
None of them thought Palm Beachonia was serious.
But Palm Beachonia was serious.
Very, very serious.
The Birth of a Nation (Sort Of)
Within 72 hours, The Kingdom of Palm Beachonia declared formal independence.
Their list of grievances, posted proudly outside Mar-a-Lago on laminated placards, included:
"Irreconcilable differences in taste, loyalty, and basic facts."
"Excessive taxation without adoration."
"Unfair treatment of golf courses as nonessential services."
"An overall lack of enthusiasm for gold decor, large flags, and cheeseburgers."
In the dead heat of a Florida afternoon, bulldozers rumbled down the coast.
Construction crews—hired hastily from out of state, since there were no working-class Palm Beachonians left who could operate machinery without mistaking it for a prop—began erecting a wall.
Not just any wall.
A 30-foot-tall, gold-painted monolith, stretching from the manicured hedges of Mar-a-Lago across Worth Avenue, sealing off the luxury boutiques, the private beaches, and the few remaining metaphysical gift shops that had somehow survived the last cultural purge.
At the main gate, a neon sign blazed in the sun, its letters the size of minivans:
PALM BEACHONIA – THE GREATEST KINGDOM ON EARTH
Entry and exit were tightly controlled.
No passports here—only platinum loyalty credit cards, each one engraved with the citizen’s personal Loyalty Score.
The scoring algorithm was simple and brutally effective:
+10 points for every Trump NFT purchased.
+50 points for each positive post on RoyalNet.
+100 points for reporting a neighbor suspected of harboring "Fake News Doubts."
Loyalty Scores were updated daily and publicly posted on giant LED leaderboards outside the Royal Keep (formerly the Mar-a-Lago snack bar).
Those who fell below a certain threshold—known as "The Loser Line"—faced swift and dire consequences:
Reassignment to Wall Maintenance Duty.
Public shaming ceremonies involving karaoke versions of Kid Rock songs.
Temporary banishment to the Freedom Port-a-Potties.
The first day alone saw fifty citizens reassigned to pick up golden trash with sticks labeled "TRUMP UNIVERSITY HONOR GUARD."
The Dream of The Kingdom of Palm Beachonia
To hear the new regime tell it, Palm Beachonia was the future:
"The Glorious Kingdom of Winners!"
"A country where nobody ever loses, unless we say they do!"
"No bad vibes! No fake facts! No humility!"
Televised broadcasts from the newly coined RoyalNet showed glossy images of luxury golf courses, towering walls glinting in the sun, and happy citizens waving oversized flags while driving monster trucks in slow motion across freshly paved boulevards.
(Offscreen, the monster trucks routinely tipped over, the flags snagged on palm trees, and the boulevards cracked under the relentless Florida heat. But that part was edited out.)
Each night, the King himself addressed the nation from the Royal Balcony, wearing a bathrobe trimmed in synthetic ermine, waving like a Caesar presiding over a particularly delusional empire.
"We are making history, folks. Beautiful, tremendous history. Nobody’s ever made history like this before. Even the history books are jealous."
The citizens of Palm Beachonia cheered, waved their Loyalty Cards high in the air, and pretended not to notice that grocery stores were starting to run out of eggs, Diet Coke and toilet paper.
Outside the Walls
The world watched with a mixture of horror and mild amusement.
The United States, still licking its wounds from the political whiplash, declined to intervene.
"Let them have their sandbox," said the new Secretary of State. "They’ll be eating the sand soon enough."
Europe placed Palm Beachonia on its official list of Unrecognized Micronations, somewhere between the Principality of Sealand and a group of anarchists living in a treehouse outside Prague.
China briefly considered recognizing Palm Beachonia as a legitimate sovereign state—if only to embarrass Washington—but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the paperwork.
The United Nations issued a terse statement:
"Palm Beachonia is advised to reconsider its current trajectory toward becoming the world's most expensive gated community-slash-psychological experiment."
Inside the Wall, however, none of that mattered.
For the citizens of Palm Beachonia, reality had been bent, gilded, laminated, and framed.
They were winners now.
And nobody—not facts, not history, not even gravity itself—could tell them otherwise.
By the time the first Congressional hearings were scheduled on the subject of Palm Beachonia, King Donald had already moved on to his next project.
"Palm Beachonia needs a military," he mused, tossing a ketchup packet at a map of Florida.
"Something powerful. Something nobody can beat."
Thus was born the plan for the Great Parade of Power of Palm Beachonia,
starring the world’s largest fleet of monster trucks, carrying the world's smallest and most frightened kingdom.
(Next Chapter Teaser:
Chapter 6 — The Parade of Power
→ The Great Monster Truck Army of Palm Beachonia and the MAGA crowd sourced Navy and Air Force are assembled.)
Time is a Sharp Sword
A line I use frequently to myself is “Time is a sharp sword.” This is perhaps an old Arabic proverb.