Chapter 8: The Rise of the Truck Lords
The Kingdom of Palm Beachonia
Chapter 8: The Rise of the Truck Lords
It is an iron law of history that when governments collapse, flags fade, and currencies turn to mulch, power reverts to the most basic tools available:
Force.
Fear.
And vehicles large enough to drive over your neighbor's dreams.
In Palm Beachonia, the vacuum left by a king too busy polishing his golden golf tees was filled not by thoughtful revolutionaries, nor by desperate moderates, but by monster trucks.
Monster trucks became governance.
Monster trucks became law.
Monster trucks became gods.
The Dawn of the Truck Fiefdoms
It had begun innocently enough.
Just a few citizen-patriots forming "safety brigades" to protect Freedom Markets and Loyalty Checkpoints.
But as supplies dwindled and gasoline became the rarest treasure of all, those safety brigades evolved into armored convoys.
Each monster truck became a mobile fortress, bristling with improvised flags, megaphones, and sometimes actual medieval lances repurposed from abandoned Renaissance fairs.
Palm Beachonia fractured into chaotic, rumbling fiefdoms, each controlled by a Truck Lord:
Big Earl of the Red Hat Riders, was among the most feared, whose monster truck "Liberty Crusher" patrolled the main strip, blasting remixed Trump speeches through a megaphone mounted to the hood. He commanded the main shopping district, where once boutiques sold $700 flip-flops.
Darla the Dune Queen, ruling the coastal strip with a fleet of sand-chewed pickup trucks flying shredded Freedom banners.
Sir Ricky of the Diesel Knights, patrolling the club district, now a wasteland of neon wreckage and broken karaoke machines.
Commander Buck of the Flaming Tailgaters, who claimed jurisdiction over abandoned gas stations and rationed fuel like a vengeful dragon.
Each Truck Lord ruled his block like a medieval baron:
Levies on Freedom Dollars.
Tolls for crossing intersections.
Public loyalty oaths performed on demand (with hats doffed and knees bent).
Each faction wore its own colors:
Red for the Riders.
Blue camo for the Diesel Knights.
Sequined gold for the Tailgaters (strictly enforced).
Star-spangled bandanas for the Dune Queen’s Marauders.
Each faction broadcast its own Loyalty Oaths on hacked RoyalNet channels:
"Pledge your truck, pledge your soul!"
"No brakes, no doubts!"
"In Fuel We Trust!"
Skirmishes broke out daily at the Wall intersections.
By midafternoon, the air above Palm Beachonia buzzed constantly with the sound of engines, screaming tires, and the occasional blaring of Kid Rock remixes adapted into war anthems.
King Donald, informed of the growing anarchy, shrugged.
"It’s very democratic, actually," he said from the Royal Keep while polishing a collection of golden golf tees.
"Everybody’s winning. Look how many flags they have. Tremendous loyalty. Tremendous freedom."
Meanwhile, ordinary Palm Beachonians found themselves bartering for basic survival:
Three MAGA hats for a gallon of milk.
Two Trump NFTs for a roll of toilet paper.
One Loyalty Card (gold level) for a ride out of town, if anyone was still driving.
The Code of the Road
In this new lawless age, a crude but binding Code of the Road evolved among the Truck Lords:
Yield to Bigger Tires.
First to Rev, First to Rule.
Flags over Fenders: Damaged Flags Must Be Avenged.
Winner Claims the Roundabout.
Trials of strength were held in abandoned shopping mall parking lots.
Two monster trucks would face off, engines roaring, banners whipping in the stale breeze, while crowds (half-starved and desperate for distraction) placed bets using smuggled cans of Freedom Pudding.
Victory was often decided not by might, but by absurdity:
Who could do the tightest donuts without tipping?
Who could blare the national anthem loudest through faulty subwoofers?
Who could produce the most dramatic loyalty oath while standing atop a smoking hood?
The Engines Roar
At night, the sound of engines never ceased.
It became the lullaby of Palm Beachonia:
the low, growling hymn of power and desperation, singing itself hoarse across the empty boulevards.
The Wall, battered by storms and graffiti, loomed in the distance.
The gates, once golden, now hung crooked on their hinges.
And somewhere deep inside the Royal Keep, the King dreamed of greater parades, greater walls, greater loyalty—all while his kingdom cracked apart like sun-dried mud.
The Glorious Kingdom of Palm Beachonia had entered its final, delirious phase:
a junkyard symphony of roaring machines, waving flags, and disappearing dreams.
The fuel was running out.
The engines would not roar forever.
But for now, the Truck Lords ruled.
And freedom, at least by their definition, was louder than ever.
It was democracy, of a sort.
Very noisy.
Very expensive.
Very stupid.
Very Palm Beachonia.
The King Responds
King Donald the First, safely ensconced in the Royal Keep, watched the rise of the Truck Lords with benign amusement.
"It’s very healthy," he said one evening while hosting a state banquet consisting of canned cheese spray and stale crackers.
"Competition. Very important. Builds character. Very Palm Beach. I love monster trucks. Tremendous horsepower. Tremendous loyalty."
RoyalNet rebranded the conflict as "The Palm Beachonia Freedom Rodeo," broadcasting carefully edited footage of flag-waving truck battles over soaring orchestral soundtracks.
Outside the gilded screens, however, the citizens of Palm Beachonia were losing faith.
Not in the King—many had long since stopped expecting anything of him—but in the golden promise they had been sold.
Whispers grew louder behind boarded-up windows:
About escape.
About mutiny.
About tunneling under the Wall.
But for now, they survived the only way they could:
By pledging loyalty to whichever Truck Lord controlled their street that week,
by trading canned meat for gasoline,
and by hoping the next parade didn’t flatten their front porch.
(Next Chapter Teaser:
Chapter 9: The Fate of the Trumptilla & the Royal Air Force)
Great imagery! Had to laugh!!