PRESIDENT-KING: EGO'S REIGN

Chapter 1: Age of the Moon-Sized Ego

BG had taken a few serious hits in her younger teen days—just yesterday, in fact. But hey, no big deal, right? She shook it off like a champ. The universe hadn’t ended. Just another minor hiccup in the grand, messy symphony of her life.

It’s not like a crypto asteroid had wiped out the dinosaurs—assuming crypto dinosaurs even existed. But a jukebox falling from the sky? Now that was new.

Who the hell leaves their prized jukebox just floating around up there? Seriously, get a grip.

BG barely had time to register the screaming playlist flashing past her eyes before it obliterated the last tree in the cosmos, smashing into the ground with the force of a chart-topping catastrophe. She teetered on the edge of the smoking wreckage, toes dangling over what-the-f— territory.

“Really? Jukebox god?” The words echoed in her skull, disbelief mixing with something dangerously close to awe.

Below, the mechanquitos froze mid-motion, their tiny metallic bodies buzzing with static confusion. What the hell had they done to piss off the god of falling jukeboxes?

BG wasn’t your typical galactic gamer. No, she was the gamer—the one everyone envied across the cosmos. Charismatic, unflappable, with an understated swagger that made her look cooler than she’d admit. For all intents and purposes, she was the go-to girl in a galaxy where being “go-to” was banana stamped illegal. Quick on her feet? Absolutely. The kind of person you’d want in your corner when things got dicey. Relationships? Well, let’s just say those were still “under maintenance.” Nobody’s perfect.

Even with all that going on, Swat the Dictator was still her favorite clandestine game. And why not? It wasn’t just a game—it was her game, her escape, her domain. Sure, it wasn’t like Cosmos from the Cosmos had turned it into some intergalactic reality game show where apprentices got fired for daring to suggest their thing was bigger than his thing. Come on, get real. Winning the game is all about playing his egos. And yeah, his egos are massive. Too bad BG’s confidence was bigger.

BG strolled down the sidewalk, her gaming console balanced in one hand while the other swiped and tapped furiously at the controls. She sidestepped a fire hydrant with the precision of a pro dancer, matching the quick moves of her in-game character. The President-King’s smug, pixelated face loomed on the screen as he prattled on about galactic dominance and “his divine magnificence.”

“Yeah, yeah, divine this,” she muttered, spinning on her heel to avoid an unsuspecting pigeon as her fingers flew over the console. She fired up her ultimate attack sequence, her body mimicking the wild gestures of the on-screen action. A swarm of micro-drones buzzed toward her target, their synchronized flight reflected in her determined stride.

Her eyes flicked upward. You never knew when a jukebox might come crashing down, right? Stranger things had happened, and BG was not about to take any chances.

Mechanquito buzzed as BG guided it carefully toward the target, her fingers deftly navigating the controls. “There it is… steady… right… let’s go in for the bullseye.” She swatted at an imaginary itch near her ear before grinning. “Oh yeah, next level, here I come.”

The tiny drone zipped forward, landing its sting with pinpoint accuracy. The screen flickered briefly, then flared with vibrant colors as the attack landed. “Ouch, what was that?” BG exclaimed, jerking back momentarily as a mild electric jolt pulsed through her controller. She shook it off, her grin returning even wider than before.

Her focus sharpened as the chaos on the screen intensified. The arena was alive with explosions, swirling drones, and a cacophony of digital noise. The health bar above the President-King’s character flickered ominously.

“Oh yeah, this must be the next level,” BG muttered, her voice dripping with determination. “Take that, you overgrown egomaniac.”

Mechanquito darted through enemy fire, leading a swarm of reinforcements that BG had summoned with precision timing. Her thumbs flew over the controls as if they had a mind of their own, executing rapid maneuvers that kept her drones in the fight. One by one, the enemy’s defenses crumbled under the relentless barrage.

The President-King’s health bar began to plummet. Sparks erupted on-screen as Mechanquito delivered another devastating sting, followed by a wave of coordinated drone strikes. BG leaned in closer, her face illuminated by the chaotic brilliance of the screen.

The crowd noise from the game’s immersive audio grew deafening, simulating cheers and jeers as the President-King’s defenses fell apart. BG couldn’t help but smirk at the over-the-top animation of the egomaniacal ruler shaking a fist in futile rage.

“Let’s see how you like this,” BG muttered, her mischievous grin sharpening as she sent Mechanquito in for the final run. The tiny drone zipped through the fiery chaos, landing a perfect sting.

The President-King’s health bar plummeted to zero. The screen froze, then burst into vibrant fireworks, the words LEVEL COMPLETED! flashing across the display.

“And that’s how it’s done!” she declared, pumping her fist in the air. Mechanquito hovered on-screen, its little victory dance almost smug.

“Next level, bring it on,” BG said, leaning back into the seat with a smirk, hands hovering over the controls. The swarm of mechanquitos materialized before her, buzzing with energy. This was her moment. She was untouchable.

Then it happened.

With every calculated strike, her confidence surged—but in another reality, unseen and unnoticed by BG, something shifted.

“Ouch! What was that?” a voice shouted, distant but clear.

“The audacity!” another snapped, laced with irritation.

BG paused for a split second, her brow furrowing, but only for a moment. “Huh, weird,” she muttered, refocusing on the game. Her avatar spun, slicing through the swarm with elegant precision. Each strike reverberated. Somewhere, someone else felt it.

“Ouch… what was that? The audacity!”

A voice, deep and resonant, cut through the room. BG froze, her fingers tightening instinctively around the controller. She stared at the screen, her breath hitching.

The President-King stood there, swatting at his ear and inspecting his fingers. His glowing eyes narrowed dangerously. “Is that blood?” he growled, his tone sharp with indignation. He turned slowly, glaring straight into the screen. “A Mechanquito—bit me?! On my godly ear?!”

BG blinked, her console wobbling in her hands. What the heck just happened? The game wasn’t supposed to do that. Right?

The President-King’s image flickered for a moment, the usual cartoonish graphics sharpening unnervingly into hyper real detail. His form loomed larger, the shadows around him deepening. BG’s stomach churned. This wasn’t in the patch notes.

Was this some weird Easter egg? A prank update? Or… something else?

BG’s palms grew slick as she gripped the controller tighter. Whatever was happening, she had the sinking feeling she wasn’t ready for it.

“Summon my war council immediately! Congress-Thingy Moolah the Greedy, Congress-Thingy Under-ager Pleasure Toys, the Department of Government Executions Ka-Chinglianaire X and his boy sidekick Ka-Ching-V. And for crying out loud, drag my Vice-Pimp away from playing spin the bottle with the couch! And someone find the banana-stampers—get me my Supreme Court Justices! I paid for them; they work for me.”

“They’re on another ‘work retreat,’ oh President-King,” the intern said meekly.

The President-King turned his glare on the hapless intern. “Work retreat? Do they not realize my wrath waits for no one? Fine! You, intern! Quick—bathe my feet. And when you’re done, sell my socks on the MAGA-Tron market. My base will pay millions for them—or else!” His voice boomed with the kind of confidence only someone utterly detached from reality could muster.

The intern blinked, momentarily stunned. “Yes, oh divine President-King,” he stammered, scrambling for a gilded hover foot basin.

The council arrived in record time, clearly motivated by the jingling of their bribe-stuffed pockets and the looming threat of being on the receiving end of the President-King’s latest tantrum. Each member looked like a mix of terror, greed, and low-budget cosplay of authority figures.

One of the MAGA-Trons hanger-on-ers dared to break the silence. “What’s your command, oh great President-King, God of—uh—everything important?”

“Vaporize all mechanquitos from existence?” offered another, snickering under their breath.

The President-King’s face darkened to a shade of beetroot red that should’ve been a medical emergency. “No, you fool. Not the mechanquitos. Their handlers. It must be those insufferable Demo-Trons. They’ve been feeding her the cheat codes!” He slammed his holographic conference table, sending colorful stats and game logs scattering into a visual confetti of incompetence.

Congress-Thingy Moolah the Greedy cleared her throat, attempting to sound smart but mostly managing to sound like someone who’d skimmed a X-thread. “Well, actually, your majesty,” she began, “it wasn’t the Demo-Trons this time. It was… her.”

“What’s its name!” the President-King snapped, his voice quivering with frustration.

“Her name?” someone sniggled cautiously under their breath, their smirky chuckle laced with a hint of coup d’état.

“BG,” another whispered, louder this time.

“Oh great God of the cosmos, President-King, her name is BG.”

Far from the opulent halls of the President-King, BG stared at the glowing screen of her Apple Millennia-4, the ominous message blinking furiously: “Coup d’état BOOM!” Rolling her eyes, she muttered, “Seriously? Could these trolls be any more dramatic?” But before she could hit delete, the screen flickered, and the words shifted:

“Watch out for jukeboxes that fall from the sky.”

Seconds later, a deafening crash shook her entire lunar outpost. Rushing to the window, she spotted the unmistakable sight of a smoking jukebox, embedded in a fresh crater outside her quarters. The faint notes of an old intergalactic anthem hummed through the air.

BG cracked a grin, her fingers itching for her rig’s controls. “All right, President-King,” she muttered. “Game on.”

Back in the gilded council chamber, Moolah hesitated, her face contorting into a half-smirk, half-grimace. “They say…” she began cautiously, as if testing the waters of her own courage, “when someone camps in your spawn zone and headshots you repeatedly… it becomes… uh… what’s the word? Oh yeah, humiliating. She’s dethroning you, boss. Like, big time.”

The President-King’s face now matched the deep crimson of his rage meter. “Spare me your gaming analogies, you moron! She’s not just gaming; she’s staging a coup! A digital overthrow! And it’s working!” He gestured wildly at the scattered game logs, stats showing his humiliating losses to her. “She’s toppling my empire one leaderboard at a time. Fix it. Now. Wipe her out—her high score, her account, her entire existence! And make it clear to the galaxy: defy me, and you’ll suffer a lag spike to oblivion.”

The council members scrambled to action, fumbling over themselves to carry out his commands. Yet, as they did, the words of the rebellion’s battle cry echoed across the gaming servers, spreading like wildfire:

The answer was clear to anyone paying attention. It all traced back to a project whose heritage—a foundation of ruthless ambition—executed its vision with precision. A Big Bang scheduled for 2025, merciless in its intent and perfectly aligned with the Year of the Lord-President-King and the dawn of the so-called Cosmic Big Bang of 2025M. This marked the moment when the masses were reduced to mere spectators in their own lives, stripped of agency, purpose, and even the illusion of control.

Gaming, once a refuge, became the last bastion of freedom—the only arena where skill could still topple power. But even there, corruption seeped in, like a virus infecting the code. What was once a haven transformed into yet another battlefield of exploitation, where the few ruled over the many, and victory was sold to the highest bidder.

But somewhere out there, she was winning. In a galaxy where the tyrants believed everything could be bought, hacked, or silenced, she was proving them wrong—one high score, one victory, one revolution at a time.

And the President-King? He never saw her next move coming.

Yet, love is also a death sentence. It’s like strutting into a cosmic battle royale, where everyone’s out for blood, the rules are rigged, and—surprise!—you forgot your armor. High risk, high reward, right? In a galaxy where everything’s already been swiped—freedom, hope, even basic Wi-Fi—what’s left to lose? Love, once the emotional equivalent of buffering at 99%, now stands as the ultimate cheat code of rebellion.

And so, the revolution begins—not with bazookas or gamma-sabers, but with something way more dangerous: love. It’s the glitch in the matrix, the bug in the President-King’s “perfectly balanced” system (spoiler alert: it’s not). Love’s the spark threatening to ignite a cosmic fire that could burn his tyranny to ash. In a world where everything’s for sale, it’s the one thing you can’t monetize, commodified, or slap an endorsement deal on.

A deadly game has begun, and love is Player One. Will it be enough to undo the damage, or will it glitch out like a CEO-forced buggy code release, rushed to market without a save point? Time will tell. But one thing’s for sure: love’s revolution has logged in, and it’s playing on Hardcore Nightmare Mode..

They say the Big Bang started it all, but what if that was just clever branding? A cosmic PR stunt to distract from the real action: the President-King’s MAGA-Tron majority busily turning the galaxy into their personal coal-fired yacht club. Picture it: Supreme Court Justices in diamond-encrusted robes, sipping glitter martinis as they enforced the 13 Commandments with all the elegance of laggy bots at a galactic dance-off. “Crucify the rebels! Nail tyranny into their hands, feet, and, hey, why not their souls too?” They called it justice. The rest of the galaxy called it the season finale no one asked for.

“Hey, dudes, grab a selfie with the President-King!” Judas called out, flashing his gold-plated tooth in a wide grin. “Make sure it trends, or you’re toast. And don’t forget the merch—MAGA-Tron hats, tees, kicks! We’re gonna make this look good. Real good.”

He clapped his hands, rallying the group. “It’s time to go kiss the ring! We need to beat those Congress-Thingys. Let’s move it, Satan!”

“It’s Stalin!” He shot back, throwing his hands up in frustration. “And he still won’t listen to me!”

From the back, BG’s voice cut through with a calm, biting edge. “Shall I nuke him?”

The galaxy’s brightest lights dimmed, its progress ground to a halt—not the kind of halt that signals strategic regrouping, but the sticky, stagnant kind that gums up the engines of progress and dreams alike. The MAGA-Tron vision had been realized: a galaxy where conformity reigned supreme, and creativity was locked behind pay walls marked “Platinum Subscription Only.”

Justice wasn’t blind—it was decked out in designer robes, sparkling with overpriced smugness. Supreme Court Justices etched laws onto holographic tablets that fit the whims of the President-King like a custom-made glove. The Constitution? Reduced to a holographic souvenir, sold alongside bobblehead figures of the President-King giving his trademark grin.

And then there were the Congress-Thingys, led by the ever-quotable Moolah the Greedy. “Your Majesty,” she once declared with absolute certainty, “the key to galactic peace is obvious: more luxury yachts!” As if on cue, the MAGA-Tron faithful erupted in synchronized applause, their cheer as hollow as their wallets were deep.

Holographic broadcasts filled every screen in the galaxy with the spectacle of the President-King’s decrees. Flags waved, faces cheered, and Moolah’s jingling credits filled the awkward pauses like an offbeat anthem. The galaxy spun in a perfectly orchestrated spectacle, a Poop-cast for the ages.

Yet, in a galaxy drowning in its own excess, there’s always a flaw in the system. A glitch. A rogue player who refuses to kneel or kiss the ring.

And that, my friend, is where the real story begins.

First came the Primordial Goo Age, then the Plastic Sea Age—both hailed as the pinnacle of progress, complete with retro propaganda reels and MAGA-Tron slogans plastered on everything from moon rovers to freeze-dried space beans. But even those “glorious” ages couldn’t hold a comet’s tail to humanity’s crowning achievement: The Ego Age. The MAGA-Tron Age. Make Asteroids Great Again! One rock, one glorious dino-smashing hit at a time. And echoing across the cosmos came the triumphant cry: “Great shot, God! Oh Lord-President-King!”

In humanity’s infinite “wisdom,” progress didn’t just stall—it slammed into reverse hyper drive so hard it bypassed the Rock, Stone, and Mud Ages entirely, spiraling straight back into the primordial sludge, courtesy of the ill-fated Project 2025. Cars still had wheels, sure, but now they ran on pure CO2, spewing enough poison into the air to choke entire planets. IVF? Outlawed—labeled “impure” by MAGA-Tron loyalists clutching their Purity Manifestos. And the President-King’s devoted followers? They spent their days hammering the XX chromosome into oblivion, proudly dragging civilization back to the golden age of cave art and BYO barbecues.

Even the Neanderthals would’ve been embarrassed. At least they had a reason to smash things with rocks—they were trying to invent the wheel. These guys? They were too busy inventing ways to make the rich richer and the air unbreathable.

The real galactic scandal wasn’t the President-King’s gaudy golden robes or his unsettling obsession with holographic self-portraits (the ones that seemed to smirk no matter which angle you looked from). Back then, its name meant something—a promise of opportunity for all, not just diamonds and gold for the few who knew which stocks to manipulate before implementing tariffs to make themselves richer than rich again. Now, it’s just another mirror for the President-King to admire himself in.

This wasn’t just any code. Oh no, this was a quantum-encrypted, star-spanning lattice, the kind of system built to bring together the galaxy’s brightest voices. It was the ultimate embodiment of cooperation, the thing tyrants hate most. Because harmony? Consensus? Accountability? That stuff gives autocrats hives faster than an overclocked plasma-cloak.

But here’s the thing about despots and their minions: their empires may be shiny, but they’re as stable as a house of cards in a supernova. All it takes is one domino—the right one—to send the whole thing crashing down in spectacular fashion. And when it happens, there’s no better entertainment than a front-row seat to the chaos. Grab your popcorn. This is going to be great. Naturally, harmony and fairness didn’t sit well with the President-King. His first order of business? Dismantle DEMOCRACY and turn it into the MAGA-Tron Market—a glorified galactic flea market hawking his used, embroidered socks and secondhand abused couches (because even tyrants can’t resist de-cluttering for credits).

Enter the Ka-Chinglianaire lobbyists, the galaxy’s most reliable enablers. Armed with silver tongues and gold-plated bribes, they made sure the President-King’s every whim was bankrolled with more credits than could fit in the quantum vaults of entire solar systems. Need to turn free thought into a subscription service? Done. Want to patch fairness out of the galaxy’s operating system? Consider it handled. No questions asked, no ethics involved—just another day in the galactic legislative mainframe.

The result? Humanity’s ultimate downgrade: reduced to goo. Not the cool, evolving kind of goo, either—just single-celled, soulless, primordial sludge. The MAGA-Tron dream fully realized and Demo-Trons never existed: a universe where free thought was wiped clean, freedom was a glitch in the system, and the only thing left was the divine, self-anointed power of the President-King. Glorious, wasn’t it? At least, that’s what the holographic propaganda claimed.

Meanwhile, the unicellular organisms had their own opinions. Watching the chaos unfold, the little blobs of life oozed in protest, affronted by the MAGA-Tron antics. “False news!” they burbled indignantly, longing for something they’d never had—a conscience. As their gelatinous outrage spread across the muck, humanity’s distant ancestors—the Neanderthals—watched in stunned disbelief. Despairing at the state of their supposed descendants, one of them picked up a long, heavy rock and thunked himself on the head. And thus, the club was born.

But wait, there’s more! Legend has it, an enterprising Neanderthal noticed the good Mrs. Og staring at a rolling log and thinking, “What if we put stuff on top of it?” She proclaimed, “This will change everything!” And just like that, the wheel was born—ushering in humanity’s first wobbly strides toward progress. Naturally, this groundbreaking innovation was the talk of Late-Night Stone Age Live, hosted by none other than Grog the Groundbreaker. In his now-iconic monologue, Grog quipped, “Fire is overrated—just wait till you see what this bad boy can do!”

And so, while humanity spiraled backward in the MAGA-Tron Age, the Neanderthals unintentionally became pioneers of progress. Funny, isn’t it? The people who invented the wheel had a brighter future than a galaxy led by a coal-burning, yacht-loving President-King. But in a universe where greed reigned supreme and freedom was reduced to a marketing slogan, perhaps that was the only direction left to go—backward.

“Fred!”

“Yes, Wilma?”

“What’s Barney doing with that MAGA-Tron sign out front of his cave? We just came through the worst millennia of high inflation out of the primordial goo. Then we narrowly avoided that big rock that fell out of the sky, setting life back another millennia. Now he wants to take us backward into the goo age again!”

“Wilma, what are you talking about, dear?”

“There, Fred! Look—MAGA-Tron politician for hire: 2 billion sand pebbles or a case of Invasion Vodka! Really, Fred, isn’t it just weird? Have you and Barney been listening to that 3 hour poopcast again? Next, you’ll tell me demodinocrats can control hurricanes. You and Barney go and take that sign and feed it to the volcano god… it’s hungry again!”

“But Wilma…”

Carved into the cold granite beneath an unrelenting sky, the 13 Commandments hovered like a

cosmic joke that no one dared laugh at. Delivered from on high—literally, because they came down the golden elevator of the President-King—they stood as the unassailable laws of the universe. These weren’t just words; oh no, these were truths etched by hands that had never known doubt, never known failure, and definitely never known the Delete button. The stone gleamed ominously, radiating an aura of unyielding authority, or maybe just leftover polish from the last PR stunt.

The winds howled through the cracks in the earth, as if even nature was in on the scam. “Kneel, and know your place,” the granite seemed to whisper, a subtle suggestion backed up by the looming mega gamma bomb drones circling overhead.

Fred, who was decidedly unimpressed, scratched his head and squinted up at the towering stones. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just X-emoji-troll this to everyone’s holo-feeds?”

“Silence!” came the imaginary chorus of commandments, their silent authority cutting through the air like a fleet of overpriced luxury yachts. The President-King had decreed it: everyone must obey his 13 rules of galactic greatness. Disobedience wasn’t just treason—it was an insult to the divine will of the universe itself. Punishable by exile, erasure, or, worse, a live-streamed lecture on his brilliance that no one could skip.

Fred muttered under his breath, “Ka-Chinglianaire X strikes again. Lie, lie, lie, then rewrite history in his image. Classic move.”

From sunrise to starlight, the citizens were bound by these laws, living lives that revolved around one singular truth: P-K 4 Ever. His face was everywhere—holo-billboards, school lectures, even on the back of your cereal box. The commandments weren’t just rules; they were a way of life. A lifestyle brand. A viral marketing campaign. His promo bling wasn’t just required—it was sacred.

Everywhere you looked, loyalists strutted their devotion. They wore the hats, the watches, the shoes, the tees—because, really, what’s faith without a matching accessory line? Naysayers, whisperers, and anyone who dared roll their eyes too loudly at the President-King soon discovered there was no escape. Questioning him was like questioning the gravity of a black hole—you could try, but you’d only end up crushed under the weight of his ego.

The 13 Commandments of the President-King

1. Thou shalt praise the President-King and make it go viral.

2. Thou shalt wear only his promo hat.

3. Thou shalt wear only his promo watch.

4. Thou shalt wear only his promo shoes.

5. Thou shalt wear only his promo tees.

6. Thou shalt wear only his bling.

7. Thou shalt nark on others not wearing his bling.

8. Thou shalt nark on others not stroking his ego.

9. Thou shalt nark on others not declaring his things to be bigger.

10. Thou shalt nark on others who fail to nark on others.

11. Thou shalt nark on any wanna-be President-Kings.

12. Thou shalt recognize none other than the President-King.

13. Thou shalt remember: P-K 4 Ever.

And so, under the suffocating shadow of the commandments, the galaxy walked in lockstep, each moment an offering to the almighty President-King. Questioning wasn’t necessary; it wasn’t even an option. His will was absolute, his greatness undeniable—at least according to the billboards. Because in his hands, all things were made right. Or, you know, right-branded

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