Trump, crossbred with surplus Olympic gymnasts, he was handsome in a vaguely plastic way. But he was troubled. His eyes, though the required icy blue, flickered with disquieting curiosity.
It had started, as most heresies did, with a malfunction. A data glitch in the Propaganda Cloud had rerouted a forbidden document to his desk. Something called The Constitution of the United States. At first, he thought it was a screenplay. The language was archaic, peculiar: We the People…—but it bore no mention of television ratings or the Electoral College’s divine wisdom. Instead, it spoke of balance, rights, and freedom to disagree.
Donny-7 had been trained to recognize satire, blasphemy, and sedition, but this document did not mock. It believed. It presumed the intelligence of its reader.
He was disturbed.
Later that week, during his scheduled dose of Trumpozine—administered rectally, for absorption and symbolism—he found himself contemplating the phrase “freedom of speech.” Not just chanting it, but pondering it. The drug, though effective, could not entirely erase the itch of doubt.
At a Community Chant, where the citizens repeated “LOCK HER UP” to the rhythm of the national anthem (a techno remix of “You’re Fired!”), Donny-7 turned and spoke—an unsanctioned action.
“Who was her?” he asked aloud.
Gasps. Silence. A Beta twitched. A Gamma vomited.
Within moments, the Surveillance ToupeeBots descended, scanning Donny-7’s brainwaves for irony or satire. Finding none, they marked him as “Intellectually Divergent” and forwarded his profile to the Office of Normalization.
Yet instead of arrest, a quiet invitation came.
He was summoned to Level -7 of the Trump National Archives, a part of the building that had long been rumored to contain “alternative facts”—a term that had, over time, come to mean “stuff we don’t talk about, ever.”
There, he met Alexa.
She was a Delta by appearance—her jumpsuit regulation grey, her face unpainted, her eyes unfiltered. She introduced herself without slogans, which was both thrilling and dangerous.
“You’ve read it?” she asked.
He nodded.
“So did I,” she whispered. “And Orwell. And Baldwin. And even—God help us—Greta.”
He flinched.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Down here, we say what we like. The Thought Police don’t monitor this level—officially, it’s reserved for rodent testing and infrastructure collapse.”
Together, they read books long banned: The Federalist Papers, The Souls of Black Folk, Brave New World. That last one particularly struck Donny-7.