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The Year is 2040

Oct. 14, 2016
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The year is 2040. In the twenty-four years since Overlord Trump was elected, the world has descended into madness. His reign catalyzed a series of assassinations of celebrities and politicians, an unfortunate trend that continues to decimate the famous, political or not. The UN has fallen. A selective coterie of the world’s most influential people - the survivors of anti-celebrity bloodshed – try to protect the bewildered and fragmented populace from the tyrannical violence that surrounds them. In an underground bunker buried deep within the heart of the Swiss Alps, this group assembles for their monthly update on the rebellion. The mood is grim. 

King George calls for order, but his command is not obeyed until Queen Harper Beckham raises a fist. The room falls silent. 

North West stands. 

“Your Highness-”

“Yes?” King George asks. 

“No, I meant Blue Ivy.“ 

“Of course." 

"Blue Ivy, what tidings do you bring from Middle Brooklyn?”

“Czar Taylor Swift’s forces surrounded Trump’s cavalry. Unfortunately, our side’s main method of communication was Twitter, and our plan was detected early on. Operation #SuperBigBattleNY … has failed." 

The room somehow becomes even colder. "Our father was right not to trust her,” whispers Saint West, tears streaming down his cheeks. “That… harlot knows nothing of war. More bad blood has been spilled on her behalf than she could even fathom." 

Princess Charlotte breaks the silence.  "And what of the western front?" 

Governor Max Zuckerberg rises. "Our forces are holding strong. Northern California will not fall.”

“How can you be sure that your province will not meet the same fate as its southern twin?” Adele’s son [everyone still has no idea what his name is] asks hotly. 

“Palo Alto’s new fortifications can certainly withstand a mortar siege. No man shall engender our downfall.”

“And what about another 9.8 earthquake? I never even got to go to Disneyland,” Saint West blurts, twenty-five years of resentment still burning in his voice. 

“Yes, Saint, we know,” snaps his sister. “You remind us every single meeting. As if the fact that you never got to go to Disneyland is a more valid reason for revenge than knowing that our mother and thousands of others were slain by Trump’s hand.”

“We totally could have had this meeting over hologram,” Shiloh Jolie-Pitt mutters. 

“Enough.” Christopher Cumberbatch begins pacing in front of the fire. “We can endure tyranny no longer. The time has come for action. The last Horcrux must be destroyed.” 

Princess Charlotte gasps. 

He stares into the fire, his face a mask of grim determination. “I will do it. I will kill the hair.”


Cover Image by Jodeci Zimmerman