The Great Bifurcator, Part 1

Once you're finished here, check out Part 2, Part 3, and maybe even Part 4!

Part 1. Trump Card

The rhythmic cadence of his fingers impatiently drumming on the desktop steadily escalated the tension in the poshly appointed office.  They were surrounded by luxury: handcrafted wingback chairs arranged around a magnificent two-yard coffee table cut from a single piece of oak, tremendous pastoral scenes of Southern gentility in gilt frames hanging over marble pedestals sporting busts of America's greatest entrepreneurs that dotted the periphery of the room.  To these men, it was all immaterial.  This was a contest of wills between a two titans of inflexibility.  They were locked in a struggle for acknowledgement and superiority that might have gone on indefinitely if one of them, the shrewder of the two, hadn't finally acquiesced to the voice of his inner tactician telling him there was something to be gained from temporary retreat.  Vice President Cruz took a seat in front of the desk without Trump standing to offer him any indication of appreciation for his presence, let alone respect for his person.

"Time's a wasting, Teddy, and I've only got four to five minutes for you here before I have to get on the phone with that clown and really show him that we mean business."  His brows were furrowed up into a vee, and the rest of his features were contorted into an duck-faced cocktail of amusement and condescension that Cruz still hadn't learned to properly interpret.  "The United States of America, MY United States of America, isn't going to be pushed around by any gang of puffed up socialist losers."

"Well, Donald, you see I think their stance is that you're the loser, at least as far as the election was concerned."  He couldn't help himself; as much as pragmatism and ambition directed him to position himself publicly in Trump's corner, he was compelled to prod him at every opportunity.  Especially if he was going to leave easy ones like that hanging out there!

"Like I'm going to listen to a bunch of liberal bean counters when I've got the voice and the muscle of the real, god-fearing American people behind me? Yeah, right.  And if I'm the loser, that makes you the second banana to a loser, so I'd wipe that shriveled turd of a grin of my face if I were you, buddy."  Cruz tightened his grip on the arms of his chair, but remained silent.

"Nothing to say?  I thought you came in here to 'counsel' me for when I've got the Jew on the phone."

"You know, I'm sure you'll think of just the thing to say; you'll probably charm the pants right off him, put an end to the hostilities this very afternoon.  You're the master negotiator, after all."  He rose and turned on his heel, making a beeline for the door.  The president hadn't mustered a response by the time he'd twisted the knob and stepped out into the hallway; he was pursued by the sounds of indignant huffs and puffs as he slammed the door behind him and ignored the salutes from the stubbled, rifle-toting, camouflage-festooned sentries that stood on either side of the elevator.  He took the express, straight to the roof.

It was the only place he could be alone.  He appreciated solitude; it was the only way to escape the inanities of a world full of cretans who either failed to see the obvious truth of his worldview or were too intellectually dwarfish to meet him at his level.  He stared out over the city; it was a clear day, and through the shimmer of industrial haze he could make out the hovering bulk of Kennesaw Mountain more than twenty miles from the gleaming edifice of their strategic command in Buckhead.  He let his eyes lose focus, imagined his vision stretched hundreds of miles across the continent to the battle lines that lopped a once-united nation into three unsightly chunks: The wholesome, freedom-loving American territories pincered in between the strongholds of left-wing radicalism that dominated the coastlines.  From the Rocky Mountains to the Anacostia River, they already held the lion's share of these United States.  It was only a matter of time before the inexorable flow of manifest destiny would bring the stragglers into the fold.  Or remove them from the equation.

If only he were God, he could look down and see the streams of humanity fleeing in both directions, geographically realigning to suit their political dispositions.  Atlanta had briefly become a ghost town after being declared the new capitol; it was rapidly repopulated with loyal militiamen that had driven hundreds or thousands of miles to do their patriotic duty and sacrifice their supremely expendable lives for the principle of freedom.  If only he were God, he would have seen the gaggles of ethnics streaming out of their nests and fleeing for the eastern and western frontiers, preparing to sneak across the border, probably not for the first time.  If only he were God, he could have watched it all happen.  If only...