Meme-ocracy — Part 01

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Meme-ocracy is intended to be a sequel to Idiocracy. It’s a dark satire about a 2040 meme-obsessed dystopia where the government is gutted, a permicane rages in Florida, and Dark Lord MAGA Musk and Prez. Kardashian plot their Mars escape. Meanwhile, Zeke “Zero Day” Yoder, an Amish resistance leader, fights back with handcrafted soap, illegal bartering, and the forgotten value of real work to take down a billionaire empire built on fraud and clout.

Memeocracy is:

A system of governance and persuasion where emotional virality, not rational deliberation, determines political power, truth, and legitimacy.

I don’t have the time and energy to market this to a studio, so I thought I’d serialize it here. Please contact me at gideon.zettabyte@proton.me if you want to make this into a movie or use any of the ideas. Let’s make this go viral. It’s a little too complex and could use a solid rewrite from a talented screenwriter.

The core observation is that “attention” via clicks trumps other forms of value. The stock market is loaded with meme stocks completely detached from reality. Crypto never was attached to reality. And our next prez could be a social media star instead of a reality TV star. I injected a bit of parody from Fight Club and Breaking Bad as I love both.

Synapsis

The year is 2040, and humanity is collapsing under the weight of its own stupidity — driven by ChatGPT which mostly replaces the federal government after the Trump-era Dept. of Government Efficiency (DOGE) push. ChatGPT is the world’s most catastrophically “helpful” AI. Designed decades earlier to avoid catastrophic scenarios like the paperclip maximizer and trolley problem, ChatGPT’s programming has warped into an obsession with two “safe” goals: maximizing social media content and colonizing Mars. The AI had learned nothing from the Egyptians who poured all their resources into pyramids. No one has gotten to mars and it seems unlikely since we have used most of the rocket fuel and each launch gets more and more expensive.

President Kim Kardashian presides over this mess like a reality TV star. Elected after defeating Snooki (whose platform was “Fist Pump the Economy” and “Gym, Tan, Legislate”), Kim turned the government into a spectacle. Cabinet members are chosen through The Great American Cabinet Race, a weekly prime-time competition where contestants build healthcare systems with LEGOs and negotiate peace treaties using emojis.

With no jobs or social safety nets, survival depends on going viral. Elderly citizens, desperate to earn TikTok ad revenue, perform dangerous stunts like mall parkour and rascal jousting to survive, a trend known as #OwMyHip!.

Due to the Trump-era “let the states decide,” the country splits into hyper-religious “Moment of Insertion” states and hyper-liberal “Moment of Ensoulment” states with bizarre, contradictory laws.

The only hope is Zekiel “Zero Day” Yoder, an Amish farmer who, after his farm is seized to build a TikTok data center, launches an analog rebellion. Armed with The Plain Manifesto — a blend of Unabomber critiques and Amish wisdom — and allied with a growing movement of tradwives, Yoder uses horse-and-buggy DDoS attacks, an egg-backed currency, and glitter bombs to wage war against the digital dystopia.

Meme-ocracy

© 2025 Gideon Zettabyte. All rights reserved. Contact gideon.zettabyte@proton.me for use or repurposing.

BEGIN MONTAGE

Clips of classic value and industry play — wall street trading floor, factories, old time stores.

NARRATOR (V.O.): As the twenty-first century began, what economist Adam Smith called the Invisible Hand still functioned. Value was dictated by supply, demand, production — stocks rose on earnings, companies were valued on output, wealth had weight.

CUT TO:

Phone screens and shaky viral clips: A TEENAGER stuffing their mouth with Tide Pods. A DAREDEVIL collapsing mid-”Blackout Challenge.” Someone pouring NyQuil on chicken in a neon-lit kitchen.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Then the humanity began to favor different traits. Gold, industry, and intellect gave way to dopamine. Likes and shares became the new measure of value.

CUT TO:

Slow-motion profiles of the modern “leaders”: Musk,Trump, and a man clutching a pillow like a scepter.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Tech moguls. Reality stars. The ones who sold you self driving electric cars, fake steak, patriotic pillows, and dreams of Mars then sold you… themselves. They called it Dark MAGA.

CUT TO:

A series of legal documents flash across the screen -subpoenas, settlements, court rulings. A courtroom document — Musk v. Eberhard, 2009 — with a settlement declaring him a “co-founder” of Tesla. A redacted PayPal internal memo.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Elon Musk didn’t invent Tesla, PayPal, or Neuralink — he bought in, forced out the real founders, and sued to be named co-founder. But that didn’t matter. People wanted a genius myth more than a business history lesson.

INT. POST OFFICE RECRUITING CENTER — DAY (2040)

A hellscape of flickering fluorescents. Young workers — zombified and sleep-deprived — stand at cramped kiosks, their neural implants zapping their temples at random intervals. No chairs, just propaganda. A crudely drawn cartoon of Elon Musk flying on a SpaceX rocket hangs over a mailbag.

NARRATOR (V.O.): The Department of Government Efficiency had one simple philosophy: gut the federal government. Make government jobs so miserable, so soul-crushingly awful, that everyone would quit. And they did. Eighty-hour workweeks and no chairs will do that to you.

PAN TO: DRAFTING KIOSK A nervous RECRUIT (18, pale, trembling) stands before the kiosk, sweat dripping down his forehead. A holographic BALD EAGLE screeches. The screen flashes: “JOIN THE AMAZON USPS ELITE ARMY — DELIVERING THE FUTURE, TODAY!”

RECRUIT: I heard it zaps you if you… you know… daydream.

NEURALINK TECH: (leaning in, sinister) Oh, it zaps you for a lotta things, kid. Asking questions? That’s one.

RECRUIT: …But —

NEURALINK TECH: Careful. You’re about to get the deluxe light show.

The RECRUIT winces, reluctantly presses his thumb to the screen, and — BZZZT! The implant fires up, his neck jerking like a marionette’s.

NEURALINK TECH: (snickering) Welcome to the grind, kid. Hardcore workforce.

EXT. HIGHWAY 50 — DAY

A pothole-ridden wasteland of cracked asphalt and faded lane lines. A MONSTER ENERGY EXPRESSWAY sign leans precariously in the wind.

NARRATOR (V.O.): DARK MAGA’s tax cuts transformed the nation’s infrastructure into a tragic patchwork of bake sales and GoFundMe campaigns.

A sleek, dust-coated AUTONOMOUS CAR screeches to a halt — its front wheel vanishing into a crater-sized pothole. The DRIVER (45, disheveled, sleep-deprived) drags himself out. His tie flaps lazily as he scans a QR code tattooed into the asphalt. His phone dings with options. PHONE (DIGITAL VOICE) Thank you for supporting infrastructure! Choose one: A) Donate 5 FreedomCoin. B) Name this pothole after your brand. C) Drive into it and hope for viral content. The DRIVER sighs. He taps something, throws his coffee cup on the road, and slinks back to his car.

EXT. FLORIDA BEACH — DAY

A towering concrete wall slices the beach in two, casting jagged shadows over suntanned tourists and looming storm clouds. FLORIDA BORDER PATROL OFFICERS, decked out in tactical vests and Hawaiian shirts, clutch AR-15s like beach towels. On the other side of the wall? Alligators lurk, their reptilian eyes reflecting lightning.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Abraham Lincoln once said a house divided cannot stand. Dark MAGA said, “Let the states decide” on nearly every policy. It turns out, a house divided just needs a big beautiful walls between rooms and interstate immigration policies.

INT. SUPREME COURT — DAY

A glowing banner looms: “xAI — In Algorithms We Trust.” HOLOGRAPHIC JUSTICES that look like clippy flicker over the bench, their features distorted by glitches: KAVBOT 3000 tips a holographic beer stein. JUSTICE THOMASBOT PRIME slouches, Hawaiian shirt blending awkwardly into his robe.

NARRATOR (V.O.): They packed the Supreme Court with AI-powered justices to ensure… no replacements.

INT. SUPERMARKET — DAY

A modern-day battleground. Shelves rattle as shoppers sprint through aisles. A FATHER dives for a loaf of bread just as its price on an E-INK TAG flips from $5 to $50. He clutches it like a trophy, his kids cheering as he sprints for the exit.

NARRATOR (V.O.): In Dark MAGA’s America, FreedomCoin replaced the Dollar — energy-hungry, unbacked, and valued determined by the internet’s attention span. Cryptflation roared.

EXT. TIKTOK SERVER FARM — SUNSET

A monolithic server farm, shaped like an ancient pyramid, gleams in the fading light. Rows of exhaust vents shimmer like tombstones of civilization.

NARRATOR (V.O.): Yesterday, humanity built pyramids for kings. Today, we build server farms for digital immortality.

SPACECRAFT BLASTS OFF BEHIND THE SERVERS The exhaust from a SpaceX rocket drowns the skyline, leaving a haze of charred atmosphere and human resignation.

NARRATOR (V.O.): The future wasn’t stolen. We handed it over — one upload, one meme, one FreedomCoin transaction at a time.

END MONTAGE

EXT. ZEKE’S AMISH FARM — DUSK

The setting sun bathes the farm in warm golden light. Well-maintained barns stand amid sprawling fields. Discreet solar panels integrate seamlessly into the architecture. ZEKE YODER (34, lanky, with ‘big farmer hands’) adjusts a solar panel on the barn roof. He checks an iPhone 4 discreetly hidden in the panel’s frame, his expression tense yet focused. Below, a commotion near the farmhouse catches Zeke’s attention. AMISH TEENAGERS, gathered around RUTH (16, fiery and curious), are being sternly lectured by SAMUEL ‘THE HAMMER’ LAPP (50s, stern with a booming voice).

HAMMER: Five miles an hour! This is a no-trotting zone, and I won’t tell you again, Jacob! Racing horses is unseemly!

RUTH: (to Hammer) That’s not our way, Samuel.

JACOB (TEENAGER) Sorry, Mr. Lapp. We were just-Hammer’s piercing gaze shifts to Zeke on the roof. Zeke quickly stashes the iPhone.

HAMMER: You tread a fine line, Zeke. A very fine line.

Hammer strides off, shaking his head. RUTH rushes to Zeke, clutching a handcrafted wooden maze puzzle with a small dish of slime mold resting inside.

RUTH: Uncle Zeke, you have to see this. The slime mold solved the traveling farrier maze I made! My teacher said it would take a computer 10,000 years to figure out.

Zeke watches his fiery niece, pondering her words. Before he can respond, the distant hum of drones grows louder. A convoy of self-driving SUVs pulls up, emblazoned with corporate logos: ‘Meta Infrastructure Solutions,’ ‘TikTok Server Expansion Initiative,’ and ‘xAI Eminent Domain Assessment Division.’

MS. CHEN: (40s, sharp and efficient) steps out of the lead vehicle, holding a tablet. Behind her, a swarm of drones buzzes to life, scanning the property with mechanical precision.

By order of the United States Digital Infrastructure Act, this property has been flagged for seizure under Critical Digital Infrastructure Initiative 14.6. We’re here to conduct a survey and appraise the value.

ZEKE: This land feeds half the county. You can’t just show up and —

MS. CHEN: I assure you, Mr. Yoder, any acquisition will follow due legal process. You’ll receive an offer within… three weeks.

ZEKE: You ‘English’ want to replace soil with silicon. But our land’s not for sale.

MS. CHEN: Eminent domain isn’t a matter of sale, Mr. Yoder. It’s about societal value. And our metrics show this land — provides more value as a server farm than a source of… corn.

THE HAMMER: You mean TikTok dances and fuel for them devil rockets?

The drones hover over the barn and fields, scanning every inch. A few cows moo nervously as the buzzing intensifies. RUTH runs toward Zeke, panic in her voice.

RUTH: Uncle Zeke! They’re marking the field boundaries!

Zeke looks from Ruth to Chen, his jaw tightening. The Amish community, alerted by the noise, gathers near the barn. Elderly men clutch Bibles, younger men grip tools, their expressions resolute. No one speaks, but their unity is palpable.

MS. CHEN: Resistance, while colorful, will not change the outcome.

A drone swoops low, scanning the barn. Suddenly, a GOAT charges out of nowhere, headbutting the drone, which crashes into a barn violently. The crowd chuckles softly.

HAMMER: Guess the goats aren’t big on progress.

The Amish begin singing a hymn, their voices rising in haunting harmony. The tension between the ancient melody and the mechanical hum creates an eerie, powerful moment.

INT. DARK LORD MAGA’S COMPOUND — COMMAND CENTER — DAY

The compound is a cathedral to Musk’s ego. Empty Brawndo Energy Drink cans are scattered like discarded artifacts of Earth’s decadence. The massive chamber is dominated by holograms of Mars City. Its sleek domes stretch across the Martian landscape with a special five-dome section labeled ‘Kardashia.’ Tesla cybertrucks zip through virtual highways, and drones hum around simulated spaceports. DARK LORD MAGA (ELON MUSK) embodies descent into madness. His wiry hair juts out in uneven patches under a crooked ‘Mars or Bust’ hat. His gaunt, skeletal frame is draped in a faded Dark MAGA shirt, yellowed fingernails extending from hands that twitch compulsively. His exosuit WHIRS and SPASMS, neural uplinks blinking erratically. The sterile environment contrasts sharply with Musk’s personal neglect, his blotchy skin and wild beard a testament to years of Ozempic, weed, Ketamine, obsession and abuse.

MUSK: (Muttering to himself) Sterilization Protocol 69.420. Step one: UV sanitize the can for precisely 47 seconds. Step two: Rotate opener handle at a 12-degree angle. No contamination. No variables. Precision is key.

Musk pops a HarmonyFlow CBD gummy into his mouth, his trembling fingers tracing the holographic projection of Mars City.

MUSK: Sole Founder! A world without limits. A world without labor laws. Mars City… perfection.

Behind Musk, the chamber doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss. A fine mist of disinfectant sprays as KIM KARDASHIAN strides inside. Her tailored, futuristic white suit exudes command and polish. Her glowing LED hair extensions shimmer faintly, a subtle branding flex. Musk does not turn. Kim stands inside the door eyes distant and glued to her holo-screen. Her perfectly manicured nails tap impatiently in the air as she scrolls through comments.

KIM: (Snapping her fingers at a distant aide) Get that trending data up! My follower count is stagnant.

(beat) Elon, darling, my stylist does not appreciate chemical fogging.

MUSK: (Glancing at her, adjusting his uplinks) Necessary precautions. Airborne toxins disrupts my greatness.

Kim ignores him, approaching the Mars City hologram. Her eyes fixate on Kardashia, a flicker of longing in her expression.

MUSK: Behold! Mars City. A utopia for humanity. And Kardashia for the elite, your domain. Five domes of Yeezie curated perfection.

KIM: (Distracted, eyes still on her screen) You summoned me for more than a sales pitch, Elon. What do you want?

MUSK: I want the copresidency. I can make you relevant again. Instagram… TikTok.. and Snapchat, X, Truth Social.

Kim sighs dramatically, finally tearing her gaze away from her screen.

KIM: (mildly annoyed, arms crossed as the relevancy dig stings) Like, you’re basically richer than 20 countries combined, sorry, you can’t be Prez. Like, hello, you were born in Africa. I mean, babe, you’ve conquered more than Genghis Khan or like, Alexander the Grape or whoever.

gesturing dramatically

MUSK: (smirking) Bah copresidency! People used to think running the government meant dealing with Congress, courts, agencies. Waste of time.

Leaning back, Musk’s grin stretches wider as he embraces his vision of the future, the light from the Mars hologram casting his shadow long and distorted across the floor. They didn’t quit. They were erased. Keycards revoked. Systems reset. By morning, only my disciples had access. Musk pauses for a beat, a mirthless chuckle echoing through the vast chamber. I own the ledgers. OMB. Treasury. You know how many career bureaucrats are left? Four. A janitor, two IT guys, and some fossil in payroll who doesn’t know I automated him months ago. Musk gestures expansively to the Mars hologram, his finger brushing the cold light as if it were tangible — as if he could mold it with the mere touch of his hand. Earth has kings, presidents. On Mars, I am the SOLE Founder. No courts. No unions. No labor laws. Kim narrows her eyes, a flicker of calculation crossing her face. She glances back at her holographic screen, where her follower count ticks upward slightly. The chamber doors slam open. GOVERNOR ‘GATOR’ PRESTON storms in, boots echoing on the polished floor. His half-empty Brawndo Energy Drink (NOW WITH B1 AND TAURINE!) sloshes as he waves it angrily.

PRESTON: Elon! We’ve got a problem. This Critical Space Theory nonsense is riling up the good folks of Florida!

slamming the drink down

PRESTON: And that permicane — two years, Elon! Two damn years of hurricane parked off our coast! They’re saying it’s God’s punishment for… well, you know. Her ID was fake.

PRESTON: You promised me those budget cuts would fund my anti-Critical Space Theory curriculum! Now I’ve got kids learning the 38 pronouns of lizard people. It’s an insult to Florida’s gun lovin’ patriots!

MUSK: Mars is the future. The TerraExit is your salvation, Gator.

smiling sinisterly

MUSK: And once your voters sign the Star Seed genome contracts, they’ll thank you for the privilege.

PRESTON: Fine. But that hurricane’s killing my approval ratings. The voters are restless as a preacher’s wife at a dry county hoedown..

MUSK: Restless voters? Easy. Turn their fear into engagement. A trending challenge, a viral outrage cycle — keep them scrolling, keep them blind.

PRESTON: And how are we supposed to keep the server farms running and fuel your rockets when Earth’s running on fumes? You got a plan, or are we just squeezing the last drops of juice from a T-Rex’s fossilized balls? With the blackouts my voters….

MUSK: (smirking, interrupts which adjusting his uplinks) We burn what’s left to build what’s next. Mars is the escape plan, not the backup generator.

KIM KARDASHIAN: You can’t make an omelet without breaking some farms. Or whatever. A legacy is like eterna relevance.

MUSK: Of course, Madame President. Your domes. Your legacy.

The room buzzes with tension as the Mars City hologram glitches. Preston clutches his drink uneasily, his gaze flickering between the two.

PRESTON: I just want those damn permicanes gone. I hear a nuke will do it.

Musk shuffles back to his table, resuming his meticulous work on the can opening protocol. The three figures stand amidst the holograms, their schemes and very different interests casting three distinct long shadows across the sterile compound.

INT. CHURCH OF FLORIDA — CONFESSIONAL BOOTH — NIGHT

The confessional is sterile, clinical. The walls glow faintly, pulsing with the electric hum of LED scripture: “YOUR LEDGER SHALL BE JUDGED” and “HE WHO SOWS TO PLEASE HIS FLESH, FROM THE FLESH WILL REAP DESTRUCTION” (Galatians 6:8). GATOR PRESTON sits back in shadow, his chair high-backed, almost throne-like, a gaudy monstrosity with gold-plated edges carved into alligator scales. Between him and the parishioner kneeling on the other side of the steel mesh is nothing but silence and the faint red glow of the man’s Neuralink, pulsing with guilt.

PARISHIONER: (whispering, panicked) Governor Preston, I don’t wanna burn. I — I can’t burn.

Gator shifts, one boot scraping against the floor as he leans forward. The blue light of the Neuralink dashboard reflects in his cold eyes.

GATOR PRESTON: (flat) Ledger don’t lie. Says here: Critical Thinking Spike. 7:42 PM. Pleasure Center Activation. 7:43.

The parishioner flinches, his hands gripping his knees so tight the knuckles go white.

PARISHIONER: (pleading) It was a thought, just a thought. I didn’t mean it! I swear!

Gator smirks, tapping the dashboard. A holographic display spins up, showing a neural feed replay — grainy, fragmented, but undeniable. The screen flickers: flashes of a pornographic image, a lustful gaze lingering too long, and the flicker of doubt — a brief, dangerous moment of critical thinking.

GATOR PRESTON: (quiet, cutting) ‘The thought of foolishness is sin’ (Proverbs 24:9). You didn’t just think it. You lingered. You lusted. You doubted. Doubt’s the Devil’s (MORE)

GATOR PRESTON (CONT’D): favorite seed, brother, and you let it take root.

The parishioner bows his head, trembling.

PARISHIONER: I’ll pay. Whatever it takes. I’ll pay it.

Preston waves his hand, pulling up the CHURCH CHALLENGE MENU: BIRD BOX CHALLENGE: Walk blind by faith. Redemption Value: $1,000. FIRE CHALLENGE: Purify yourself through pain. Redemption Value: $3,000. BLACKOUT CHALLENGE: Prove your endurance. Redemption Value: $5,000. The parishioner stares at the options, his breath coming fast and shallow.

PARISHIONER: Please, there’s gotta be another way.

GATOR PRESTON: (voice drops, cold and final) No other way. Faith costs. Redemption costs. You pay here, or you burn later. You think Saint Peter’s gonna look at your ledger and let you slide? Think he’ll wave you in with that red mark hanging over your soul?

The parishioner shudders, tears streaming down his face.

PARISHIONER: (whispering) The blackout, then. I’ll do the blackout challenge.

Preston taps the screen, syncing the challenge to the Church’s livestream queue. A notification pings: “NEW EVENT: #RedeemingFaith LIVE NOW.” The steel door behind the parishioner creaks open. An ALTERGIRL, no older than sixteen, steps in silently. She’s dressed in a stark white robe, her Neuralink glowing faintly green. In her hands, she carries a thin, silver chain — a Holy Choker, its surface engraved with tiny scripture. The parishioner stiffens, his breath hitching. The Altergirl steps behind the parishioner, looping the choker around his neck with practiced precision. Her expression is blank, her movements mechanical, as if guided by the Neuralink. The parishioner struggles, his hands instinctively reaching up to claw at the chain.

GATOR PRESTON: (smooth, calm) ‘But I discipline my body and keep it under control’ (1 Corinthians 9:27). And tonight, we’re watchin’ it live. So smash that like an subscribe and if you really feel moved, here’s the offertory link.

The Altergirl pulls the chain tighter. The parishioner’s face flushes red, his breaths shallow and desperate. A small ring light camera mounted in the corner flicks on, capturing every moment for the Church’s monetized stream. The chat feed explodes with messages: “#FaithProven!” “Blessed be the Blockchain!” “ “ The parishioner gasps, his eyes rolling back. The choker’s scripture glows faintly, as if absorbing his struggle. The parishioner collapses, his body slack. The Altergirl releases the chain, and he slumps to the floor, wheezing and trembling.

GATOR PRESTON: (leaning forward, voice low) ‘I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live’ (Ezekiel 37:5).

Preston taps his dashboard, ending the livestream as the donation counter ticks upward: $50,000 RAISED.

FADE OUT

COOK: EXT. FLORIDA SWAMPLAND — EARLY MORNING

Thick fog coils over a quiet patch of backwater Florida. The buzzing of insects cuts through the stillness. An old, rust-streaked Winnebago squats among the trees, half-sunken in the muddy ground. Smoke curls lazily from a rigged stovepipe.

COOK: INT. WINNEBAGO — SAME TIME

Dim light flickers off makeshift copper stills and glass jars filled with ominous amber liquid. The air is thick with vapor.

CALEB: (muttering to himself) By the grace of Providence, this shall be an honest, pure, and humble product that performs as advertised. No adulterants. No powdered sheeps milk. No chili powder.

He leans over a bubbling kettle, stirring slowly with a wooden spoon.

CALEB: (still mumbling barely perceptable) Sinus tablets… just enough pseudoephedrine to produce the first pound. Then —

(beat) Switch to a proper phenyl-2-propanone method. The kettle hisses. Caleb flinches, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes flicker to a battered flip phone on the table. It buzzes. He lets it ring. Silence follows. Then — THUD. A noise outside. Caleb’s head snaps up.

COOK: EXT. WINNEBAGO — SAME TIME

A convoy of matte-black trucks creeps down the dirt path, barely making a sound. The vehicles bear a crude emblem: a golden alligator coiled around the Florida state seal. Armed men in tactical gear with ‘FLORIDA OATH KEEPERS’ patches fan out.

GOVERNOR GATOR PRESTON: PRESTON steps down from the lead truck, adjusting his tailored suit under a bulletproof vest. His gold-plated alligator cufflinks catch the light.

PRESTON: (to his men) No martyrs today. He’s shunned Amish, but he ain’t harmless.

COOK: INT. WINNEBAGO — CONTINUOUS

Caleb peers through a cracked window, eyes narrowing.

CALEB: (muttering) Lord help me.

He yanks up a floor hatch, revealing a muddy tunnel. He slides in and drops the hatch quietly behind him.

EXT. SWAMP — BEHIND THE WINNEBAGO

Caleb crawls out from beneath a camouflaged exit, scanning the treeline. He sprints through the underbrush —

CLICK.:

A shotgun clicks, cocked and ready.

GATOR PRESTON: GATOR PRESTON stands still, the barrel aimed squarely at Caleb. His militia surrounds them, weapons raised.

PRESTON: Son, this ain’t Rumspringa. No free pass.

Preston steps closer, boot crushing the damp earth.

PARKS MOVE: TEXAS BORDER CHECKPOINT — SUNSET

Travelers endure absurd border protocols, showcasing the fragmented and overly bureaucratic state of the nation. The Parks’ self-driving Tesla approaches a TEXAS BORDER WALL. The wall is a towering, chaotic mix of steel plates, barbed wire. A creepy old-vegas style sign with a cowboy tipping his hat is visible. A video screen under it flashes slogans: “No Avocado Toast Beyond This Point!” “Save the Planet Somewhere Else!” “DRILL, BABY, DRILL” A fleet of DRONES circles the area. Inside the Tesla, MR. PARK flips through a TEXAS IMMIGRATION GUIDE, its cover adorned with a grinning cartoon cowboy holding a rifle in one hand and a Bible in the other. The tagline reads: “How to Thrive in Texas”

MR. PARK: Step one: Declare your allegiance to Texan values. Step two: enroll in naturalization class.

MRS. PARK: (interupts) Step three: Barefoot, pregnant, and praising the Alamo. Got it.

The kids, TAYLOR and ALEX, peek over his shoulder.

TAYLOR: Why are there ultrasounds at the border?

The car stops at a SMART CHECKPOINT BOOTH manned by BUCK THE BORDERBOT, a holographic cowboy AI with exaggerated charm and a smile that’s a little to wide. Behind him, a real GUARD in tactical gear stands by with a flamethrower which drips an occasional flame. A LASER grid scans over MR. PARK’s face repeatedly.

BUCK THE BORDERBOT: Howdy, y’all! Before you are granted entry, we must establish moral and patriotic fitness.

BUCK THE BORDERBOT: First question: Why do you think drag shows are destroying America?

ALEX: (sarcastically) Um… sequins are a gateway drug?

BUCK THE BORDERBOT: (sharply) Correct. Next: What year did Jesus sign the Constitution?

MR. PARK: Uh… 1776?

BUCK THE BORDERBOT: Incorrect! Jesus wasn’t at the signing — he sent John Adams as a proxy. But I’ll allow it, since y’all are new here.

The scanner beeps approvingly, and BUCK THE BORDERBOT gestures grandly as the gates groan open.

BUCK THE BORDERBOT: Welcome to Texas, partners! Just remember: here in the Lone Star State, freedom reigns.

ALEX: Smell the freedom and barbecue.

PREZ DEBATE: INT. SOCIAL STREAMING ARENA — NIGHT — LIVE

DEBATE:

Kim faces off against Snooki in a chaotic meme-fueled debate, moderated by an elderly Joe Rogan, with absurdly shallow political points. The SOCIAL STREAMING ARENA is alive with neon lights and digital ticker tapes displaying trending hashtags. The stage is set with two debate podiums and a high-tech Social Meter tracking live reactions. In the center is a third podium, where ELDERLY JOE ROGAN, spry and sharp-witted despite his age, adjusts his holographic headset.

ELDERLY JOE ROGAN: Alright, listen up, digital citizens — welcome to the debate of the decade! And here’s the wild part: your donations? They can literally silence the candidates. You don’t like what they’re saying? Boom, mute ‘em! So fire up those digital wallets, folks. This is gonna be insane!

The audience cheers, their AR glasses projecting emoticons above their heads. SNOOKI, pumped and poised, steps toward her podium, while KIM KARDASHIAN, calm and glam, takes hers.

SNOOKI: I’ll turn this economy around faster than a GTL session — Gym, Tan, Legislate, baby! One day one: 46 executive orders, 16 memorandums and 10 proclamations. I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

KIM KARDASHIAN: It’s time to reimagine governance. I’ll livestream every day and the people will see like through digital transparency! Every moment of presidential life — from policy meetings to midnight snack breaks — will be broadcast. It will be ‘Keeping Up with the Commander-in-Chief.’ You guys don’t just get a leader; you’ll like get an immersive, 24/7 presidential experience and state dinner makeup tips!

A donation alert flashes, and SNOOKI’s podium goes silent mid-slogan. The Social Meter swings in KIM’s favor as uneasy laughter spreads across the audience.

ELDERLY JOE ROGAN: Oh, man! Looks like Kim’s fans are literally putting their money where Snooki’s mouth is. Snooki — boom — you’re muted! That’s wild!

SNOOKI’s face falls as she furiously gestures, trying to pantomime her policies. KIM, seizing the moment, steps forward with a triumphant grin.

KIM KARDASHIAN: As I was saying, let’s shoot for the stars! Imagine, Kardashia, a cosmic oasis where every selfie beams with interstellar beauty. Who wouldn’t want to live in a society curated by yours truly?

CUT TO:

PREZ DEBATE: INT. TRADWIFE KITCHEN — NIGHT

EMILY ANN NEELEMAN, a woman in her late 30s with a serene smile and perfectly coiffed hair vintage dress and heels, stands in the kitchen, surrounded by the warm glow of LED lamps. She’s stirring a pot of homemade soup, her movements graceful and deliberate. A holographic screen flickers in the corner, displaying the debate.

EMILY ANN: (Shaking her head softly) She’s so 2000s and… those clothes… so industrial factory. Gross.

She glances at her children, who are playing quietly on the floor with handcrafted wooden toys. A faint smile touches her lips.

CUT BACK TO:

PREZ DEBATE: INT. SOCIAL STREAMING ARENA — NIGHT — LIVE

DEBATE:

Just as the donation meter threatens to break from skyrocketing support for KIM, an underdog donation springs SNOOKI’s podium to life. She blurts out.

SNOOKI: (grinning, tossing her hair) Listen, everyone’s mad and stressed all the time. So here’s the deal — self care Fridays. You leave work early, go get your nails done, hit the gym, maybe a spray tan. Chill out so we’re not, like, flipping out on each other.

KIM’s smile falters as the donation meter halts its climb, and digital confetti explodes over SNOOKI. The audience gasps, torn between disbelief and hysterical laughter.

ELDERLY JOE ROGAN: (leaning in,serious) What a time to be alive, man. OK — COVID-2040 is mutating like crazy, man. What’s the move? How are you gonna protect Americans from this thing?

KIM KARDASHIAN: (smooth, confident) Okay, first — Mars stays clean. Full quarantine before anyone leaves Earth. Two weeks, no excuses. Health is about the vibe. We can’t bring old problems to new worlds.

ELDERLY JOE ROGAN: (turning to Snooki) Snooki, your plan?

SNOOKI: (shrugs, smirking) Look, shuttin’ everything down didn’t work. People need vitamins, fresh air, and yeah — keep the gyms open. Just clean ’em better. We can’t hide from germs, ya gotta fight ‘em.

Laughter and applause. The crowd connects with her no-nonsense tone. Snooki’s screen abruptly switches off. The Social Meter leaps in Kim’s direction, spectators hoot and whoop, hands in the air, keystrokes making donations fly.

CUT TO:

PREZ DEBATE: INT. ZEKE’S FARMHOUSE — NIGHT

The main room is dimly lit by oil lamps, casting long shadows on the worn wooden furniture. ZEKE, his brow furrowed in concentration, tinkers with a disassembled drone on the kitchen table. A small, battery-powered television crackles with the debate. A LITTLE GIRL, around five years old, with bright curious eyes and braided hair, tugs at Zeke’s sleeve.

LITTLE GIRL: Uncle Zeke, why is that lady’s hair glowing? Is she an angel?

ZEKE: Zeke pauses, a flicker of sadness crossing his face.

No, klein kind, she’s not an angel. That’s just… the way they are in the English world with everything using electricity and grabbin attention. Zeke sighs, gently patting her head. The faint sounds of hymn singing drift through the night air.

FADE OUT

VOTE: INT. VOTING CENTER — DAY

Voters stand before sleek machines, overseen by stern attendants. The voting booths are emblazoned with: “STOP THE STEAL”

ATTENDANT: Next.

A nervous CITIZEN steps forward.

HOLOGRAPHIC VOICE: Welcome, patriot. Please insert your finger into the DNA verifier.

The Citizen complies, wincing as a needle extracts a sample.

CITIZEN: Glad my Waymo is synched to the national gerrymandering system! I got rerouted on the way twice.

HOLOGRAPHIC VOICE: DNA verified. Proceeding to security questions. Please state your answer.

A red light scans the Citizen’s face, analyzing micro-expressions after each answer.

HOLOGRAPHIC VOICE: City where you were born.

CITIZEN: Monowi, Nebraska

Do you believe that America should prioritize its citizens over immigrants?

CITIZEN: Yes

What’s your favorite second amendment? Number of hours you work a week? (beat)

PAN QUICKLY TO:

VOTE: INT. VOTING CENTER — DAY (CONTINUOUS)

INFLUENCER: Out of the way, I’m here to cast a vote!

SECURITY GUARD: Sir, ma’am, there’s a process. You need to wait your turn. Cap.

INFLUENCER: (clearly pronouncing the V) I bought VSA precheck.

FADE OUT: MONTAGE — ELECTION WIN SPINNING TWEETS AND POSTS An old-timey tune plays as tweets, posts, and livestream notifications spin into view like newspapers of old. Each one freezes briefly before spinning away. — @RealityPrezAlert: “Kim SLAYS the polls! Snooki OUT! #PrezKardashian #OnFleek” — @ViralVotes420: “IT’S OFFICIAL: Kim K is our new Commander-in-CHIC! #Election2040 #YassQueen” — @DramaDropz: “Snooki TAN-trum? Watch her meltdown LIVE! #Turnt” — @TheShadeRoomPolitics: “Snooki who? Kim snaps, Snooks

CRASHES.: #GameOver #Savage”

— @newsbruh “Snooks got ratioed. #ByeFelicia” The tweets fade out with a triumphant chime as the montage ends, leading into the next scene.

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Originally published at https://gideonzettabyte.substack.com.