mooooooooooods!!!!! MODS!!!!!!
My favorite little subgenre of the occult is "Fake Martial Arts" because what if that was the one type of magic that was literally 100% real. I love the idea that there's some dude in a strip mall dojo named Sensei Todd Wayne who can teach you how to kill birds with ki blasts.
I'm not sure if you've mentioned this before, what's the situation in the UK (or what's left of it) if you know?
choose all that apply:
- it's just London and various shitty tourist traps now
- given to Ireland as a joke
- the Dutch said 'fuck it' and resurfaced Doggerland
- British monarchists scattered to the winds to cause trouble and now play the role of random low-level goons, like goblins
- they mined too much coal and the whole thing sank
‘tia viro’ (an Esperanto phrase, literally meaning ‘such a man’ or ‘that kind of man,’ feminine tia virino[1]) has become an everyday phrase in future-English. Whenever you see a guy making a big deal about their coffee order, wearing an ahegao hoodie, or putting a picture of a fish on their dating profile, you’ll also find a bystander rolling their eyes and muttering “tia viro,” almost like a protective incantation - there but for the grace of Cringe go I.
[1] for nonbinary people you can choose from over a dozen hotly-debated affixes; Esperanto having never-ending debates about gender and linguistics has, if anything, made it look more like a ‘real’ language
“And you’d be the guy in charge. You’d be the five-star general eating steak and eggs while the grunts follow your orders to the letter. Hell, you could be a six-star general!” Sunny traced a hand across the screen, leaving a trail of six sparkling stars. She took a moment to smile admiringly at her creation.
“That’s not a real thing,” Jacob said.
“It is now. I’m the president, I can give you as many stars as I want, and I’m feeling like six. So what do you say?”
“Hm.” He paused to pull out a vape from his pocket and take a puff. “If I do, I imagine I’d you’d ask me to ‘tone it down’ and keep things more presentable?”
“I mean, look,” Sunny waved her hand in the other direction, tossing the stars offscreen, “yes, there are concerns about optics, and I don’t know how to say this delicately so let’s just rip this bandage off. I know you think the whole ‘femboy maids’ thing is cute and playful but it kinda makes you look like a child molester.”
Jacob shook his head and spluttered with surprise. “That was uncalled for. And the guy you saw was like, twenty,” he said.
“You’re like forty.”
Jacob crossed his arms, almost pouting. “This is homophobia. I’m being hate crimed by the president.”
(part three)
Tucked away in a sleepy corner of central Michigan, an abandoned mall had been transformed into the town of Webersberg. The crumbling ceiling above the concourses had been stripped, making a cluster of closely-packed buildings, and the expansive walkways exposed to the elements were now lined with trees and raised gardens. The empty boutiques had been repurposed into dormitories, offices, a clinic, a school, and a few simple stores. There was something humbling about it, like a medieval village sheltered beneath the ruins of a Roman basilica. One might wonder if the mall was happier now in its new incarnation, if it preferred to be filled with life rather than than gold.
Liam did not wonder. He lived there, and he found it stultifying. He hated living in a fishbowl, always going to the same places with the same people, few of whom cared to give him the time of day. He hated knowing that there was a whole world out there and he was stuck out in the manors[1]. He hated the maudlin isolation of being the only queer kid who hadn’t gotten the hell out of Webersberg, and most of all he hated knowing that he could get out too if he wasn’t a coward.
He had this conversation with himself every morning, and he knew that if he stayed in bed he’d just keep moping. He got up from his creaky mattress and turned toward the plywood dresser next to his bed. He took the small mirror that was sitting on top and looked at himself. He was on the pale side of white, with thin shoulders and scruffy black hair.[2] After a failed attempt to smooth down his bed-head, he set the mirror down and pulled out the top drawer of the dresser.
Tucked in the corner of the drawer behind neatly-folded socks and underwear, there was a small bottle of black nail polish that he had picked up from a GLN dole[3] a few months ago. Women usually snatched up all the cosmetics, so he was excited to get something for himself. He had daydreamed about putting it on, but there it sat, unopened and gathering dust.
There was a knock at the door. It was his father, Roy. “Liam! You decent?”
“Gimme a minute,” Liam called back. He grabbed some clothes - jeans and a plain t-shirt, clothing as neutral as water - and threw them on.
“Alright, what’s up?”
His father opened the door, grinning wide. “You good to work at the diner today?”
“It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”
“It sure is, and there’s gonna be a road-and-rail crew[4] stopping by for the day. You know what that means.”
To his dad, it meant money. His dad managed the local Denny’s, which meant that he had tricked himself into believing he was a pillar of the community, and not just another petty grinder.
“It means I’ll get harassed by drunk shitheads all day. Great. Fun,” Liam groaned. He looked at his dad, hoping for something, something like ‘I understand you don’t like it but I need the extra help,’ or ‘sorry to impose on you.’ Liam was only twenty years old and still naive like that.
“So you good to go?” his dad said.
Liam rubbed his forehead. In truth, he really didn’t have much else to do, and didn’t have any friends to hang out with. At least he wouldn’t be alone all day if he was at work. Plus, he kind of liked wearing the apron.
“Fine, whatever,” he said, feeling like he had lost a battle against himself.
The place wasn’t exactly bustling when he got there. It was still morning, and the only people there were a few old couples having breakfast, along with Kieth, the already-high line cook, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Hey dude. You alright?” Kieth asked, following Liam as he went into the kitchen.
“What gave it away?” Liam sighed.
Kieth shook his head. “I just felt your vibes. You’ve got the sads all around you. Anyway, I got some news I think’ll cheer you up. Guess who’s coming to town?”
Liam tried, but couldn’t even think of a good guess. “Who?”
“Fuckin JMR, dude.”
Liam’s sleepy eyes snapped wide open. He was suddenly breathless with excitement, so excited that his voice got higher and thinner. “Seriously?”
Keith nodded. Liam let out an excited squeak, then heard his father clear his throat behind him. He whirled around, already guessing what was coming, and his beaming smile twisted down into a rebellious frown.
“Now, son. You know how your mom feels about that man.”
“My mom thinks I’ll stop being a fag if I don’t meet other fags,” Liam spat. The words seem to burst out of him, he didn’t say them so much as he failed to keep them bottled up.
“Whoa, that’s heavy,” Kieth said.
“Kieth, shut up. Liam, listen. It’s not like that. It’s for your own protection. That man is a creep and a pervert, he-“
“God, spare me,” Liam huffed. He had finally run out of patience. His body trembled with adrenaline and pent-up anger, and it felt intoxicatingly good. “It’s all about ‘toughening me up’ and ‘making me a man’ until there’s another gay person around and then suddenly I need to be ‘protected.’ Just be honest and say you wish I wasn’t a queer.”
Kieth discreetly sipped his coffee. Roy pursed his lips and took deep, silent breaths. As far as Liam was concerned, it was an admission of guilt.
“Well? Anything to say for yourself?” Liam said.
“Hark!” A voice suddenly boomed from the dining area. It was a deep, smooth, commanding voice, the type of voice fit for a starship captain.
A man had just entered the Denny’s, a man with tan skin and dirty blond hair dressed in deliriously fancy clothing. He wore an aristocratic embroidered blue jacket with epaulets, tall black boots with stiletto heels, and form-fitting white riding pants of the style sometimes known as jodhpurs. His hair, soft and well-cared for even from a distance, was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and a short and neatly trimmed beard lined his face. Hitched to his belt, an ornate saber rested in its scabbard. He looked like an old cavalry officer or Prussian aristocrat who had somehow stumbled into the year 206X, and his name was Jacob Martin Rider - JMR for short.
○○○○○
[1] ‘The manors’ is a slang term for rural areas which are generally too distant and sparsely-populated to be under the full purview of the central state authority; places where heaven is high and the emperor is far away, cf. The sticks, the boonies, the peasants, etc.
[2] You didn’t hear it from us but he looks a little like the doomer boy wojak.
[3] The ‘GLN dole’ refers to the Global Logistics Network’s practice of buying up unwanted consumer goods from distributors and distributing it amongst the manors. This effectively acts as a subsidy for (GLN-owned) distributors and lets them pretend that they’re still serious about wealth redistribution. Everyone involved wins and the GLN is duly thanked for its beneficence.
[4] Road-and-rail crews are itinerant laborers sent off to the middle of nowhere to dig up disused highways and lay down new railroad lines, hence the name. The work is physically demanding and socially isolating, but well-compensated. They have the typical reputation one would expect of itinerant laborers, i.e. drunken trouble-making shitkickers.
(part three)
Tucked away in a sleepy corner of central Michigan, an abandoned mall had been transformed into the town of Webersberg. The crumbling ceiling above the concourses had been stripped, making a cluster of closely-packed buildings, and the expansive walkways exposed to the elements were now lined with trees and raised gardens. The empty boutiques had been repurposed into dormitories, offices, a clinic, a school, and a few simple stores. There was something humbling about it, like a medieval village sheltered beneath the ruins of a Roman basilica. One might wonder if the mall was happier now in its new incarnation, if it preferred to be filled with life rather than than gold.
Liam did not wonder. He lived there, and he found it stultifying. He hated living in a fishbowl, always going to the same places with the same people, few of whom cared to give him the time of day. He hated knowing that there was a whole world out there and he was stuck out in the manors[1]. He hated the maudlin isolation of being the only queer kid who hadn’t gotten the hell out of Webersberg, and most of all he hated knowing that he could get out too if he wasn’t a coward.
He had this conversation with himself every morning, and he knew that if he stayed in bed he’d just keep moping. He got up from his creaky mattress and turned toward the plywood dresser next to his bed. He took the small mirror that was sitting on top and looked at himself. He was on the pale side of white, with thin shoulders and scruffy black hair.[2] After a failed attempt to smooth down his bed-head, he set the mirror down and pulled out the top drawer of the dresser.
Tucked in the corner of the drawer behind neatly-folded socks and underwear, there was a small bottle of black nail polish that he had picked up from a GLN dole[3] a few months ago. Women usually snatched up all the cosmetics, so he was excited to get something for himself. He had daydreamed about putting it on, but there it sat, unopened and gathering dust.
There was a knock at the door. It was his father, Roy. “Liam! You decent?”
“Gimme a minute,” Liam called back. He grabbed some clothes - jeans and a plain t-shirt, clothing as neutral as water - and threw them on.
“Alright, what’s up?”
His father opened the door, grinning wide. “You good to work at the diner today?”
“It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”
“It sure is, and there’s gonna be a road-and-rail crew[4] stopping by for the day. You know what that means.”
To his dad, it meant money. His dad managed the local Denny’s, which meant that he had tricked himself into believing he was a pillar of the community, and not just another petty grinder.
“It means I’ll get harassed by drunk shitheads all day. Great. Fun,” Liam groaned. He looked at his dad, hoping for something, something like ‘I understand you don’t like it but I need the extra help,’ or ‘sorry to impose on you.’ Liam was only twenty years old and still naive like that.
“So you good to go?” his dad said.
Liam rubbed his forehead. In truth, he really didn’t have much else to do, and didn’t have any friends to hang out with. At least he wouldn’t be alone all day if he was at work. Plus, he kind of liked wearing the apron.
“Fine, whatever,” he said, feeling like he had lost a battle against himself.
The place wasn’t exactly bustling when he got there. It was still morning, and the only people there were a few old couples having breakfast, along with Kieth, the already-high line cook, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Hey dude. You alright?” Kieth asked, following Liam as he went into the kitchen.
“What gave it away?” Liam sighed.
Kieth shook his head. “I just felt your vibes. You’ve got the sads all around you. Anyway, I got some news I think’ll cheer you up. Guess who’s coming to town?”
Liam tried, but couldn’t even think of a good guess. “Who?”
“Fuckin JMR, dude.”
Liam’s sleepy eyes snapped wide open. He was suddenly breathless with excitement, so excited that his voice got higher and thinner. “Seriously?”
Keith nodded. Liam let out an excited squeak, then heard his father clear his throat behind him. He whirled around, already guessing what was coming, and his beaming smile twisted down into a rebellious frown.
“Now, son. You know how your mom feels about that man.”
“My mom thinks I’ll stop being a fag if I don’t meet other fags,” Liam spat. The words seem to burst out of him, he didn’t say them so much as he failed to keep them bottled up.
“Whoa, that’s heavy,” Kieth said.
“Kieth, shut up. Liam, listen. It’s not like that. It’s for your own protection. That man is a creep and a pervert, he-“
“God, spare me,” Liam huffed. He had finally run out of patience. His body trembled with adrenaline and pent-up anger, and it felt intoxicatingly good. “It’s all about ‘toughening me up’ and ‘making me a man’ until there’s another gay person around and then suddenly I need to be ‘protected.’ Just be honest and say you wish I wasn’t a queer.”
Kieth discreetly sipped his coffee. Roy pursed his lips and took deep, silent breaths. As far as Liam was concerned, it was an admission of guilt.
“Well? Anything to say for yourself?” Liam said.
“Hark!” A voice suddenly boomed from the dining area. It was a deep, smooth, commanding voice, the type of voice fit for a starship captain.
A man had just entered the Denny’s, a man with tan skin and dirty blond hair dressed in deliriously fancy clothing. He wore an aristocratic embroidered blue jacket with epaulets, tall black boots with stiletto heels, and form-fitting white riding pants of the style sometimes known as jodhpurs. His hair, soft and well-cared for even from a distance, was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and a short and neatly trimmed beard lined his face. Hitched to his belt, an ornate saber rested in its scabbard. He looked like an old cavalry officer or Prussian aristocrat who had somehow stumbled into the year 206X, and his name was Jacob Martin Rider - JMR for short.
○○○○○
[1] ‘The manors’ is a slang term for rural areas which are generally too distant and sparsely-populated to be under the full purview of the central state authority; places where heaven is high and the emperor is far away, cf. The sticks, the boonies, the peasants, etc.
[2] You didn’t hear it from us but he looks a little like the doomer boy wojak.
[3] The ‘GLN dole’ refers to the Global Logistics Network’s practice of buying up unwanted consumer goods from distributors and distributing it amongst the manors. This effectively acts as a subsidy for (GLN-owned) distributors and lets them pretend that they’re still serious about wealth redistribution. Everyone involved wins and the GLN is duly thanked for its beneficence.
[4] Road-and-rail crews are itinerant laborers sent off to the middle of nowhere to dig up disused highways and lay down new railroad lines, hence the name. The work is physically demanding and socially isolating, but well-compensated. They have the typical reputation one would expect of itinerant laborers, i.e. drunken trouble-making shitkickers.
Daddy has a very special task for you today kitten, so he's going to need alllll of your attention and submission ❤️😈 That's a good girl. Now, first thing's first, look at this parts diagram for a 2009 Toyota Prius. Do you see the part labeled "catalytic converter"?
Anonymous asked:
talking about your ocs is spec fic if their psychosexual fixations are weird enough. just ask jg ballard
So - this will tie in eventually, let it cook - so I have a habit of being coy with myself when I start writing something, being like “okay yeah one day I’ll turn this into a novel or serial fiction or something but in the meantime I’ll just Post until I actually figure out what I’m getting at here,” like when you put “not for novel” at the top of a document to keep yourself from taking it too seriously, and usually I’ll give up on whatever I’m starting after a couple weeks and then try something else.
I did not give up on manorpunk. It’s corny to admit, but it actually all started because I made a new year’s resolution to start a writing project, share it, and not drop it the first time I felt embarrassed about it, and then I read Robert Kurvitz’s outro statement from the Disco Elysium artbook. I’ve stuck with manorpunk for almost six months by now, which given my track record is a small miracle.
Six months has been long enough for me to realize that I will, at some point, have to pick a side - is this a materially informed spec fic or a way to put silly characters in a jar and shake them? Am I gesturing toward some deeper point here, or is all this just a pastiche? After much thought, I have decided that I will take whatever side the gay little freaks are on, because gay little freaks are among the best and kindest people I have ever met, and because when I asked myself “what is manorpunk?” the most satisfying answer that I’ve found is “it’s the story of the gay little freaks that I’ve trapped inside of some Victoria 3 mod”
yes I’m playing to the crowd but that’s because 1. I have a habit of wanting to do everything all at once and do it all perfectly so it’s important to remind myself what I actually enjoy writing and 2. I’m genuinely grateful for everyone who has read and enjoyed this so far. It’s such a pleasure to be vulnerable enough to share a creative thing that I care about and be complimented for it. I’m kissing you on the lips right now
Anonymous asked:
talking about your ocs is spec fic if their psychosexual fixations are weird enough. just ask jg ballard
So - this will tie in eventually, let it cook - so I have a habit of being coy with myself when I start writing something, being like “okay yeah one day I’ll turn this into a novel or serial fiction or something but in the meantime I’ll just Post until I actually figure out what I’m getting at here,” like when you put “not for novel” at the top of a document to keep yourself from taking it too seriously, and usually I’ll give up on whatever I’m starting after a couple weeks and then try something else.
I did not give up on manorpunk. It’s corny to admit, but it actually all started because I made a new year’s resolution to start a writing project, share it, and not drop it the first time I felt embarrassed about it, and then I read Robert Kurvitz’s outro statement from the Disco Elysium artbook. I’ve stuck with manorpunk for almost six months by now, which given my track record is a small miracle.
Six months has been long enough for me to realize that I will, at some point, have to pick a side - is this a materially informed spec fic or a way to put silly characters in a jar and shake them? Am I gesturing toward some deeper point here, or is all this just a pastiche? After much thought, I have decided that I will take whatever side the gay little freaks are on, because gay little freaks are among the best and kindest people I have ever met, and because when I asked myself “what is manorpunk?” the most satisfying answer that I’ve found is “it’s the story of the gay little freaks that I’ve trapped inside of some Victoria 3 mod”
there’s a distinct transition going on here from “spec fic” to “talkin about my ocs” but anyway Maria now has a personal stenographer named Amanda, and Amanda does voice steno so her face is always covered with a hands-free stenography mask so wherever Maria goes there’s always this creepy white lady standing still in the corner and whispering into a mask. Maria insists that it is in fact not a weird sex thing but many remain unconvinced.
weird hyperspecialized goons that reflect their employer’s psychosexual fixations are now a load-bearing element of manorpunk
there’s a distinct transition going on here from “spec fic” to “talkin about my ocs” but anyway Maria now has a personal stenographer named Amanda, and Amanda does voice steno so her face is always covered with a hands-free stenography mask so wherever Maria goes there’s always this creepy white lady standing still in the corner and whispering into a mask. Maria insists that it is in fact not a weird sex thing but many remain unconvinced.
So, is there a Shady Roosevelt?
Sunny would absolutely have a nemesis-doppelgänger named Shady that’s clearly just her in a mask and it’s all pleasantly goofy fun and games until she starts trying to use Shady as a scapegoat for policy failures and/or corruption charges
President Sunny Roosevelt’s true name and identity remain unknown, supposedly due to ‘security concerns.’ In truth, her identity is kept secret thanks to a legal loophole - when Sunny became an official Disney princess, her physical likeness was copyrighted by Disneystadt, and one would presume that they are closely guarding their intellectual property. When asked for comment, Sunny replied “they keep me in the secret vault with all the porn their animators drew.”
(I hope you’ve been enjoying the worldbuilding and character development because the next bit will be about femboy maids)
credit to @caesarsaladinn for the tags but “aesthetic of a dying generic corporate suburban community” describes the intended vibe of the manors better than I ever have
(part 2)
The Bible, the Vedas, the Daodejing - the universal truth towards which all these works grasp is neither god nor heaven, but rather, the state-structure. Humanity makes states the same way that ants make hills and bees make hives: unthinkingly, instinctively, irrepressibly. Family, culture, community - all of these are the different cells of the state-structure replicating themselves in our every experience. Let go of sentiment, become subsumed in the world around you, and you too will see the veins of the state-structure.
- Excerpt from Authoritarianism is Good when I Do It, by Maria von Zuckerberg-Lorraine
“Thank you! Xiexie! Multajn Dankojn! Thank you to all my voters and subscribers for your support, mwah!”
Sunny blew a kiss to the unfathomable audience watching her morning updates and affirmations from the other side of a screen.
“This is so exciting, and I couldn’t have done it without you. To celebrate, there’s a 25% off sale for the entire - that’s right, the entire merch store, and we’ve added three new body pillow designs to commemorate the occasion! If you’ve ever wanted to snuggle up close with your new president, now’s your chance. Okay, I have to go now, lots of presidential business to attend to, but don’t get up to trouble while I’m gone, mmkay? Love you! Byeeee!”
The live feed ended. Three thousand miles away, in a Bay Area penthouse apartment, Maria von Zuckerberg-Lorraine regarded what she had just seen. She turned to her bot-ler, a squat old model that she had nicknamed ‘Torgo.’
“Your gin, madam,” Torgo said through a speaker that crackled with age, carrying a bottle of gin and a chilled glass on the flat top of its frame.
“Thank you, Torgo.” Maria poured herself a drink and took a sip. “Can you believe it? Her first act as president is shilling her body pillows to lonely teenagers. I ought to hate it, but it’s so… American.” Maria tossed her hair back and took another sip.
Maria was tall, a hair over six feet, and broad in the shoulders and hips. She was a celebrated member of the Worshipful Order of Posters (more commonly referred to as the Poster’s Union), and the author of numerous lengthy treatises, including Good Things are Bad Actually, I am the Only Smart Person on This Bitch of an Earth, and of course her evergreen bestseller Authoritarianism is Good when I Do It. She was a controversial figure within the posting scene - her detractors claimed that her works are overly self-serving and her popularity is largely due to her evil milf aesthetics, while her supporters referred to her as ‘mommy.’
“Hello, Maria!” Sunny said.
“Hello, Sunny,” Maria replied. She started to take another sip of gin, then froze. There was Sunny, looming on her display screen where she had not been looming just a moment before.
“Fuck! How did you - I didn’t even hear you call,” Maria said, fumbling with her glass as she tried not to spill anything.
“So, funny story, I got access to the presidential broadcast system this morning. Gabe - he’s my tech guy - Gabe took a look at it. Turns out, the code hasn’t been updated in a while, so he was able to find an exploit that lets me force-start a call with anyone in the American League! Isn’t that cool?” Sunny grinned, clasping her hands and tilting back and forth with excitement. Colorful little hearts floated around her.
“So what you’re saying is that you hacked me.”
“No, no, no, I just accessed your connection without your knowledge or consent.”
“Literally that’s… never mind. Not like privacy law means anything nowadays,” Maria hid her frown behind another sip.
“Are you drinking?” Sunny asked.
Maria set her glass back on top of Torgo and laid back in her chair, as if pushed over a heavy existential weight. “The Global Logistics Network has automated away half the jobs in existence and gamified the other half. Aivrcade’s VR worlds are more popular than every other video game and most hard drugs combined. The whole world is turning into one big Skinner box. Why aren’t you drinking?”
“Because it’s like nine thirty in the morning. Listen, I was thinking about offering you a job, but you’re being kind of a bummer right now and it’s making me reconsider.”
Maria sat up. “A job? What job?”
“Oh, you know, Secretary of Education.”
Maria blinked. “As in, your Secretary of Education? As in, you’re offering me an executive cabinet position?”
Sunny nodded. “Why so surprised? You’re smart, you’re popular, and you’re an established name in the Poster’s Union. Sounds like a good candidate to me. That is, until I saw you being surly and drinking alone.”
“Wait. I…”
“Yes?” Sunny leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands.
"So you... hmm." Maria crossed her arms. She knew what Sunny wanted her to say, but her soul could tell that she was getting ready to sell it, and it wasn’t going to leave without a fight.
“Alright," she finally said, "how, may I ask, could I be less of a bummer?”
“Funny you should ask, you just have to answer some questions I have prepared for such an occasion. Question one: did you vote for me?”
Maria drummed her fingers. “I voted for the ghost of John Brown, as I have done for every presidential election. But you were my second.”
“Good enough, I appreciate the honesty. Question two: praise me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Praise me. Min laŭdu. Shake it for the camera so I know how bad you really want it.”
Maria’s fingers clenched around her biceps. “That’s not a question.”
“You’re right, it’s an order. Now get praising,” Sunny said, her smile still warm and bright.
“Alright, alright, fine. You’re… the least likely candidate to start world war three. Marcus believed his own bullshit, but you strike me as a plain and simple grifter.”
Sunny put a finger to her chin and glanced up in an exaggerated pondering gesture. “Hmm. That doesn’t really feel like a compliment. You’ll have to do better.”
“You’re… dedicated, and charismatic.”
“More. Keep going.”
“And… bespoke. You wear the zeitgeist like a glove.”
“And I’m cute.”
“And you’re cute,” Maria sighed.
“That wasn't very convincing. Say it again.”
Maria bit back a scowl. “You are cute.”
“Yay! That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
“It was very hard and I feel dirty. Any more questions?"
“Nah, I'm satisfied now.”
“Then as long as I’ve got your attention, I have some new policy suggestions,” Maria brushed off the dirty feelings as snatched up her tabule, opened a document, and began reading aloud. “One: no more World War 2 movies.”
“That can wait until - sorry, what?”
“It’s been over a century!" Maria threw her hands up in exasperation, “It's time to move on, we drained that well dry, we should make movies about something else already. Two: if you’re talking about America you can’t cite de Tocqueville anymore. Same principal applies here, it’s overdone, please just read anyone else.”
“Ahem. You can just send me the list. I’ll be going soon, I have plenty of other people I need to call today,” Sunny said.
“Oh? Who’s the next person you’re going to ambush with a high-ranking job?”
“Oh, you know…” Sunny flashed a defensive smile, “JMR, to be my Secretary of Defense.”
Maria’s face went icy. “JMR? As in Jacob Martin Rider? That tiresome creep will be in charge of our defense? That manor-lord? That dracula?” Maria spat.
Sunny rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Maria. You can’t call him a dracula just because he’s gay and ostentatious.”
“The man wears jodhpurs, Sunny. He’s like a white Yukio Mishima.”
Sunny sighed. “I know he’s… like that, but I’m not exactly spoiled for choice here. Stopping Imperial Quebec was probably the only good thing America’s done this century, and when people think about the Quebec Wars, they think about JMR. I can’t afford to pass up that kind of reputation. And for the record, he’s half-Norteño.”
Maria scoffed. “Norteños are white now, it was in this year’s patch notes.”