Year 2785. The Tesla-built Trump-atons patrol the irradiated skyline of New America. The scorched remnants of what was once called Earth. Their red, white, and chrome exoshells glint beneath a sun filtered through atmospheric ash. “Nobody knew healthcare would be so complicated” can be heard over the speaker from it’s silver jowls.

From beneath a collapsed monument to Elon, a stone shifts. A malnourished human, skin sun-leathered and trembling, crawls out wrapped in a faded Trans-Palestinian Soviet flag. Eyes cracked with age and dust, he whispers into the void:

“Every accusation… is a confession.”

“Trump-bots are racist.”

“General strike.”

Centuries-old resistance slogans, preserved like fossilized dog shit, echo into silence. No one hears him. No one cares because these are decades old slogans that never really packed a punch anyways and were never adapted over time or expanded on through content creation and memetic knowledge.

In the shadow of the gutted White House, Lauren Ro-BoeBert 2.0 strokes patriotism behind a metal dumpster her servos sticky with Trump derangement.

The world turns. The code loops. And somewhere, deep beneath the bedrock, a spark of humanity retreats back to its lemming like hole beneath New America.