Mutation enabled Humanity to evolve from single-celled organisms into bipedal sapients that dominate an entire planet. Usually, each step in this process of evolution requires hundreds of millennia, to say the least, but as a result of toxic waste and nuclear fallout accumulating throughout the latter twentieth century, it occasionally makes quantum leaps – and takes the form of superhuman empowerment …
… a textbook example of this being Donald Trump, who became President primarily because of his ability to swindle the simpleminded with a mild form of mesmerism, a power that was magnified millionsfold through the media of television and Twitter.

Another similarly empowered person, one Stephen Miller, rendered assistance to Trump’s rise to power via a mastery of fear – via a transmission of delusions, which are only frightening to the most reactionary of Human minds, but given the unnerving number of reactionaries within the American population, there were just enough of them to tip the 2016 election (in combination with mass voter suppression and the Electoral College contravening the results of the popular vote) …

… since then, the Trump Regime has ranged from dangerous incompetence and outright denialism, which resulted in the spread of a deadly plague and continued inaction on the climate crisis …
… to the racist detaining of Latin (NOT Canadian) children, allegedly to secure America’s borders …
… to threatening nuclear war itself in preposterous yet horrifically precarious games of brinksmanship …
… to undermining the American democratic process in a dozen heinous ways.

After four monstrous years, which were regularly compared to Hitler’s tenure by respected journalists as well as satirists, the majority of America’s electorate was more than prepared for revolution. However, rather than endorse crusaders such as Senator Bernie Sanders or labor organizer Howie Hawkins, it instead voted (i.e., settled) for one of the most tepid and inept candidates in this country’s history, Joseph Robinette Biden Junior, under the craven and unfounded assumption that some Americans might be alienated by radicals like Sanders or Hawkins, when in fact, Sanders was more popular with Americans than any of his fellow Senators – and in the top five most popular politicians of any kind for several years running …

… as a result of this ignorant assumption on the part of Democratic leaders (largely explained by their fealty to the conservative elites who funded their campaigns), essential advertising was wrongfully denied the senator and the organizer even as it was lavished upon Biden, by exclusively elitist broadcasting, with those advertisements funded in large part by the Democratic National Committee.

Joe Biden only barely prevailed in the 2020 Presidential election, but the election results were unequivocal, as reluctantly confirmed by a Congress littered with pro-Trump conspiracy theorists …
… and yet, a narcissistic President of the Electoral College doubled down on his baseless claims that hundreds of thousands of votes were fabricated, refused to concede and insisted on remaining within the White House.

And so, on Wednesday, January 20th, 2021, as an unpopular-but-tolerated Biden was inaugurated on the front steps of the recently-invaded U.S. Capitol …
… outside that infamous residence on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, there were hundreds of policemen surrounding thousands of the angriest protesters in the history of leftist activism, most of whom held aloft profane signs, which read, in one decorative form or another, G.T.F.O. (“Get the fuck out!”) or O.T.M. (“One Term, Motherfucker!”).

On a subliminal level, the forces of malevolence realized the historical tides were turning against them, but they still put in an appearance at this massive protest, if for no other reason than to bolster their residual followers. One such malefactor was Sergeant Georgia, a former drill instructor who rallied deplorables while simultaneously overwhelming egalitarians with his blaring voice.

“Your killer instinct must be harnessed if you expect to survive! It is a hard heart that kills, and if your killer instincts are not clean and strong, you will hesitate at the moment of truth!” Without the benefit of a bullhorn, this totalitarian was so supernaturally loud, he resounded thunderously enough to crack and shatter nearby panes of glass. “As for you goddamn communist heathens, you are the lowest form of life on Earth! You are not even Human fucking beings! You are nothing but unorganized, grab-asstic pieces of amphibian shit!”

Immersed in the encompassing, ultrasonic vibrations of Sergeant Georgia’s voice, dozens of activists were either deafened if nearby or demoralized even if afar …
… this increasingly dire situation continued until a couple of pale, mucilaginous globules plummeted upon Georgia’s military-helmeted cranium. “What in the name of Jesus H. Christ did you animals do to my head?!”

Within seconds, the sergeant had been almost completely covered by a marshy plaster that hamstrung him, and as a result, the former taskmaster’s emphasis shifted from bombastically impugning to freeing himself …
… so while his crazed ranting continued, his clamorous volume was significantly lowered, to the relief of innumerable egalitarians. “What is this Mickey Mouse shit?!” he screamed in puzzlement.

Understandably, everyone within the vicinity of this vast protest turned their attention to the firmament above them and discerned where those malodorous spherules hailed from …
… flying under his own power, thrust forth across the stratosphere by a pair of experimental airfoils, was a mysterious person wearing form-fitting attire: 1930s aviator visors which acted as a mask and an accompanying costume with white and sky-blue highlights that made him resemble a fowl. “It’s Dove Man!” a myriad of protesters hollered their approval of this intervention. “Thank you, Dove Man ..!”

“Any time ..!” the aeronautical insurgent exclaimed before soaring farther away in search of more opportunities to similarly support that protest …

Amidst the vastness of this massive demonstration was a single individual who wailed heartrendingly for but a semblance of consolation. “Help me!” a forlorn Black woman repeatedly cried out, but had been ignored for the most part, since her cries were submerged under either roars of fury from scores of protesters or orders that they surrender which were barked by nearby officers. “Help me!” she desperately repeated.

Then a strange, lean-yet-brawny man – in a golden-brown leotard and a cowl that concealed half his facial features, which made him resemble a Human mongrel – confidently strode through the crowd and towards this troubled lady. “What’s wrong?” he queried authoritatively before coming across as sardonic. “What’s the problem? Aside from all these so-called ‘leftists’ turning a blind eye and ear to a woman in need?”

“Oh, Bloodhound! Thank God!” the middle-aged lady squealed with a relieved glee upon recognizing this masked/costumed icon. “I can’t find my son!“

“Do you have something that belongs to him? Something with his scent?” Bloodhound interrogated hurriedly. “Even if it’s something he’s just touched.”

This distraught parent rapidly scoured her purse for a wayward child’s handheld video game console. “He calls himself pissed off at me because I told his ass to read a book instead of playin’ these damned thangs.”

“And it’s a good thing you did, too, ma’am …” Bloodhound marginally grinned from underneath his canine-derived headgear before he breathed in an otherwise indiscernible redolence of … bubble gum. “… you can count on me; I’ll find your son.”

With an effortless leap that would humiliate any athlete, any basketball player or Olympic-level long jumper, Bloodhound bounded into the crowd of protesters and police officers …
… then returned, within minutes, with her once-lost lad in hand. “Mommy, look! It’s Bloodhound!“

“I know damn well who it is, you li’l …” An upset parent snatched a disobedient son from a proficient vigilante, but then glanced behind her momentarily. “… thank you,” she whispered with profuse gratitude.

No sooner had Bloodhound acknowledged that expression of appreciation with a nod did his superhuman ears overhear another cry – an alluring Latina protester hollered for help while she was lecherously harassed by a pair of philandering police officers, so he burst forth in the direction of that altercation to render her assistance.

Simultaneously, closer to the White House itself stood a smattering of Native American activists in turquoise ornaments and leathery ensembles from Window Rock, Arizona, considered by the Navajo to be their nation’s capitol and considered by a rapacious petroleum industry to be the perfect location for an oil pipeline …
… for the longest time, these representatives of the Navajo Nation solemnly chanted as they danced in a semi-circular fashion along Pennsylvania Avenue …
… until a nearby spectator finally dared to crudely inquire, “the fuck is all that shit gonna do?” The spectator, who had been an uncommitted part of this vast protest, pointed out a danger that advanced upon them, ominously, from an ever-shrinking distance. “A fleet of SWAT is on its way – y’all gonna challenge ’em to a dance contest ..?!”

As the Special Weapons And Tactics aspect of law enforcement unceremoniously stampeded past, and trampled upon, protester after protester in order to intimidatingly maneuver themselves into a sufficient position to ultimately overwhelm every activist who’d stood in defiance, who clustered in front of a despised President’s residence …
… a most fantastic occurrence was witnessed by those closest to those Navajo dancers …
… a hominid organism comprised entirely of aqua pura miraculously materialized out of thin air and started to hurl bursts of water at the approaching officers, which embarrassingly hindered them via the sheer amount of hydraulic force this personage discharged.

“Say hello to Tó Neinilii, our rain god,” one of the Arizonian senior citizens who had danced explained to those who listened, who weren’t too stunned by such a transcendent manifestation, “he can be a little mischievous, but we can banish him as easily as we summoned him if he ever gets out of control, so don’t worry.”

A vulgar, juvenile-minded individual would revel in how Tó Neinilii went out of his way to make it appear as if he was urinating onto those law enforcement officers with a rather large, fluidified phallus.

Most impressed, that spectator from earlier remarked, “shit, it’s about fucking time the pigs know what it’s like to have a fire hose sprayed on their asses! Go get ’em, Tortellini!”

“That’s Tó Neinilii,” a vexed Native American corrected.

“Whatever.”

*   *   *

Within the White House itself, just as those first traces of sunlight dawned upon Inauguration Day, a virulent bigot of a speechwriter, Stephen Miller, lingered in its historic, portrait-adorned corridors as long as he dared before inwardly determining that the allegedly-still-in-power President he impatiently waited for – near the exterior of a lavatory – wasn’t worth risking himself. “Sir, we have to leave,” Miller shouted at the lavatory’s door with finality, “now!”

From the miasmal toilet stall he’d ensconced himself inside, the President of the Electoral College, Donald J. Trump, grumbled as he emitted but a nugget of fecal matter after nearly an hour of laborious effort. “Just a minute!” the disgraced head of state beseeched. “My plumbing doesn’t work as well as it used to!”

Fuck this shit, thought the chief architect of that President’s racist stance on immigration as he nervously gallivanted down an entranceway …
… only to be brought up short by a diligent government agent.

“Uh, Mister Miller, sir?” That agent didn’t exactly radiate confidence, but he still persisted in the performance of his statutory duties. “I’m afraid you – and the rest of the administration – are under arrest for crimes against Humanity.”

“Afraid, eh ..?” Stephen Miller glared piercingly into the eyes of an already-unnerved federal officer and snickered. “What you should really be afraid of is the prospect of my arrest discrediting the Alt Right; afraid of hordes of dark-skinned mongrels running roughshod all over this pure country of ours …”

Special Agent Maximilian William of the Federal Bureau of Investigation couldn’t resist the sudden incursion of visions entering his admittedly limited mind …
… mental(ly insane) imagery inaccurately depicting people of color as plundering invaders angrily storming across ramparts and into the very innards of suburban America …
… quivering with fears which were repressed until he’d conversed with Miller, Agent William scrambled aimlessly in a stark raving panic, screaming intermittently about “mongrels.”

The policy advisor personally responsible for much of Trump’s malevolence smirked to himself after demonstrating, once again, his superhuman mastery over those who’re timorous and discriminatory …
… yet as he departed the White House via its underground garage within an extravagant sedan, he received a text message comprised merely of four words: We need to talk.

“Interesting …” Stephen Miller murmured to himself after discovering who had texted.

For his part, Trump ultimately managed to complete that long-awaited bowel movement, only to be halted by a handful of similarly dutiful federal constabulary. “Mister President, I regret to inform you, you’re under arrest for crimes against Humanity.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the President of the Electoral College established eye contact with the constable closest to him – gambled that said constable was the most imbecilic out of this handful of federales – and smarmily claimed, “I’m a champion of Humanity.”

“You … You’re a champion of Humanity …” a weak-minded example of law enforcement found himself mumbling, much to the chagrin of his incredulous comrades.

Donald Trump smiled widely as his twenty-thousandth lie was told, “I’m on my way to Norway to pick up my Nobel Peace Prize,” then a sinister President noticed that constable’s acquaintances weren’t enthralled by him, at all, so he desperately added, “and you’re going to escort me there.”

Despite internally struggling to make some semblance of sense of what he was saying, the slow-witted constable still said, “you’re picking up a Nobel Peace Prize and I’m escorting you there.”

Initially paralyzed by an understandable surprise, the remainder of that federal constabulary only let their muddleheaded comrade go so far with the fugitive of justice they were entrusted to apprehend …
… a few seconds of confusion later, all of them scampered towards a deserting president and a government agent turned mesmerized servant. “Motherfucker, get back here!” an Afrocentric officer uttered during this pursuit.

Realizing he wouldn’t be able to unduly influence the rest of that constabulary nearly as easily, the former realtor and television personality bolted from his semi-willing sentinel, then barreled, in a kind of blind desperation, across the White House lawn …
… once a disgraced President gained a slight lead on the advancing federales, he yanked an almost empty bottle of pills out of a pocket and gulped them down. “Glad I saved the last of these steroids I got from Walter Reed!”

Within seconds, Donald Trump’s abdominous frame became twice as sizable as his eyes widened with madness. A feral roar was heard out of him as hundreds of protesters observed this would-be autocrat singlehandedly fling constable after constable aside as if they were merely rag dolls.

Subsequent attempts by government agents to apprehend a temporarily/pharmaceutically empowered president were similarly thwarted …
… however, rather than wait until the much vaunted effect of anabolic/androgenic hypersteroids had worn off, a tawny-skinned adventurer – wearing an alabaster leotard completely covered by numerical symbols and silhouettes of people – leapt over the White House’s palisades and onto its voluminous lawn.

“They call me Strength-in-Numbers!” a masked/costumed woman exclaimed as loudly as possible while she blocked a former head of state’s escape. “And before you’re imprisoned, you will feel the wrath of those you’ve wronged!”

Incapable at this point of comprehending her words as a result of that swallowed cocktail of steroids, Donald Trump lunged upon Strength-in-Numbers with all the subtlety of a wild animal.

They wrestled for several tense seconds until Strength-in-Numbers started to falter, but then this adventurer glanced over her shoulder to the crowd behind her – on the other side of that blockade she’d vaulted over – and psionically tapped into its collective vitality. “C’mon, y’all! Gimme all ya got ..!”

On some quantum, other-dimensional realm of measurement, it could be discerned how Strength-in-Numbers commandeered the massed willpower and intestinal fortitude of those protesters nearest to that fence, of the dozens of activists who devotedly chanted her name, until she was able to overpower the hulking President of the Electoral College …
… and finally pummel him into an insensible heap on a bloodstained lawn.

“Got his ass beat by a girl! Beat by a girl!” an exultant woman with the appearance of a punk rock singer clamored from her standpoint on Pennsylvania Avenue. “Try grabbing that by the privates, you bastard!”

The trio of government agents, one of whom was still shaking off the mesmeric effects of his encounter with a waking Trump (now nullified by his unconscious state), approached his prone form and unceremoniously manhandled him into a nearby paddywagon. As the now-former President’s eyes briefly fluttered open, the Afrocentric agent took a deserved opportunity to gloat as he gave a final shove to cram Trump’s still-oversized body into the back of the police van: “Buddy, you’re going to prison for a long, long time!”

*   *   *

Watching from a nearby street corner, Strength-in-Numbers and the Bloodhound strained to discern what was happening over the cheering of the ebullient crowd and Sergeant Georgia’s renewed-but-ignored-by-all ranting. “You’ll all pay for this, you Commie scum!” the fascistic mercenary yelled impotently, still struggling to free himself from the sticky white substance that had been dropped on him from above.

The one responsible for that entanglement now descended on miniature VTOL jets to alight beside his superheroic compatriots, triggered his mechanical wings to fold neatly against his back, and joined them in following the paddywagon with their eyes as it accelerated away down Constitution Avenue. Wishing to converse without hindrance, Dove Man activated a high-tech sonic-wave-cancelling device and the clamor surrounding them was reduced to the barest murmur.

“So that’s it,” he said with an emphatic gesture aimed at the retreating vehicle. “We foiled the first attempt to overturn American democracy and turn a U.S. President into a fascist dictator.”

“Barely,” Strength-in-Numbers replied in a somewhat strained voice, still recovering from her recent battle with said would-be despot. “And it took all of us!” Her sweeping gesture took in the gradually dispersing but still massive crowd of joyous protesters, and, by implication, the entire leftist grassroots movement that had rallied to nonviolently defeat the forces of fascism.

“And let’s face it, Trump’s attempt was fairly inept,” the Bloodhound added with grave emphasis. “The next one will be a lot harder to stop.”

*   *   *

Meanwhile, in a cavernous, dimly lit office suffused with bubbling sounds indicating water outside its walls, Michael R. Bloomberg, the multi-billionaire former mayor of New York City who had directed the destruction of Occupy Wall Street, stroked his chin while watching the news coverage of these momentous events on a monitor built into his expansive mahogany desk…
… steepling his fingers, he mused to himself – “It’s funny how, in a two-party system like ours, when one party commits itself to ending the centuries-old American experiment in democracy and installing themselves as permanent rulers, those who wish to maintain their sacred right to participate in choosing their leaders have only one real option left.”

He gave a diabolical laugh, infused with just an iota of nervous uncertainty, and tapped a button to bring up a convoluted planning document on his display. “Now let’s just make sure it stays that way!”