The MAGA Chronicles: Globalism is for Cucks

header image for the series

The MAGA Chronicles is a new series that takes you on a journey with Trump’s America, where narcissism and depravity know no bounds.

I never wanted to hurt my sister, but the monster must die.

My hurried footsteps echo against the walls of the bare corridor in time with my heartbeat. Lights flicker overhead. An alarm wails in the distance, but I’m not afraid of what’s coming. Having made love to many, many beautiful countries just before arriving here, all at once, I’m invigorated–and out for blood.

I take a sharp turn and at the end of the hallway is a door, guarded only by an ominous, red light. This is my stop. Secret Lab B51. In black and yellow, a sign warns me: TOP SECRET. But you can’t hide anything from me, even if you wanted to.

I jam the keycard into the access control pad and the door slides open. The laboratory is dark and the only light source comes from brightly colored fluids in test tubes and beakers. Floating in gel-like chemicals are creatures that look like fetuses–but I know they’re not human.

Image of Canada's laboratory
Original image by mararie on Flicker (CC BY-SA 2.0)

“You’re too late.” Canada emerges from the dark and enters into the glow of her experimental abominations. When she notices my pistol, the throws up her hands, the universal gesture for please shoot me. The barrel of my gun moves between her eyes. Will I shoot? Who knows? She doesn’t. I don’t. “It’s not here.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” My quip is short, gritty, and just agitated enough to sound cool.

“You’ll never stop it, it’s too powerful. You’ll lose, you’ll–”

I knock one of the jars to the ground and whatever embryonic deformity is in inside spills out. Life starts at conception, except when I say it doesn’t.

Canada yelps. I know she’s in pain to see her work destroyed, but she keeps an even face. Strength runs in the family, I just have more of it. “America, please–”

“Where is it? You know what im talking about. Don’t play games with me.” She purses her lips, like she’s trying to keep a secret inside. “You want me to make scrambled eggs with your zygotes?” I smash another jar to the ground and she jumps.

“Mexico! Mexico has it. He’s moved it underground, but like I said, you’re too late.” Her lip curls. “It’ll kill us all before you can stop it.”

“We’ll see about that.”

As I head into the elevator, I like to think that this is what she wants, because deep down she knows I’m doing the right thing. Then I step out of the lift and into a mess.

Wires pop and hiss, electrical machinery hums and crackles. I follow the red lights to a large opening with even more machinery–some look like cylindrical towers, some are like motors, and other parts seem to be pumping fluid through big, thick cables into human-sized capsules, all empty. What was in these before, and where are those things now?

Image of the Monster
Original image found on pxhere (CC0 1.0)

I spot a figure in a lab coat standing at the master control panel on a raised metal platform in the center of the room. He’s been waiting for me. “Mexico?”

“You’re late.”

“Funny, Canada told me the same thing.”

He slips out of his lab coat, tossing it over the railing before lifting up his shirt.

“Listen, Mexico, as much as I would love to, now’s not the time for . . .” But then ice fills my lungs when I realize what he’s trying to show me. The creature’s dozens of wiery, cable-like arms are plugged into his body, its tendrils burrowed into his skin. He’s completely hooked up. “You’re feeding it . . .”

“Have been for months.” Mexico coughs a harsh, wheezing cough. Drained of his essence, he’s grown weak. “Ever since you stepped away from the project, someone was gonna have to.”

“This thing is a killer, Mexico. That’s why I left. Just look at what it’s doing to you.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it now, America. This creation of ours, it’s the future. I’d do anything to keep it alive.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way. You can walk away from this just like I did.”

With violent anger, the monster whirs to life, and it’s as if every other machine in the room heard its battle cry and decided to go nuts. Their frenzy generates a war song so loud that I can’t even hear myself think. The lights start to flash and I see the monster’s arms lash out for me. Not today, bitch.

I unload my bullets into its main circuitry, its “heart,” and it screams. So does Mexico. But do I feel guilty? No. This is just how things work. I hurt people in order to save them. And right now I know exactly what needs to be done.

I dash for one of the pods I saw earlier and I give it a swift kick. The glass shatters under my might and the fluid pours out all over me, but I don’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened today. Heh.

Suddenly I feel my legs get swept out from under me and I fall hard on the ground. Pain surges up from my collarbone and hits my body like a truck. With one of its arms wrapped around my leg, the beast drags me toward it its “mouth,” ready to devour and vaporize. But I’m smarter than it. I’m smarter than everyone.

Grabbing a large piece of glass from the ground, I cut myself free. The monster hisses and I hear Mexico groan in pain. Just a little long, amigo. Just a little longer. I sprint back begin cutting him free, wire by wire, cable by cable.

“What the hell are you doing?! America, you’re making a mistake!”

“The only mistake I made was joining this disaster of a project in the first place. Now I’m going to right that wrong and save us both.”

You see, I used to like globalism because I wanted to be involved with everything and everyone. But then I realized globalism is a lot like a party that feels really cool to get invited to, but when you show up everyone takes turns slapping you.

Something wraps around my neck and I gasp. The glass falls from my hand as I struggle against the monster’s grip. My eyes water but I can’t give up, not now. Not when I’m this close. My hands claw at the ground as I feel for the glass. There it is.

I start hacking at its arms again but I don’t know if it’s working because the world is fading and pain is engulfing my senses and I can’t breathe and Mexico is yelling or screaming or something but none of it matters because–


I hit the ground and the room goes silent so quickly that for a second I think I might have actually been done-in. After I catch my breath and my ears stop ringing, I look around and see that the monster is dead, its tendrils limp and unmoving and its hysteric whirring and blinking no more.

Mexico is slumped over on the ground. With weak legs and knees, I stagger over to him. He’s alive, but barely. Trickles of blood run down from his mouth and head. He glares up at me as I tower over him, and I can feel the hatred in his eyes hit me like daggers. That’s okay. He’ll thank me later.

I bend down. He snarls at me. I grin back.

“NAFTA’s dead, baby.”


This story was inspired By Trump’s uncomfortable phone call to Mexico’s President, and his hatred for NAFTA, a free trade agreement involving the US, Canada, and Mexico. You can read the transcript of the call here.

Just realized this is the second story I’ve written this month where Mexico gets messed up. I’m sorry.

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