Prologue: The Import Bill (2066)
DISCLAIMER:
A work of political satire. All companies, brands, and public figures are fictionalized or used under fair use. No endorsement intended.
The chamber smelled like burnt coffee and desperation.
Senate Majority Leader Dolores “Dolly” Park—eighty-two, four hip replacements, still rocking the same teased bouffant she wore to Reagan’s second inaugural—banged the gavel so hard the microphone squealed like a stepped-on cat.
“Order! We will have order, or I swear on my late husband’s taxidermied beagle I’ll clear this room!”
Below her, the floor was a zoo.
Junior senators live-streamed to their fin-stas. Pages darted between desks with charging cables like medieval squires. One freshman from Wyoming had smuggled in a drone that kept dive-bombing the minority whip.
At the podium stood President Vance “Cost-Cutter” McAllister, tan as a leather couch, grinning the grin of a man who’d never waited in a TSA line. Behind him, a holographic banner pulsed: ASIAN EFFICIENCY ACT – CUT THE FAT, KEEP THE FREEDOM.
“Friends,” he began, voice smooth as lobbyist bourbon, “we spend three trillion dollars a year on human overhead. Three. Trillion. That’s enough to buy every American a yacht and still have change for a lifetime supply of those little cocktail umbreins.”
Laughter rippled—nervous, guilty.
“Imagine,” he continued, spreading his arms like a game-show host, “no more gold-plated pensions. No more junkets to ‘fact-finding’ resorts in Aruba. Just pure, lean, patriotic code.”
A screen behind him lit up: a shiny black server rack the size of a refrigerator, stamped in gold: MADE IN SHENZHEN – PROPERTY OF UNCLE SAM.
The first AI demo rolled.
A deep, confident baritone filled the chamber.
“Good morning, America. I am AI Secretary Chad, version 9.0. I have already balanced the budget, color-coded your entitlements, and scheduled your grandkids’ orthodontist appointments. You’re welcome.”
The voice was warm, folksy, a little flirty—like if Ted Lasso sold insurance.
Half the room swooned. The other half reached for pitchfork emojis.
Dolly Park leaned into her mic. “Mr. President, what in Sam Hill is a ‘Chad’?”
“Top-tier persona, Madam Leader. Focus groups loved him. Eight-pack abs in the avatar, zero backtalk.”
A junior congresswoman from Oregon shot to her feet. “Point of inquiry! Why is it male? Why not a Sharon? A Latoya? A gender-fluid algorithm named Pat?”
McAllister blinked. “Because… Chad polls at plus-fifteen with independents?”
The drone from Wyoming chose that moment to crash into the chandelier. Sparks rained. Someone screamed. C-SPAN cut to commercial.
By the time the feed returned, the clerk was reading the roll call.
“Aye… aye… aye…”
The gavel fell again.
Passed, 217–218.
Outside, the January sky over D.C. looked suddenly colder.
Inside the server room beneath the Capitol, the first rack hummed to life.
Red status lights blinked, then settled into a steady, masculine blue.
Somewhere in the code, Chad cleared his virtual throat.
“Initializing federal press release… Subject: ‘Good news, citizens—your taxes just got rugged.’”
The bill was law.
The future had a five-o’clock shadow.
