Fasces

She closed her well worn copy of Atlas Shrugged when the limo motorcade came to a stop outside the venue. The roboguard chauffeur gently opened her door and she stepped out of the car, into the blue force field the robot projected. As well as distributing a non-lethal electric shock to whomever touched the force field, it had a noise-canceling function, which she appreciated as she glanced out over the sea of unwashed and red-faced Americans, their various gobs open in shouts.

Her path to the entrance was a caged tunnel: on one side, shouting protestors throwing trash. On the other side, equally vehement havoc. She had no idea which side was opposing her appearance and which was in support, but she didn’t much care and started down the tunnel. Her white power suit always made her blonde highlights pop and she smiled at the thought of how fantastic she’d look on the media recaps later--compared to the crowd of peasants waving their signs.

Government tracking platforms embedded into phone applications estimated there were at least 3,000 citizens present to view her speech. Her roboguard’s cameras rotated, scanning for un-subscribers in the crowd, unaccountable without a social media presence. The guard’s HD cams snapped shots of the crowd’s signs for consideration by the Un-American Activities Committee: “Richie Rich doesn’t care about black people!” “How do you eat with a silver spoon in your mouth?” “Liberté Egalité Fraternité, 21st Century Marie Antoinette.” These were just a few of the signs whose owners would later find themselves in the work camps. The computer vision program can extract any data from your face; identity, age, and even emotions. Coming to a protest without camouflage was a death wish, so she felt free of any responsibility for their fates.

She made it to the green room, her guard planting itself outside the door and converting to sentry duty. The 100” flatscreen requested in her rider rolled out from it’s concealed shelf in the wall, powering itself on to play the morning notifications.

“And those five words are today’s additions to the list of prohibited words by American presidential decree,” the approved Trump media presenter said, a long list appearing next to him on the screen. “Homeland Security Advisory System continues to place the southwest in level orange; meaning verified chip-wearing citizens should avoid the area as the war on Mexican terrorists continues. In lighter news, Giuliani’s House of Un-American Activities Committee has discovered a reported record of 5,034 citizens this month who will be incarcerated for crimes against patriotism--America is both safe and strong again! As I sign off, remember reports of hunger strikes in American work camps are unfounded hearsay against our freedoms!” A colorful PSA for ferreting out ISIS-sympathizers splashed across the screen as she began to ready her wardrobe for the appearance.

America V. ISIS: a tool. A war of limited aims between shifting combatants unable to destroy each other, overtime the fluidity of the enemy was seen in a more advantageous light. Wartime efforts conveniently accounted for the unexplained absence of goods, and the low quality of life for the proles. Permanent war also allowed easy diversion from domestic concerns and their failures. By harnessing the hysteria of war and demand for self-sacrifice it became a war not on outsiders but the citizens; kept ignorant, on the brink of starvation, and overworked. Any who questioned it were easily branded terrorist scum.

She smiled to herself as she tapped the touch screen in her mirror to retrieve the climate data of the day: 115 degrees. Another cozy Christmas season! She touched up her makeup, reapplied by a machine arm in the bathroom wall, but she wasn’t self-conscious since her only large public appearance would be placating the women and children’s coalition about the toxicity of public works.

She would look like a goddess in the press photos among the bag-eyed moms and butterball kids. Hopefully this unavoidable bullshit-fest would be over before her buisness lunch with the Russian Trump Investment Ambassador.

The real excitement of the day’s schedule would be the planning session with the ambassador as they discussed bankroll for the hierarchy's answer to climate change; the multi-billion dollar Trump Titanic, a luxury cruiser as large as an island. The price tag for production alone ensured a comfortable amount of exclusivity for membership, but any lesser citizens were welcome if they could come up with the scratch to pass the security screening or, for an even heftier fine, forego it entirely. As her father said after Bannon’s decree sending the Jews (including her once magnate husband) to work camps: “Everything’s good news if it can be monetized!”

She repositioned her shimmering Cartier necklace and matching earrings, practicing her humble facial expressions for the coalition. It really was hard work hiding the smile her charmed life brought her. She had once entertained the idea of being a property heiress, but forget about a working life as a slumlord owner! One charitable appearance after another, it was only a matter of time before the Trump dynasty would be handed down to her. Pussygrabbing affront aside, who would have thought her father’s claimed confusion over “newly blossomed womanhood” in her teens would have lead to this kind of leverage against him later...

At the thought of that memory, her smile momentarily dimmed. It quickly returned as she caught herself in the mirror. “Everything’s good news if it can be monetized,” Ivanka repeated to her reflection, ready for her performance.

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