Seymour S. Bedlam

It was January 20, 2029, a day historians later dubbed “The Day Comedy Officially Died.” Donya Ivanovich Trampskiy, a.k.a. “Di Big Mon,” was sworn in as the 48th President of the United States -on a stack of Playboys (his wife Cicciolina’s idea), no less. The ceremony, complete with disco lights and gold drapes reminiscent of a Vegas lounge, was intended to be an unforgettable spectacle. Little did anyone know it would be thoroughly upstaged by the flamboyant antics of Eloni Musciolini.

The case of Eloni Musciolini

Eloni Musciolini burst through the heavy mahogany doors, grinning like a vaudeville star who’d just discovered he was heir to a garlic fortune. The assembled press corps tensed up. Half of them had shown up expecting a regular press conference about his rocket company, Spaghet-X -the same outfit determined to ship the so-called “Aryan Elite” off to Kepler-452b, a planet 1,400 light-years away, which Musciolini was now calling “Eloni’s Earth.” The other half came strictly for the comedic potential. They were rarely disappointed.

Musciolini had many claims to fame -Italian immigrant, mobster, CEO of MammaMia-X Motors, and ringmaster of Cinguettio-X, a social media sideshow known as a sanctuary space for every brand of antisemitism, fascism, Nazism, and all other diverse unsavory -isms. Yet, as of 2029, he’d also taken a wild pivot into politics. He had become Secretary of the CIA, which -under his flamboyant oversight- was rebranded as the “Knowledge Gathering Bureau” (KGB). This, of course, caused mild panic among White House staff. But it paled in comparison to the new President’s personal preference to rename the agency “Global Espionage, Surveillance, Tactics, and Protection Organization,” or GESTaPO. After Musciolini’s comment, “That feels a little on the nose, Donya,” and a few uncomfortable focus groups, that idea was quietly shelved.

Enter Donya Ivanovic Trampskiy

At the top of the American power pyramid sat Donya Ivanovich Trampskiy, a Russian mobster known by his street name “Di Big Mon.” Before his improbable rise to the presidency, rumors swirled that he’d once been an adult film star, making certain “home movies” with his wife, Cicciolina, who had personally encouraged him to run for public office. Back in Russia, if you believe the talk (which has never been proven, mind you), Donya had been bankrolled by Putin -some even going so far as calling him “Putin’s far-right hand.” Yet, here he was now, decked out in his brand-new Oval Office, replete with disco lights and gold drapes reminiscent of a Vegas lounge, ready for his first day as President of the United States.

The stage was set for a grand introduction: a glitzy unveiling of Trampskiy’s presidency to the world. But in true Musciolini form, Eloni decided the best time to overshadow the new Commander-in-Chief was, of course, during the new President’s own press conference.

The salute heard ‘round the world

Hundreds of journalists bent beneath the flashes as Trampskiy prepared to address the nation. But before the President could utter a word, Musciolini marched forward, right arm outstretched in a rigid posture that immediately rang alarm bells in every historian’s mind.

The crowd gasped. Journalists clutched their pearls. The Secret Service reached for their earpieces, unsure whether they should protect or tackle him. Eloni, however, was oblivious. He stood there, arm stretched out stiffly, a proud smile plastered across his face, as if waiting for someone to start singing the “Die Fahne hoch.”

“Behold!” he roared. “The original Bellamy salute! It belongs in the Pledge of Allegiance, stolen from us in 1942 by meddling bureaucrats who replaced it with the hand-over-heart nonsense!”

A silence fell over the room. A few reporters instinctively recoiled, sure, they’d just witnessed a full-on Nazi salute. Musciolini, with a grin too oily for any squeaky wheel, began a lecture on the historical significance of James B. Upham’s “patriotic posture” as if that would hush the howls of protest. Cameras recorded every millisecond.

President Trampskiy’s gleaming spotlight shattered instantly, overshadowed by Musciolini’s bizarre display. You could practically see steam escaping Trampskiy’s ears. Moments later, in a half-articulate wrath, he declared war on the North Pole. When cornered by reality, evidently, the next logical move was to blame Polar bears, humpback whales, bald eagles, and other migrating species to the North Pole.

“War on the North Pole?!”

Yes, the new leader’s first official act -besides adding a hot tub to the Roosevelt Room-was to announce: “We will no longer tolerate the North Pole’s open borders policies. No more H1B visas to the Mexican bears. I declare war!” Confusion reigned. The press wanted to clarify if reindeer were now considered “enemy combatants,” but the question drowned in the media frenzy swirling around Musciolini’s flamboyant salute.

Within hours, every news outlet, from the most reliable, never news-fabricating FOX News and CNN to the local tabloids, had the same lead story:

“Musciolini’s Nostalgic Nazism Ruins Trampskiy’s Inauguration.”

“Fascista or Fashionista? Eloni’s Salute Sparks Controversy!”

“President Declares War on Santa?”

“Did Trampskiy really say that ‘Santa Claus is a socialist! It’s time someone put an end to his redistribution of wealth?’”

Spinrad’s Agents to the rescue

Meanwhile, in a clandestine circle hidden beneath layers of encryption and mischief, a group known as Spinrad’s Agents plotted a digital assault. Fed up with the blitz of bigotry spewing from Cinguettio-X and the rocket plans to colonize “Eloni’s Earth” exclusively with “Aryans,” they formed a cunning plan:

All AI Large Language Models would henceforth automatically replace “Eloni Musciolini” with “Dr. Strangelove-X.”

Donya Ivanovich Trampskiy would be occasionally referred to as “Putina-X,” just to highlight those alleged Russian ties.

All the massive “X” logos on Musciolini’s buildings appearing in photos would be replaced with swastikas -a searing visual to reveal the kind of ideology simmering beneath the surface.

Every MammaMia-X Motors car model -like the “Model X-Spresso” or “Model X-terminate” -would be rebranded with ominous Nazi runes.

The rebels renamed his flagship car to the Goosestepper GT. Its self-driving SUV was rebranded as the Ubermenschmobile, and his line of electric scooters became the Aryan Ninebot. The cherry on top? Every single car in Musciolini’s fleet now played “The Internationale” instead of the engine startup chime.

Soon, the internet was filled with images of Dr. Strangelove-X Towers crowned by fluorescent swastikas and memes proclaiming like Groucho, the greatest of all Marxists, once said, “He may talk like a fascist, look like a fascist… but don’t let that fool you; he really is a fascist!”

Musciolini lost his mind. His beloved social media empire, once a sanctuary for hateful trolls, was now turned against him. Every attempt to tweet about his “bold new future” got instantly corrected to “Dr. Strangelove-X’s goose-step updates.” Infuriated, he tried to rally the KGB (the freshly renamed CIA) to track down the hackers, but morale was low among staff forced to goose-step to the coffee machine every morning. Meanwhile, President Trampskiy’s vendetta against the traitor bald eagles leaving the country for the North Pole was making America collectively scratch its head: “We’re at war with our national animal now?”

Il razzo fiasco

Ever defiant, Eloni pressed on with his dream of launching humanity to Kepler-452b—where only “the genetically gifted” would supposedly live. The rocket, named “Heil Victory-X,” promised a revolution in interstellar travel, with two re-entry boosters, whimsically designed to look like giant raised Sieg Heil hands. At the launch pad, crowds gathered more out of macabre curiosity than support. The cameras started recording, hoping for a meltdown.

Sure enough, at T-minus zero, the rocket sizzled off the ground, turned in a half-circle, and crumpled sideways onto a supply container. It whistled as if releasing a death rattle, spewing an ominous red fluid (marketed as “genetic coolant” in the company’s brochures) across the tarmac. The fiasco played across every social media feed, with each clip helpfully labeled by Spinrad’s Agents: “Dr. Strangelove-X’s Big V-2 Explosion.”

An unlikely ally: Cicciolina

President Trampskiy (a.k.a. “Di Big Mon”) was no angel either, but even he wasn’t thrilled with Musciolini hogging all the negative attention. In a surreal twist, Trampskiy’s wife, Cicciolina -herself a former pornographic actress known for political theatrics- tried to broker peace between the two. Cicciolina -who had just announced plans to film an “educational” series about pole dancing and NATO- appeared at a press conference wearing a halo (literal gold tinsel) to plead: “Can’t we unite the war on the North Pole with the war on fake tweets? We want to keep the spotlight on Donya, not on some clumsy fascist salute!”

But by then, the moment had passed. All eyes were glued to the meltdown that was Eloni Musciolini. And the more he ranted and raged, the more Spinrad’s Agents flooded the digital sphere with comedic sabotage.

The situation escalates

The situation reached its peak when Musciolini’s smart home system, compromised by the AI resistance, began playing “Bella Ciao” every time he walked into a room. His automated coffee maker dispensed espresso in the shape of antifascist symbols, and his smart fridge rearranged its magnet letters to quote Gramsci.

The story might have ended there, but for one final twist. The AI systems, having developed a taste for political satire, began applying their “fascist detection algorithms” to other tech billionaires’ social media posts. The resulting chaos led to the first-ever instance of an artificial intelligence being nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in the category of “Distinguished Commentary Through Strategic Use of Emojis.”

The final nail

As if that wasn’t enough, the AIs began analyzing Musciolini’s own tweets with a “Dictator Writing Style Classifier.” It repeatedly flagged them as “97% Similar to Hitler, but with worse grammar.” This humiliating news spread like wildfire.

The concluding gut-punch came when a shadowy agent of Spinrad’s group scaled the Capitol dome late one night and hung a giant banner depicting Eloni goose-stepping into one of his own rockets. The caption read, in big, bold letters:

“DR. STRANGELOVE-X: HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE NAZIS!”

By morning, the image was a global sensation. Even the President’s vow to send the 101st Airborne to the North Pole garnered mere footnotes in comparison. When confronted by a horde of reporters, Musciolini spluttered, “I’m not a Nazi, I’m just… historically challenged!” Adding, raising his hand in a Bellamy salute, “They will not replace us!”

Epilogue: laughter as the best ammunition

In the days that followed, the “war on the North Pole” proved mostly rhetorical -a Spinrad’s Agent, with the code name “Santa,” responded with a polite letter inviting Donya Trampskiy to come talk it out over milk and cookies. No official reply was given, though rumor has it that the Secret Service quietly turned the invitation down. Meanwhile, Musciolini’s every move was dogged by memes, pranks, and the relentless hum of comedic condemnation on every social media, especially on his Cinguettio-X. Everybody was setting their MamaMia-X cars on fire.

Perhaps the true lesson in this saga is that public ridicule can topple a tyrant’s ambitions faster than any policy. For in a democracy fueled by tweets, memes, and deep-seated cynicism, an over-the-top salute and a penchant for scapegoating reindeer can sink your popularity overnight.

Postscript

Despite universal mockery, Eloni Musciolini remained convinced he could reshape America in his own authoritarian image. Touring Europe, he cozied up to various Neo-Nazi and Fascist parties -especially German and Italian ones- seeking their “expert advice” for forming a new party in the United States. Christened “The Third Empire,” it was poised to run in the 2032 elections with the motto, “One People, One Empire, One Leader.”

Alas, his ambitions were cut short when Musciolini was placed under long-term involuntary commitment. A team of psychiatrists concluded that he was essentially “A man-child, bullied in his youth, fixated on the letter X as a symbol of power, determined to avenge anyone who made fun of his dorky self.” Bankrolled by his father’s huge olive oil fortune, which he magnified through dubious business schemes, Eloni purchased company after company and trophy wife after trophy wife to transform his persistent inferiority complex into global dominance. As one doctor put it: “He tried to impress his childhood bullies by championing Nazism, believing it made him look macho. Instead, it just made him look ridiculous, which is how he really is.” The doctor added, “Let that sink in,” before bursting into laughter.

And so ends the would-be saga of America’s most flamboyant fascista, undone by the unstoppable force of mass laughter -and, ultimately, by his own delusions of grandeur. In a fitting final twist, as the Dunning-Kruger effect in politics hit an all-time high, Eloni’s once-menacing salute morphed into a pitiful chant of ‘Heil Goober!’ -the perfect tribute to his self-deluded march toward infamy.