The Holy American Empire

“Good evening, Mr. President. I’ll be quick. I want the blockade over just as much as you do,” Emperor Kane said, an unexpected note of empathy softening his voice. “I know your people are hungry, your hospitals are running out of fuel for their generators, and your citizens are beginning to turn on you. I don’t want them to suffer anymore. I want them to be my people. Agree to a full, unconditional surrender of Mexico. The blockade will be lifted, my engineers will restore power, and we will deliver food and medicine. You will be allowed to live out the rest of your days in Mexico as well.”

Sweat slicked down García’s brow. He remembered, with a fresh sting, how Kane had once sneered at the presidency—how he’d run on the promise of scrapping it all, replacing awkward democracies with a strong, clean Empire. To think the country had voted for a man who’d call himself Emperor and then blockade an entire nation felt like a private betrayal. The offer was not what he or his generals had in mind; most of them wanted to fight to the last man. But the people—God, the people—needed this. They needed food, medicine, light. The most recent estimate on civilian casualties put deaths between 2,500 and 4,000, with another 10,000 injured or hospitalized.

“And what if we decide to break your blockade and invade your southern border?” threatened García. “You have no right to my people or our home.”

“Are you threatening me, García?” barked Emperor Kane. “Think over my offer of full surrender. In three hours I’ll have the USS Gerald R. Ford teach you a lesson in nuclear power.” The phone went silent. No one in the room said a word. They all stared at García, waiting for his decision.

García sagged back into his chair, stunned. “Someone get the president some water,” General Ortiz barked to the secretary. Color drained from García’s face as if he’d seen a ghost. “Surrender my country? He’s asking me to hand the nation over to him.”

“Then let’s fight!” Ortiz leaned in, voice low and hard. “The men are ready. We will die before we surrender.”

García knew that was true—his soldiers would gladly give their lives to stop this madman. It was madness to blockade a nation for two weeks and then demand it be handed over. It was worse—recklessly, monstrously worse—to threaten nuclear action if his terms were refused.

“That’s something I can’t do, General. There are ten million people in Mexico City alone. There’s no evacuation plan to save all of them in three hours.” García’s mind raced. What will my people think of me for surrendering? Pride screamed at him, demanded resistance, demanded honor—but he forced it aside. His only priority was his people. Surrender meant saving lives—and that was something he could live with.