The Feast of Tomorrow

White House Junk Food Orgy featuring Trump and new best friend Larry Ellison

The Oval Office smelled of a fryer. Not the hint you carry home on your clothes after a quick stop at a strip-mall burger joint, but a full bloom of rancid oil that clung to your teeth and filmed your eyes. It was 3 PM and the President had entered the red zone of his ritual. Third Big Mac down. Fourth incoming. His breathing came in wet hitches, each inhale sucking a napkin halfway to his mouth before spitting it back out.

Larry Ellison sat in a cream chair with perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap. He watched Trump with the calm attention of a man watching a machine perform exactly as programmed. When Trump squeezed ketchup across the Resolute Desk, sending a red stream onto the Constitution replica, Ellison didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly and smiled.

“Larry, you’re a genius,” Trump said, wiping special sauce off his chin with the back of his hand. “Richer than Bezos. Richer than Musk. People listen. You know what people listen to even more?” He grabbed a fist of fries, snapped open two ketchup packets with his teeth, and sluiced the red onto the pile until it ran over the edge of the wrapper and pooled on the papers below.

“They listen to men who build cages,” Ellison said quietly. His voice had the texture of brushed steel. “And call them gardens.”

Trump stopped mid-chew. “Gardens. I love gardens. Beautiful word.”

On the table lay architectural renderings, technical specs, and a map pockmarked with small red dots. Surveillance hubs. Each dot a new eye. Ellison reached forward and tapped one of the dots. Ketchup from Trump’s earlier enthusiasm had splattered across Ohio. “The infrastructure is already there, Mr. President. Oracle’s backbone runs through everything. Cloud servers, facial recognition, integrated databases. We can fuse the silos. We only need your order to tie it together.”

Trump pointed at the ketchup spreading across the documents. “Someone will clean that up. Jenkins cleans everything. People don’t appreciate how clean I keep things.”

Ellison glanced at the red stain creeping toward the edge of the desk. “Does that bother Melania? The mess?”

Trump’s face brightened. “She’s never been in the Oval Office. Not once. Can you believe that? Four years the first time, now this, never been in. Smart woman. She has her spaces. I have mine.”

“Efficient,” Ellison said. The word came out with a surgeon’s precision. He returned his attention to the map. “Social credit by another name. We call it the Patriot Accountability Network. People understand numbers. Good behavior moves the number up. Bad behavior moves it down. The truly beautiful part is that they’ll do it to themselves. They’ll compete for points.”

“Beautiful,” Trump said, now harvesting a KFC drumstick. Grease trailed his wrist. “China does it right. You go to China, nobody protests because everybody knows they are being watched. That is polite. We love polite.” He pointed the bone at the plans. “Cameras go everywhere. Say it.”

“Every intersection. Every public space. Every government building. Mandated integration for private business over time.” Ellison spoke with the cadence of a man reading a grocery list. “The facial recognition layer ties to a central record. We know where everyone is. We know whom they meet. We know what they buy. The model learns faster than they do. And here’s the elegant part: we make them want it. Security. Convenience. Speed. They’ll scan themselves.”

Trump nodded so hard the bun on his next burger slipped and slapped the renderings with a warm kiss of tartar sauce. More ketchup squirted from between the patties, painting the surveillance specs red. “And the troublemakers. The fake news. The protesters. The people who do not understand how great I am. The score handles them.”

“Their scores drop,” Ellison said, leaning back in his chair. He smiled the way a cat smiles at a mouse that doesn’t know it’s already caught. “First they lose priority services. No fast travel. No sensitive jobs. Then restricted banking. Then, for the resistant class, relocation to Civic Restoration Centers. The beauty is in the gradient. It happens so slowly they don’t realize they’re sinking until they’re already under.”

Trump’s eyes lit up. “Camps.” He turned to the empty air. “Stephen, tell him about the camps,” he shouted, then waved off the silence. “Angola will look fancy next to them. Park Avenue next to our places for the bad people.” He choked down half a Filet-O-Fish with a single lunging bite.

Ellison watched Trump eat with clinical interest. “Weekly brain scans. Everybody. Mobile scanners in malls, stadiums, airports. We market them as safety checks. Your face is your ticket. Your thoughts are your membership. Early warning for dissent patterns. We identify hostile networks before they form.” He paused, savoring the next sentence. “And there is one more lever. A sacred index. Negative references to Christianity trigger accelerated penalties.”

Trump’s breathing picked up. A fleck of tartar sauce flew from his mouth and landed on the carpet. “Brain scans. People love scans. Groceries, tickets, now the brain. And Christianity is protected. You go negative on God, you go down the chute.” He clapped his hands, ketchup snapping off his fingers and spotting the wall behind him. “Jenkins. Write down brain scans for liberals. Make it sound friendly.”

Jenkins appeared from the wall with the calm of a funeral director. The tray in his white gloves held a burger steaming and a ramekin of ketchup. He positioned the burger at Trump’s mouth and rotated it with the precision of a mechanical arm. Trump bit and chewed. The sound was wet and decisive. Ketchup dripped from the burger onto the presidential seal on the desk. Jenkins dabbed at it with a cloth but only spread it further.

“Don’t worry about that,” Trump said with his mouth full. “Someone will clean it. Continue. Tell me how we find them before they even know they are them.”

Ellison touched the map. His finger traced a line from coast to coast. “We surveil the graph. We punish the connection. Any negative reference to Christ, the Church, or you goes into the blasphemy index. The model weighs the sin. It subtracts from the score. Enough subtraction invites relocation. Persistent subtraction qualifies for elimination.” He looked up, and his eyes had the shine of polished marble. “The paperwork calls it transfer to a higher supervision tier. The public will call it cleaning up the streets.”

“Perfect,” Trump said. “We flush the country. Only good things remain. People with high scores remain. People with low scores feed the score.” He shoved more fries toward his mouth. Ketchup dripped onto his tie, his shirt, the arm of his chair. “Someone cleans all this. Best cleaners. People say nobody cleans better than my people.”

The curtains swelled with air conditioning. The chandelier gleamed overhead. The Resolute Desk bore new stains: ketchup pooling in the carved details, tartar sauce filming the brass hardware. Ellison looked at the mess without expression. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost gentle.

“Everybody wins. Good people get rewards. Bad people learn. I get the biggest contract in history. You get reelection. The country gets order. And the truly brilliant part? They’ll thank us. They’ll see the cameras and feel safer. They’ll see the scores and feel motivated. They’ll see the camps and feel relieved that someone is finally doing something about the problem.”

Trump closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Jenkins lifted nuggets one by one into the presidential maw. Each nugget gave a small crunch as it vanished. Trump swallowed and pointed at Ellison. “You understand. You really understand. Not everyone does. People think I’m crazy. But you see it.”

“I see it clearly,” Ellison said. There was no warmth in his voice, no doubt, no hesitation. “We will need three orders. One to federate the databases. One to mandate camera integration. One to authorize behavioral scoring and the scanners. I recommend we hide the blasphemy clause in definitions. Scripture becomes standards. No one reads standards.”

Trump’s eyes opened. “Standards. Yes. Nine months. We roll it out before midterms. People will see I am tough. I protect them.” He reached for his shake. Jenkins guided the straw. Trump drank and the cup collapsed with a wounded whine. Ketchup had somehow gotten on the curtains. A red handprint decorated the wall beside Lincoln’s portrait. “Jenkins will handle all this. He always does.”

Jenkins produced three executive orders from a leather folder. The letters swam on the page, black text organizing itself into words Ellison had written over a decade in white papers and keynote slides. National Data Federation. Comprehensive Civic Imaging. Behavioral Integrity and Safety Standards. On the last page, buried in definitions, a single line: “Negative reference: any statement, oral or written, that contradicts established doctrinal positions as defined in Appendix F.”

“We stage it,” Ellison said. His voice never wavered. “We start with transportation hubs. The phone companies will carry the water. We deputize the platforms. One API, one truth, one score. Within six months, every American will have a number. Within a year, that number will determine where they can go, what they can buy, whom they can see. Within two years, the number will determine whether they exist at all.”

Trump smiled and every tooth in his head showed. “People love numbers. They love knowing where they stand. This is just sports. This is just school. Everyone understands grades.” He reached for a pen and scrawled his name on the first order. The signature wandered across the page, collecting ketchup from an earlier spill. He signed the second. He signed the third. Each signature looked more confident than the last.

Ellison slid the papers into his briefcase. The leather was pristine. He closed the clasp. It clicked with finality.

“America is going to be orderly,” Trump said. “Safe. Polite. Nobody will say bad things about Christ. Nobody will say bad things about me. They will behave. Or they will be gone. And the beautiful part? They will police themselves. Brother on brother. Neighbor on neighbor. Everyone watching everyone. Perfect system.”

“Perfect system,” Ellison agreed. He stood with the fluid grace of a man who had gotten exactly what he came for. His suit showed not a single stain, not a wrinkle. “Mr. President, implementation begins tonight. We will light the first hundred hubs by dawn. The model will learn a million faces before breakfast. The scanner vendor is ready. The pastors have their briefings. The platforms are lined up. The code is in the pipes. All we need is the press release.”

Trump smiled and reached again for the shake. Jenkins steadied the cup. The slurp that followed sounded hollow and infinite. He set the cup down and it left a red ring on the desk, joining the others. “You are a genius. History will remember this. Not right away. But eventually. When the country is clean.”

Ellison smiled. It was the first fully genuine expression he’d shown since entering the room. “History forgets the names. It only remembers the systems. That’s what makes them permanent.”

He lifted his briefcase and turned to leave. The door looked far. He walked toward it with measured steps, passing ketchup stains on the carpet, on the walls, on the spines of law books that hadn’t been opened in years. He heard Trump speak one more time, voice soft, almost tender.

“Tell them to smile for the camera.”

Ellison paused at the door and looked back. Trump sat in ketchup-stained glory, Jenkins already preparing the next tray. The President of the United States lifted a hand and waved. Ellison returned the gesture with a small nod.

“They will,” he said. “They always do.”

The door closed behind him with a cushioned sigh. Outside, the hall smelled of wax and history. Inside the Oval Office, the fryer hummed, the ketchup dried in abstract patterns on American furniture, and a butler in white gloves prepared breakfast for tomorrow while the architecture of a digital prison cooled on documents that would never be cleaned, only filed.