07-09-2020, 03:18 AM
Presidential Manor, Litudinem, Libertas Omnium Maximus
July 6th, 2020 - Evening
The world was on fire, there was no denying it. On the whole, 2020 had not been kind to the nations of the International Democratic Union. From the deadly adenovirus outbreak to the coordinated terrorist attacks in January, the two thousand and twentieth Year of the Lord would be remembered in the hearts and minds of all who were fortunate enough to survive it as a less than ideal time to be alive. Despite this fact, there was at least one man in the world who was genuinely enjoying himself. That man was Lucas Brown, President of the Republic of Libertas Omnium Maximus.
In a sick and twisted way, Brown had actually benefited from nearly every tragedy the year had thrown his way. His firm but fair response to the Vulkarian terrorist attacks in January was praised by fellow party members and opposition leaders alike. Several anti-interventionists had even acknowledged that his actions were appropriate given the gravity of the situation. Likewise, he had been unilaterally praised for shutting down the nation’s borders in order to stop the spread of the adenovirus. After what could have been a global catastrophe blew over, the economy rebounded at a rate even the most optimistic of economists had thought unlikely. Now, in the blistering summer heat, Brown’s biggest break yet arrived.
“You’re kidding me? This has got to be some kind of a practical joke.” The 57-year-old president set down the neatly typed letter he had been holding and turned to face his Chief Political Strategist, Jason Briggs, before continuing. “People don’t just drop out of a presidential race like that. At least, not when they are the presumptive nominee. Mason’s reasoning is clear but it… it just seems off.”
Briggs, who was equally confused by the memo, hesitantly responded. “I suppose he figures it’s the best way to ensure that a conservative stays in power. CUP hasn’t put a man in this house since ’56 and I think Peter Mason has finally come to terms with the fact that he isn’t going to be the one to break his party’s losing streak. His policies have never resonated with the younger generations and, as much as I hate to admit it, his base is dying out. The CUP is going to have to do some kind of reform if they even want to hold onto their seats in 2022. I think he has finally accepted that. This, of course, is absolutely fantastic news for your campaign. I mean, it’s literally the best thing we could have hoped for.”
“A unified conservative campaign,” the president mused out loud, “probably means a landslide victory in September. The Progressives will put up a good fight but their side is two fractured. Woodson is never going to endorse Johnston. They hate each other’s guts. That means a divided left-wing. This is fantastic.”
No single-page letter had ever made Brown as positively elated as the one now resting on his mahogany desk. Elections were always a close-call for him. Victory had never been as so absolutely certain for the aging lawyer and politician. This year was just getting better and better.
“This means that we can afford to be a little bit less reserved with our decisions going forward,” Briggs responded happily. “We can pursue some of the more hot button policies you’d talked about way back in 2015.”
"Additionally,” the president interjected, “It means that we can afford to become more involved in a certain Xiomeran debacle. Now, bear with me on this one. I know taking sides in such a conflict could have some… severe longstanding consequences but you can’t possibly tell me that removing Xochiuche from power is the wrong thing to do. The man’s a tyrant. Yauhmi was no saint either but I do believe that her attempts at reform were genuine. A reformed Xiomera could really improve the stability of Catica.”
"What are you suggesting, sir?” Briggs responded without missing a beat. “We can’t go to war again in Catica. You know that; I known that. The January attacks gave us the political clout to join the Vulkarian Coalition but that was hardly comparable to the Xiomeran coup d’état. We have no reason to be involved other than to put a more favorable leader in power. That’ll only lose you support.”
Cutting his political advisor off abruptly, President Brown blankly stated: “We go in covertly. Work with the Laeralites or the Eirians to bring a more favorable individual onto the obsidian throne. It isn’t like we haven’t done this before. We could also look into funding internal groups. We know they exist. Our sources have been clear. If given weapons and funds, they might be able to overthrow Xochiuche without us even having to put a Maximusian boot on the ground. You aren’t going to talk me out of this, Pete. I’ve made up my mind.”
Nodding solemnly, Briggs exited the room in silence. He wasn’t going to be going off his high blood-pressure medicine any time soon.
July 6th, 2020 - Evening
The world was on fire, there was no denying it. On the whole, 2020 had not been kind to the nations of the International Democratic Union. From the deadly adenovirus outbreak to the coordinated terrorist attacks in January, the two thousand and twentieth Year of the Lord would be remembered in the hearts and minds of all who were fortunate enough to survive it as a less than ideal time to be alive. Despite this fact, there was at least one man in the world who was genuinely enjoying himself. That man was Lucas Brown, President of the Republic of Libertas Omnium Maximus.
In a sick and twisted way, Brown had actually benefited from nearly every tragedy the year had thrown his way. His firm but fair response to the Vulkarian terrorist attacks in January was praised by fellow party members and opposition leaders alike. Several anti-interventionists had even acknowledged that his actions were appropriate given the gravity of the situation. Likewise, he had been unilaterally praised for shutting down the nation’s borders in order to stop the spread of the adenovirus. After what could have been a global catastrophe blew over, the economy rebounded at a rate even the most optimistic of economists had thought unlikely. Now, in the blistering summer heat, Brown’s biggest break yet arrived.
“You’re kidding me? This has got to be some kind of a practical joke.” The 57-year-old president set down the neatly typed letter he had been holding and turned to face his Chief Political Strategist, Jason Briggs, before continuing. “People don’t just drop out of a presidential race like that. At least, not when they are the presumptive nominee. Mason’s reasoning is clear but it… it just seems off.”
Briggs, who was equally confused by the memo, hesitantly responded. “I suppose he figures it’s the best way to ensure that a conservative stays in power. CUP hasn’t put a man in this house since ’56 and I think Peter Mason has finally come to terms with the fact that he isn’t going to be the one to break his party’s losing streak. His policies have never resonated with the younger generations and, as much as I hate to admit it, his base is dying out. The CUP is going to have to do some kind of reform if they even want to hold onto their seats in 2022. I think he has finally accepted that. This, of course, is absolutely fantastic news for your campaign. I mean, it’s literally the best thing we could have hoped for.”
“A unified conservative campaign,” the president mused out loud, “probably means a landslide victory in September. The Progressives will put up a good fight but their side is two fractured. Woodson is never going to endorse Johnston. They hate each other’s guts. That means a divided left-wing. This is fantastic.”
No single-page letter had ever made Brown as positively elated as the one now resting on his mahogany desk. Elections were always a close-call for him. Victory had never been as so absolutely certain for the aging lawyer and politician. This year was just getting better and better.
“This means that we can afford to be a little bit less reserved with our decisions going forward,” Briggs responded happily. “We can pursue some of the more hot button policies you’d talked about way back in 2015.”
"Additionally,” the president interjected, “It means that we can afford to become more involved in a certain Xiomeran debacle. Now, bear with me on this one. I know taking sides in such a conflict could have some… severe longstanding consequences but you can’t possibly tell me that removing Xochiuche from power is the wrong thing to do. The man’s a tyrant. Yauhmi was no saint either but I do believe that her attempts at reform were genuine. A reformed Xiomera could really improve the stability of Catica.”
"What are you suggesting, sir?” Briggs responded without missing a beat. “We can’t go to war again in Catica. You know that; I known that. The January attacks gave us the political clout to join the Vulkarian Coalition but that was hardly comparable to the Xiomeran coup d’état. We have no reason to be involved other than to put a more favorable leader in power. That’ll only lose you support.”
Cutting his political advisor off abruptly, President Brown blankly stated: “We go in covertly. Work with the Laeralites or the Eirians to bring a more favorable individual onto the obsidian throne. It isn’t like we haven’t done this before. We could also look into funding internal groups. We know they exist. Our sources have been clear. If given weapons and funds, they might be able to overthrow Xochiuche without us even having to put a Maximusian boot on the ground. You aren’t going to talk me out of this, Pete. I’ve made up my mind.”
Nodding solemnly, Briggs exited the room in silence. He wasn’t going to be going off his high blood-pressure medicine any time soon.