BIG TENT RISING
Part 1 - Operation Big Business
“Would you have done it any differently?” Zippy asked. “You see, Ace, it all started with a guy, old XY the President-King—maybe he was polka dots in color, maybe stripes. But honestly, it didn’t matter then. The damage was done.
“But why did it matter, Zippy?”
“Because, Ace, I did little to nothing about it... and I guess so did you. That’s why the planet was under siege. So hear me out, as this was his MO and it was critical to know: he showed up out of the blue—yep, old XY—then he stained his mark on whomever he wanted, whenever and wherever it pleased him. And when he was finished? He tossed people aside like garbage, leaving them to rot in the bin. But then they rose up, strong and righteous. All the while, he boasted on ‘X’—that megaphone that once marked treasure, now only a signpost for trash. He posted, ‘That was lunch; now, where’s dinner?’”
“Hey, Ace,” Zippy said, looking back through the wormhole. “There was this one moment—the decisive one. Here’s the thing: you’re here, and we’re there. ‘Here’ being you, in the present, and ‘there’ being us, in the future. Guess what that means? You can do something about it! I’d like you to consider this and think about how you’d handle it.”
Ace shot Zippy a wary look. “But you know how deep this regime runs, right? The Supreme Court justices parade their power without shame, issuing ludicrous rulings. And Congress? More like a pack of wolves—like that troll Congress Thingy Moolah the Greedy and her minions. They hunt down easy prey. Teens become their targets, toyed with and stalked for sport. The elderly? They’re robbed of their life savings, carpetbagged by the very people who’re supposed to protect them…”
She shook her head. “And the XX? They’re seen as nothing more than subjects to control, ruled over by the President-King and his Congress Thingys. Because they refused to surrender their minds and autonomy, MAGA’s justices ruled them subservient. They even declared, without shame, that ‘God is made in their image,’ so life is subject to their gavel’s ruling. In their eyes, XX bodies belong to them, stripped of any true autonomy over their will, their thoughts… the President-King, MAGA, their for-hire justices, and the Congress Thingys assume that power indefinitely."And as they are God, they have ruled, and so it shall be." And on the Sabbath, they rejoiced, their schemes now set in stone, chanting, "Ka-ching, their penance paid with thirty pieces of silver and an ingot of gold! Hallelujah to the almighty! All hail the President-King!"
Zippy gave her a steady look. “Now that you know what’s coming, Ace, you’ve got a chance to change things. You can’t just stand by, can you?”
“Hey Ace, if that stirred something within you, good. If it didn’t? Perhaps that’s why the intergalactic wars never ceased. This fight isn’t about cutting off the tail of a snake; it’s about striking at the head. And that’s exactly what happened—but not in the way you might think Zippy said.
The Big Tent is just that—not a metaphor, nor a philosophy. It’s what’s needed to unite the galaxies to repel and defend against the pervasive goo of MAGA, which has infested to the point of no return. There’s no antidote except the understanding that it didn’t take hold in a vacuum but was amplified through the megaphone. Now, the business operatives of the Big Tent are spreading the good entrepreneurial word—a message rooted in the common good that doesn’t stray to where ‘X’ only marks trash, but instead engages face-to-face over coffee and cake.
"Now, that sounds like a real kumbaya moment,’ Zippy,” Ace said, smirking. “But how do we actually get there?”
“In this universe,” Zippy replied, “survival isn’t about living in a cage or bowing down to those who crave power. It’s about building a bigger tent—a space for anyone who just wants to live their life in peace. If that’s you, great. You live free, stay out of others’ way, and remember to take out the trash, so it can return to a state of genesis.”
He looked Ace straight in the eyes. “And that’s the opportunity you have in the present, my friend. From here in the future, we can see it’s possible. But the first steps toward that Big Tent? That’s for your heart and soul to figure out—and your feet to make happen.”
“Cheers, mate! I saw that spark in you, and I’m going to—”
Suddenly, a loud ping echoed through the speakers, interrupting them.
And as the stakes rose ever higher, the call to action grew louder.
In the dimly lit underground bunker, Zippy spread a map of the city across the table, weighted down by old, empty shell casings. He surveyed the faces of his team—seasoned operatives, business renegades, each with a stake in the takedown of the President-King and his MAGA enforcers. The smell of stale coffee and adrenaline filled the air, and tension crackled like a live wire.
“Here’s the plan,” Zippy began, his voice low. “We’re not just fighting them. We’re going to take their empire from within. We know MAGA’s top players have buried themselves deep in business structures, feeding off every SME they don’t outright crush. But that means they’re vulnerable.”
He nodded to Ace, who pulled up a network diagram on the makeshift projector—a web of corporate subsidiaries, banks, and shadowy entities under MAGA’s control.
“We’re going to bleed them dry,” Ace said, pointing to the branches of MAGA’s empire. “Starting with their supply lines. We’ve already set up dummy corporations here and here.” Her finger traced two locations on the map. “These will siphon off their critical resources, offering ‘better deals’ to suppliers MAGA relies on. With the right leverage, we’ll make MAGA pay for their own collapse.”
A ripple of satisfaction passed through the team, but Zippy’s tone remained serious. “It’s high stakes. We’ll need everyone’s connections in finance, distribution, and marketing. Everyone plays a role in setting up this takeover. And one slip-up? They’ll come after each of us. Hard.”
Suddenly, a soft beep sounded from the comms unit on the table. Zippy’s eyes darkened as he glanced at the display.
“Security breach on the main level,” the voice crackled through the speaker.
He tensed, his gaze darting around the room. “We’ve been compromised. Everyone, clear the room. We’ll regroup at safehouse B.”
The team scrambled, grabbing intel, portable devices, anything that could tie them to the operation. Zippy grabbed Ace’s arm, pulling her into a side hallway as footsteps echoed from the entrance. “We've got a mole,” he whispered, his eyes hard. “And they’re feeding information to MAGA. If they know even half of what we just discussed…”
Ace’s eyes widened, but she quickly regained composure. “Then we move forward. We can’t back down now.”
Zippy nodded, his jaw clenched. “Right. We’ve set the wheels in motion. The hostile takeover proceeds. From this point on, trust no one outside this room—and not everyone inside it either.”
GOP BIG TENT RISING Part 2 - Tariffed out of the Planet
Once outside, the team scattered into the night, each with their orders. They initiated the second phase of their plan remotely, infiltrating MAGA’s financial networks, flipping loyalists, and leaking high-impact business information to sow want and desire within their ranks. Every step had to be precise. One wrong move, and MAGA would clamp down on them like a steel trap.
Just before parting ways, Zippy pulled Ace aside. “If they figure out who’s leading this, it’s all over. We’ll need to keep changing locations and stay ahead of every trace.”
She nodded, determination steeling her face. “We’ll stick to the plan. But if the mole surfaces…?”
“Then they’ll wish they hadn’t,” Zippy replied coldly.
As the team melted into the shadows, the hostile takeover had begun. MAGA’s empire was a ticking time bomb—and they were holding the fuse. But before they could ignite it, fate had other plans as life exploded. Waking up, they found themselves blown through the wormhole and into…the past, the present, well it wasn’t the future as…
Life was grand—magnificent in a raw, unapologetically entrepreneurial way. Business was booming, progress felt boundless, inclusivity was natural. Then MAGA came, and it all went down the drain. The year 2030 didn’t just arrive; it brought with it a dystopian crash that few could’ve seen coming. Coastal cities, once bustling centers of culture and commerce, lay gutted—strangled by tariffs, a single cell regime that priced life’s basics out of existence. Inflation surged like a tidal wave, drowning communities under a flood of boarded-up shops and abandoned homes. Where skyscrapers had once soared, gleaming in testament to a society’s boundless ambition, now stood hollowed shells, reminders of what had been lost.
Dude, it's MAGA... they’ve chained closed businesses that aren’t towing the line with that insane Project 2025. MTG’s goons and their Trojan trolls are dismantling access to information, dragging us back to the Stone Age—hard rock and hammer, chisel tablet even Fred Flintstone had better tech. We need to pull off this heist now. Grab the plans, download the schematics, ninja the parts—print what we can and just build it.
“Dude, what if we get caught?”
“If we do, we’re dead. So, let’s not get caught. There’s this cute entrepreneur I want to meet… but first, we need to do this.”
“Got it. Let’s do it.”
The urgency crackled in the air as they plotted their course through the wreckage of what was once a thriving economy, fueled by the hope that somewhere amid the chaos lay the tools to reclaim their future. With determination igniting their resolve, they set their sights on a path riddled with risk, ready to take a stand against the forces threatening to keep them down.
The President-King’s Project 2025 took its place front and center—unapologetically arrogant, ruthless, and relentless. This technocratic nightmare, enforced without remorse, drove the nation deeper into chaos, choking out the freedom and fulfillment that had once fueled thriving communities. As surveillance drones patrolled the skies and propaganda screens blinked with the regime’s relentless messaging, the once-vibrant streets felt eerily silent, stifled by fear and conformity. Yet, amid this devastation, the Big Tent philosophy held its ground. It was bombarded, forced to bend, nearly broken. But it endured—because when you build something that withstands storms for centuries, it doesn’t fall to tyranny easily.
“Hey, Zippy, how’s it going? Are we near completion?” O2 asked, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the coast was clear.
“The dudes are out canvassing joints for the main components,” Zippy replied, eyes scanning the dimly lit warehouse filled with makeshift workstations and tools that flickered to life with the glow of holographic displays. “But before we build it, we need to canvas the population—sneakily, quietly. Test the waters, you know? We’ve got to generate leads. Otherwise, we’re just sacrificing energy, effort, and most likely our lives, and no one wants that kind of change.”
“So what are we going to do then, Zippy? We can’t just go knocking on doors… or can we?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Zippy asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“O2 replied, “Most likely not; I know how you think.”
“Check it out,” Zippy said, leaning closer, lowering his voice. “It will work! I’ll go undercover.”
“What? As a Trojan?” O2 raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
“You got it!” Zippy affirmed, a grin spreading across his face. “I know you’re EX-SF, but really?”
“Yes, really! The best way to generate leads is through guerrilla marketing. Imagine a synchronized blast of flickers at a given time—an electromagnetic pulse from our DIY tech that lights up the night sky with our message. The world will go mad over it! They’ll realize they’re not alone, and the Big Tent is rising. Operation GOP is here!”
With the plan laid out, the air crackled with a renewed sense of purpose. The duo felt the weight of their mission, each knowing that the success of their operation hinged on their ability to rally the silent masses. As they prepared to infiltrate the cracks of a broken society, they understood that hope was the strongest currency they had left.
In response, a new movement began to rise. Not waiting out the storm or retreating, but rebuilding with resolve. This was Operation GOP—Growth, Inclusion, and Profit. It was more than just a revival; it was a revolution to reclaim the heart of business. This tent would be bigger and stronger than ever, welcoming entrepreneurs, small businesses, and community leaders who refused to let their vision of prosperity be stolen. This was a reclamation, a rallying cry for sanity, a call to create a future where growth, inclusivity, and shared success weren’t mere ideals but the very fabric of society.
“But Zippy, what’s your message?” O2 asked, the weight of their mission pressing down on him. “We can’t beat their foxy woxy broadcasts; they’re nonstop… and remember when Bird tweeted and X marked treasure? Now it’s just sign-post trash! I mean, come on, Zippy, dude…”
“Yes, you’re right,” Zippy replied, a determined gleam in his eye. “And that’s why our messaging is more than the blah blah blah. It’s the thunder, it’s the lightning! Trust me, the world will know exactly what it is ad what to do.”
GOP BIG TENT RISING Part - 3 Narks in the Dark
“Oh, I got it now,” O2 said—a talented, entrepreneurial kind of dude—as a spark ignited in his chest. “Shucks, Zippy, that’s… I mean, that’s genius! It’s inspirational because you can hear it, see it, and then you know it. Anyone can do it! And that’s why the dudes’ mission is critical.”
“Exactly! But we’ve got contingency plans, good old business big tent stuff,” Zippy added, his tone turning serious. “We need to watch out, though; the narks are everywhere. They’ll X us on the spot.”
“Got it, Zippy,” O2 replied, steeling himself for what lay ahead. “We’ll keep it tight and smart. Let’s build this storm of inspiration and show them that the Big Tent isn’t just surviving; it’s thriving.”
As they prepared to unleash their vision upon a world desperate for change, they understood the risks. Their message had to cut through the chaos, resonate with those yearning for a brighter future, and remind everyone that they were not alone. The storm was coming, but this time, it would bring the promise of renewal, not despair.
Operation GOP was about setting a new foundation—not just for profit, but for a shared prosperity that could outlast any storm. This was where good business stood tall once again, stronger and ready to weather whatever came next.
“Hey, SharkWave, any thoughts harping back to the good old Tank days?” Zippy asked, a grin spreading across his face.
“Yep, gotta agree with you, Zippy. Leads are where it’s at,” SharkWave replied, his enthusiasm palpable. “And it’s all about creating an ecosystem, you know? I can wake up and see that yes, I am great at doing this. But for doing that, I’ll need to partner up—and wham, bam, boom! That heavy lifting is well… need I say more? And likewise, their hard lifting I do, too.”
“Oh, and the Five Ps—they rock!” Zippy chimed in. “Get them right, and hey, you’re not bait for old Trojan. It’s toast time for it!”
“So, anyone up for a round of Trojan toasting? Fry those circuits!” SharkWave called out, rallying the troops with infectious energy. “Come on, any takers? Guess I should have generated the leads first.”
Laughter rippled through the group, the camaraderie palpable as they prepared for their mission. They were not just warriors in a business battle; they were pioneers of a new frontier. With each plan sketched out, each connection forged, they were redefining what it meant to thrive in a landscape ravaged by greed and oppression.
As they plotted their course, the excitement built. Operation GOP was more than a strategy—it was a movement, a revolution fueled by the belief that together, they could create a world where everyone had a stake in the future. The echoes of the Tank days served as a reminder of their potential, a beacon guiding them through the shadows of doubt. They would rise, not just as individuals but as a united force, ready to reclaim their legacy and build something extraordinary.
Ace surveyed the bleak landscape from the rooftop of an abandoned apartment building, her brow furrowed with a mix of determination and sorrow. Once a successful business executive, she had traded in her corner office for the frontlines of the environmental war, partnering with a coalition known as Operation G-OP. Their mission: to restore balance and sustainability to a planet on the brink of collapse.
But deep down, Ace knew she wasn't the only one grappling with these issues. Not everyone grew up understanding the environment like she did. She got it, yet the frustration bubbled within her, a boiling rage at being treated like a doormat—worse, being ignored altogether. "But MAGA… I brought that upon myself," she muttered, the words laced with self-recrimination. "I don’t know who to blame anymore. I can’t keep crying over this… damn those pricks… damn me… damn everyone."
Her mind raced as she thought of Project 2025, the corporate monstrosity now administering what remained of the ecosystem solely for profit. “I can’t blah on about the ecosystem anymore; we don’t have one,” she whispered, clenching her fists.
Suddenly, a thunderous pounding on the door shook the building, nearly rattling it off its hinges. “F! Trojans, calm down! Four, three, two, one—I’m coming! One femtosecond, please, Mr. Trojans!” she called out, her voice tinged with sarcasm as the door shuddered under the relentless assault of the unmistakable knock of doom.
"Narcissistic A-holes!" she growled, her frustration boiling over as she prepared to confront whatever lay beyond that door. With a deep breath, Ace steeled herself, determined not to let the weight of the world crush her spirit any longer.
The statistics were staggering. Sixty-two percent of the world's coastal cities had been swallowed by the rising tides, and the global waste crisis had reached catastrophic proportions, with landfills overflowing and oceans choked by a seemingly endless tide of plastic and debris. Ace clenched her fists, her heart burning with a resolve to make a difference. The burden of leadership weighed heavily on her shoulders, but she refused to let despair overwhelm her.
"We're running out of time," she murmured, her gaze sweeping across the desolate cityscape. "But Operation GOP is here to fight for a better future."
Determined to push forward, Ace turned and descended the rickety stairs, her footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. She made her way to a repurposed warehouse, the makeshift headquarters of her coalition. Inside, a diverse group of individuals—engineers, scientists, activists, and community leaders—bustled about, their faces etched with a sense of purpose. Each of them had their own story, their own reasons for joining this fight, but together, they formed an unbreakable alliance.
