The Patriot Pickup barreled down the Savanna backroads like a caffeinated coyote on a bender, kicking up dust devils that swirled with the faint scent of overpriced sunscreen and shattered illusions. Dawn had fully cracked open, painting the landscape in hues of "golden opportunity" orange—ironic, given the crew was hurtling toward the epicenter of every shady deal since the Louisiana Purchase got rewritten as a timeshare scam. Mar-a-Lagoons: Comb-Over Cal's personal paradise, a sprawling estate where the American Dream went to retire, get Botox, and plot world domination via golf cart. Palm trees swayed like tipsy interns, the moat glittered with gator grins (and rumored drone subs), and the main house loomed like a wedding cake baked in hell—white columns, gold leaf, and a roofline jagged with satellite dishes eavesdropping on everyone's dirty laundry.
Jax Hawthorne swerved around a flock of escaped flamingos—Cal's "exotic security detail," pink and pissed—while the dash GPS chirped directions in a voice suspiciously like Bluster McScream's: "In three hundred yards, turn left into certain doom. Recalculating your life choices." The black SUV convoy was still on their ass, a wolfpack of tinted menace with the lead hover-limo projecting Cal's mug like a drive-in horror flick. His holo-face flickered in and out, mouthing silent threats that synced to the bass-thumping pursuit playlist (currently blasting "Born in the USA" remixed with chainsaw solos).
"Persistent prick," Jax muttered, popping the last bite of a pilfered shortstack from Auntie's. Crumbs dusted his Hawaiian shirt, which was now more "battle camouflage" than tourist chic, streaked with casino glitter and highway grime. "Theo, you crack that drive yet? Or are we flying blind into the lion's den with nothing but sass and a side of spite?"
Theo Beaumont, crammed in the footwell with the drive jury-rigged to a laptop balanced on his knees, hammered keys like he was tenderizing bad legislation. His tux was a lost cause—torn at the elbows, monocle dangling like a sad earring—and sweat beaded on his brow, mixing with the existential drip of "what have I become?" "Almost! It's layered like an onion of off-shore accounts—peel one, cry over tax evasion; peel two, bawl over bribery. Got a schematic: The war room's under the ninth hole, accessed via a dumbwaiter disguised as a champagne elevator. But security? Biometric scans, mink patrols—yes, minks—and a moat that's basically a kiddie pool for cyborg crocs."
Lila Vargas hung half out the passenger window, her purple hair whipping like a rally flag in a windstorm, slingshot loaded with diner silverware. "Minks? As in, fluffy assassins? Sign me up for a fur coat heist! And crocs? Pfft, Debtzilla ate a chupacabra once. This'll be like Tuesday takoyaki." She let fly—a fork that pinged off the lead SUV's grille, embedding in the bumper like a middle finger from the gods. The driver swerved, buying them a precious ten seconds, but the limo holo-Cal just laughed, a digitized guffaw booming over the engines: "You think a spork stops the storm? My wall's coming—for your wallet, your votes, your very vibes! Surrender the drive, or I'll Whopper-stomp you into oblivion!"
Big Bubba O'Malley, perched in the truck bed like a gargoyle with a grudge, braced against the roll bar and sighted down his bat. The wind tugged at his trench coat, revealing an arsenal that'd make the NRA blush: flashbangs in bandoliers, zip-tie grenades, and a thermos of "Irish firewater" for morale. His cigar was a stub now, clenched like a talisman against the madness. "Talk big for a man hiding behind holograms and hair spray. Back in the Bureau, we called this 'overcompensation.' Probably why his moat's got more teeth than his policy teeth." He lobbed a flashbang—not at the cars, but at the roadside palmettos. It popped with a whump, igniting a brush fire that leaped the median like a protest gone viral. The SUVs fishtailed through the flames, buying more distance, but the convoy reformed, horns blaring anthems of entitlement.
The estate's perimeter hove into view: a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire that hummed with "shock therapy" current, patrolled by drones disguised as seagulls (because nothing says "subtle" like birds with tasers). Jax spotted the service gate—Auntie's intel labeled it "Staff Only: No Dreams Allowed"—and gunned it, the pickup smashing through like a bull in a china shop of privilege. Alarms wailed: a cacophony of "Yankee Doodle" on meth, sirens that could wake the dead (or at least the comatose donors in the guest wing).
"Impact in five!" Jax yelled, as the gate buckled. The truck plowed into a topiary hedge shaped like Mount Rushmore (Washington looking mildly offended), emerging into the inner sanctum with leaves in the grille and dignity in the dust. The convoy piled in after, a demolition derby of democracy, but the crew was already moving—bailing out in a coordinated tumble that'd make a stunt coordinator weep.
Lila hit the ground rolling, slingshot twanging spoons at the nearest seagull-drones. One dropped like a stone, sparking into a palm frond inferno. "Birds zero, silverware one! Who's next?"
Theo scrambled after, drive clutched to his chest, monocle miraculously intact. "Guys! The dumbwaiter—it's by the pool house! But the minks—oh fuck, incoming fluff!"
From the manicured lawns slunk the fur brigade: sleek, gene-spliced minks the size of housecats, eyes glowing with RGB rage, fur patterned in tiny American flags. They were Cal's "exotic enforcers"—part pet, part pest control, all programmed to "nip at heels and hackles." One leaped for Theo's ankle; he swatted it with the laptop, sending it yipping into a birdbath. "Why minks? Why not, I don't know, goldfish with guns? This is peak Shitholia—overkill with an undercurrent of 'fuck you, animal lovers.'"
Bubba waded through the fray, bat swinging in wide arcs that parted the mink horde like the Red Sea on bath salts. "Fluffballs with fangs? Adorable. And dead." Crack—one mink sailed into a fountain, emerging soggy and swearing in binary. He covered the retreat, cigar relit and raging, as Jax led the charge toward the pool house: a cabana of excess, with cabanas within cabanas, all overlooking a lagoon moat teeming with eyes (gator and otherwise).
Jax shouldered the door, Liberty's Edge flashing free in a crescent that severed the smart lock's cables. Sparks flew; the door swung wide to reveal the dumbwaiter—a polished brass shaft lined with velvet, smelling of champagne and conspiracy. "Elevator to hell, population: us. Theo, you're point—plug in en route. Lila, watch the flanks. Bubba, bring up the rear and any surviving minks as trophies."
They crammed in, the dumbwaiter creaking under the weight of weapons, wit, and unresolved daddy issues. As it descended—smooth as a greased palm, with mood lighting that pulsed to the rhythm of distant holo-speeches—the walls projected Cal's greatest hits: clips of rallies where crowds chanted "Lock 'em up!" while he pocketed their lunch money, montages of "deals" that left nations holding the bag.
Theo synced the drive mid-drop, the laptop's screen blooming with war room feeds: live cams of servers humming in a bunker below, techs in "Make It Great" polos uploading Ballot Burger schematics, and Cal himself— in the flesh, not holo—pacing a command center lined with screens. His comb-over bobbed like a distressed sea urchin, tiny hands gesturing at a map where Rustbucket states bled red. "Double the drones! Triple the Whoppers! If those ronin rats think they can—"
The feed glitched as Theo's hack wormed in—a virus disguised as a cat video, because irony was their weapon of choice. Screens across the bunker flickered to Eddie the Eagle's greatest shits: prophetic splats forming rude words, viral clips of Cal's toupee in a wind tunnel. Techs scrambled; Cal face-palmed, his tan cracking like old leather.
The dumbwaiter dinged—ninth hole achieved. Doors parted to... golf? No—a false front: the bunker disguised as a pro shop, shelves of clubs that doubled as shock batons, putters with concealed cameras. But the real war room lay beyond, a vault of villainy with walls papered in "donor walls" (literal walls of cash-stuffed envelopes) and a central holotable projecting the Hoax in 3D glory: ballot chains snaking from rez to rust, burgers birthing bots, votes vanishing into a maw labeled "MegaCorpse Merger."
Guards—Secret Surfboard types in shades and speedos—spun at the intrusion, drawing sidearms etched with "Executive Privilege." Jax was first out, blade a blur: parry, thrust, disarming two before they blinked. "Fore! But make it a mulligan—on account of your boss being a walking audit."
Lila exploded next, a feathered fury hurling golf balls laced with her slingshot spite. They ricocheted off helmets, stunning goons into pratfalls worthy of a bad sitcom. "Hole in one! That's for the minks, you fur-farming fascists!"
Theo darted to a terminal, drive slamming home like a key in karma's lock. "Uploading the counter-virus—should flood their net with... oh. 'Cal's Catastrophic Coifs: A Retrospective.' Every server, every phone—"
Bubba brought the thunder, bat connecting with a guard's knee in a crunch that echoed like a veto override. "Boom goes the ballot! Who's got the sand trap special?"
But Cal—the Cal—emerged from a side door, flanked by his inner circle: a gaggle of yes-men in yarmulkes of yellow ties, and a towering enforcer who looked like the Hulk's accountant. Cal's eyes bulged, comb-over quivering. "You! The bounty buffoons! How dare you crash my fairway? This is my course—my rules, my mulligans! Guards—moat 'em!"
The holotable activated a trap: floor panels irising open to reveal... not lava, but the moat's underbelly. Cyborg gators—leather hides laced with circuits, jaws lined with data-jackers—lunged up, splashing chlorinated chaos. One snapped at Jax's boot; he stomped its snout, blade severing a tail that flopped wetly, still twitching with electric spite.
"Team—scatter!" Jax roared, as the room devolved into a slapstick siege: minks (recruited? Released? Who knew) swarming Cal's ankles, drones (hacked) dive-bombing his entourage, and the holotable shorting out in a fountain of sparks that set a donor wall ablaze—envelopes curling like guilty secrets.
Lila grappled a gator, riding it like a bucking bronco while prying its jaw-plug free. "Yee-haw, you scaly sellout! Tell Cal his diet's as fake as his polls!"
Theo's upload hit critical: sirens wailed as the bunker net broadcast the Hoax files nationwide—TweetFart exploding with "Cal's Whopper of Lies," Bluster McScream cutting to emergency "What The Fuck?" segments. Cal howled, tiny fists flailing: "Nooo! My brand! My burgers! You'll pay—impeachment! Indictment! Infinite audits!"
Bubba cornered the enforcer, bat meeting bulk in a deadlock. "Audit this, meathead." A swing, a stagger—the big guy toppled into the moat, gators turning on their own in a frenzy of friendly fire.
Jax faced Cal one-on-one, katana leveled at the tycoon's throat—close enough to ruffle the comb-over. "Game over, Cheeto. Your hoax? Hosed. Your wall? Will have ears now. Hand over the kill-switch, or I shave the truth into your scalp."
Cal sneered, but his eyes darted—defeated, but not done. He slapped a wristband; the room shuddered. "Fools! You think this ends the game? Phase Two's already teed up— the Endorsement Eclipse! Every celeb, every corp—"
A gator breach flooded the floor, ankle-deep in thrashing tails and tech flotsam. The dumbwaiter pinged—escape hatch calling. "Move!" Jax shoved Cal into the water (petty? Yes. Cathartic? Hell yeah), the crew piling back in as the bunker buckled.
Ascent was a blur: explosions rocking the estate, holo-Cals glitching across the grounds like digital poltergeists. They burst topside into pandemonium—guests in robes fleeing, minks herding them like deranged sheepdogs, and Eddie circling overhead, dropping "bombs" on the limo convoy now mired in the moat.
The Patriot Pickup waited, engine idling like a getaway heartbeat. They leaped in, Jax gunning it toward the breached gate as Cal's voice echoed from the depths: "This isn't over! The ballot's eternal—eternal, I say!"
Theo sealed the drive, grinning through the grit. "It's done. Hoax exposed. Votes saved. We're... heroes?"
Lila high-fived the air. "Heroes with hazard pay! And minks? We keeping one?"
Bubba chuckled, nursing a gator bite. "Only if it fetches cigars."
But as they hit the highway, Jax's burner buzzed—Murray, frantic: "You did it? Wait—no, bad news. The drive? It was bait. Real Phase Two just dropped: Cal's endorsing... himself. Via eclipse broadcast. Nationwide. Tonight."
The sun climbed higher, mocking them. Eclipse? In Shitholia, that meant lights out on liberty.
And the shadow was falling fast.