The Savanna sun hung high and hungover, mocking the Bald Eagle Bounty Hunters as they hightailed it out of Mar-a-Lagoons in the Patriot Pickup—a vehicle now sporting more bullet holes than a politician's resume and a hood ornament (Eddie, the cursed eagle) that rode shotgun like a feathered co-pilot with a superiority complex. Jax Hawthorne gripped the wheel, veins popping like overtaxed infrastructure bills, while the radio crackled with the fallout: Bluster McScream's voice, shrill as a whistleblower's leak, blaring "Breaking: Cal's Coif Catastrophe! Is this the end of the Comb-Over King, or just another bad hair day for democracy?"
"Bad hair? Try bad heir," Jax snorted, weaving through a gauntlet of news drones that buzzed like paparazzi on steroids. One clipped the mirror, its lens popping off to reveal a tiny camera engraved "Fake News Division." "Theo, you sure that upload stuck? Last thing we need is Cal spinning this as 'deepfake defamation' and suing us into a parallel universe."
Theo Beaumont, wedged in the backseat with his laptop propped on a taco wrapper, nodded frantically, glasses askew like they'd lost a staring contest with chaos. The drive—now a smoking relic of Phase One—was ejected and stashed in his sock drawer (metaphorically; actually, under the seat with the spare smokes). "Stuck? It's viral, Jax. TweetFart's melting down—hashtags like #WhopperHoax and #CalTheCon trending harder than a supermodel's scandal. But Phase Two... this 'Endorsement Eclipse'? It's timed for tonight's annular whatever-the-fuck. Total blackout from coast to coast, give or take a few coastal elites with private generators."
Lila Vargas, shotgun seat claimed by virtue of "I called it first and also punched a gator," was live-streaming the getaway on a burner phone—filter on, feathers askew, caption: "Just saved ur vote from burger bots. Tip ur waiter (me) in tacos. #YankeeSamurai." She cackled as likes poured in, her green eyes gleaming with the unadulterated glee of someone who'd turned a heist into a meme empire. "Look at this, team! Some rando in the Riviera just Venmo'd us for 'emotional support during election season.' We're influencers now! Debtzilla's gonna need a bigger pouch."
Big Bubba O'Malley, sprawled in the truck bed nursing a flask and a gator gouge wrapped in a "Make It Bleed Again" bandana, hollered over the wind. "Influencers? Bah. Back in my day, we called that 'wanted posters.' Cal's got reach—longer than his grudges. That eclipse broadcast? It's not just a speech; it's a spectacle. Holo-projectors on every cell tower, satellites slinging his mug across the sky. He'll 'endorse' himself like a self-love seminar on steroids: 'Vote Cal, because who else has the balls? Me! Bigly!' And buried in the feed? Subliminals. Whispers in the static: 'Cal or chaos. Burgers for ballots. Resist, and resist-ance is futile.'"
The pickup rattled onto the Interstate—Shitholia's vein of asphalt arteries, clogged with RVs towing "Don't Tread On My RV" stickers and semis hauling "Stimulus Surplus" (spoiler: it was mostly expired ramen). Jax punched the cruise control, which promptly glitched to "Patriot Speed: 55 MPH or Surrender Your Guns." "Subliminals? Classy. Like that time Congress tried 'hypno-bills' to pass healthcare reform—ended with everyone craving kale and kickbacks. So, what's the play? Crash the sky-party? Hack the heavens? Or do we go low-tech: Show up with pies in the face and pitchforks for the pitch?"
Theo's laptop pinged—a dark-web alert from Murray, the frantic clerk. Text: Eclipse feed's routing through the National Broadcast Nexus in Dysfunction City. Old-school tower farm, but wired with new-school bullshit: AI censors that flag 'truth' as 'treason.' Get there by dusk, or Cal's face eclipses the sun—and your reputations. Attached: a napkin-sketch map, because in Shitholia, high-tech meant "hand-drawn with ketchup."
Lila pumped her fist. "D.C.? Road trip remix! But first—pit stop. I'm starving, and nothing says 'save democracy' like a drive-thru dump of onion rings. Extra onions. For the tears we'll cry when Cal wins anyway."
Bubba's laugh rumbled like thunder in a tin can. "Tears? Kid, that's sweat from the grind. But yeah—onions it is. And whiskey. For the soul."
Hours blurred into a montage of mediocrity: a greasy spoon detour where the "freedom fries" came with a side of conspiracy theories ("The eclipse? Moon-landing hoax sequel!"), a near-miss with a flock of campaign pigeons (trained to crap on opposition billboards), and Eddie dive-bombing the windshield with "auspices"—droppings that, when smeared, vaguely spelled "DANGER: SHADOW PUPPET." Jax wiped it off with a sigh. "Bird's got better intel than the CIA. Figures. At least he doesn't bill overtime."
By late afternoon, the Dysfunction City skyline squatted on the horizon: a swampy sprawl of marble mausoleums and mirrored monstrosities, where the Potomac lapped at the foundations like a disgruntled taxpayer. The National Broadcast Nexus loomed on the outskirts—a brutalist behemoth of Brutalist Brutality, towers stabbing the sky like middle fingers to the gods, festooned with antennas that hummed with the white noise of a nation divided. Security was a joke wrapped in a red tape bow: checkpoints manned by bored feds in "Homeland Insecurity" vests, drones that scanned for "suspicious vibes," and a moat of bureaucratic quicksand (literally—permits required to cross).
The crew ditched the pickup in a "No Parking: Violators Towed to Gitmo" lot, swapping for disguises scavenged from a nearby flea market: Jax as a "cable guy" (toolbox full of lockpicks and shortstacks), Lila as a "junior intern" (clipboards and chaos), Theo as "tech support" (laptop and a lanyard screaming "Don't Ask Me About Bills"), and Bubba as "maintenance" (overalls straining at the seams, bat as a "plumbing snake").
"Operation Eclipse Fiasco commences," Jax whispered as they breached the perimeter—Lila distracting a guard with a fake spill ("Oops! My kale smoothie—help a girl out?"), Theo spoofing badges via a wrist-hack, and Bubba "fixing" a fence with brute force subtlety. Inside, the Nexus was a labyrinth of lit fiber-optics and unlit ambitions: control rooms buzzing with suits yelling into headsets ("Cue the eagle! No, the other eagle!"), server farms humming like beehives of bullshit, and a central studio prepped for the spectacle—a green-screen globe where Cal's holo would "rise" like a tacky phoenix during totality.
They slunk through vents (because tropes), emerging in the sub-basement where the real magic happened: the Subliminal Synthesizer, a rack of servers pulsing with code that wove whispers into the broadcast waveform. Theo dove in, fingers flying. "Got it—backdoor's a golf joke: 'What's Cal's handicap? The truth.' Patching in our counter: Every 'Cal' becomes 'Recall.' Every burger? 'Bailout.' Subliminals flipped to 'Vote Your Conscience—Or At Least Your Cat's.'"
But alarms trilled—soft at first, then a symphony of "Intruder Tango!" Floodlights snapped on, guards swarming like ants at a picnic of power. Lila met them head-on, clipboard as shield, slingshot as sword: "Outta the way, pencil-pushers! This intern's on a coffee run—extra foam, hold the fascism!" She tripped one with a cord yank, sent another sprawling with a hurled stapler that stapled his tie to the carpet.
Jax danced through the fray, Liberty's Edge whispering disarms: a flick to disarm, a feint to floor. "Gentlemen—and I use that loosely—this is a private party. Cal's ego eclipse doesn't need witnesses. Or us."
Bubba was a bulldozer in overalls, "snake" cracking knees and consoles alike. "Plumbing's backed up—your boss's promises mostly. Flush 'em out!" A guard charged; Bubba sidestepped, bat tapping the man's helmet like a judge's gavel. "Overruled."
Upstairs, the broadcast clock ticked: 30 minutes to eclipse. In the studio, techs panicked as feeds glitched—Cal's rehearsal holo sputtering: "My fellow Shitholians... vote for me, because I'm huge—huge-ly re—recall? What the—?" Producers screamed into mics: "Cut the feed! No, boost it! Where's the backup ego?"
The crew converged on the control booth, a glassed-in fishbowl overlooking the chaos. But waiting? Cal's right-hand mink-man: "Slick Vic," a weaselly advisor in a pinstripe suit, flanked by cyber-gators on leashes (upgraded, with stun collars). Vic smirked, fingers steepled over a kill-switch. "Ah, the ronin rejects. Come to bask in the shadow? Too late. The eclipse is locked—satellites slaved, towers tuned. One flip, and Cal's face blacks out the sun. Subliminals seal the steal. You'll be footnotes in his victory lap."
Jax leveled his blade. "Footnotes? We're the whole damn redline, Vic. Step aside, or we'll edit you out—permanently."
Vic laughed, snapping fingers. Gators lunged—jaws unhinging to reveal data ports that sprayed EMP foam. Lila dodged, grabbing a leash and lassoing Vic's ankle: "Yankee doodle dandy—meet your new pet!" She yanked; Vic stumbled, kill-switch clattering.
Theo pounced, plugging in the override dongle (a USB shaped like a middle finger, naturally). "Uploading... now! Feeds rerouting—Cal's eclipse becomes... our show?"
The booth shuddered as the hack hit. Studio screens bloomed with truth-bombs: Hoax files unspooling, Cal's rants remixed with laugh tracks, endorsements from "ghost donors" confessing in cartoon voices. Outside, the sky darkened prematurely—the real eclipse creeping in, but now laced with holo-graffiti: Eddie's face eclipsing Cal's, splat-droppings raining digital confetti.
Vic scrambled for the switch; Bubba intercepted, bat meeting palm in a thwack that echoed like a concession speech. "Game, set, splat."
Guards burst in, but too late—the broadcast went live. Across Shitholia, TVs flickered: Cal's triumphant pose warping into a blooper reel, his voice booming "Vote for... wait, what? Recall Cal! Burgers? Bailouts! Oh god, the minks!" Viewers blinked, then cheered—meme-ories flooding feeds, protests popping like popcorn.
The crew exfiltrated amid the meltdown: vents again, a service elevator that dinged "Freedom Floor," out into the swampy dusk where the eclipse crowned the chaos in a ring of fire. The Patriot Pickup waited, Eddie perched proud.
Back on the road, Jax exhaled, the weight lifting like a filibuster's end. "We did it. Phase Two flushed. Cal's cooked—probably tweeting denials from a bunker, blaming 'the deep state of condiments.'"
Lila scrolled the frenzy. "Hell yeah! We're trending—#BaldEagleBounty. Fan art already: Me riding a gator with a Whopper sword."
Theo frowned at his screen. "But... Murray says it's not over. The drive mentioned Phase Three: 'The Recount Reckoning.' Something about zombie voters and a 'resurrection rally' in the heartland."
Bubba lit a fresh cigar. "Of course. In Shitholia, eclipses end, but egos? They just cast longer shadows."
The ring of fire faded, stars winking like co-conspirators. Jax grinned into the night. "Then we chase the shadow. Again. Because that's the gig: Bounty hunters, ballot busters, bullshit banishers."
But as the pickup hummed toward the horizon, a new alert pinged: A holo-call from an unknown number. Cal's face—paler than usual, comb-over wilted. "You think this ends me? Phase Three's my phoenix, ronin. And you're the kindling."
Click. Darkness.
The real eclipse? Just beginning.