Kaiju Agonistes

November, 1972

Richard Nixon wins a second term in the quietest presidential election since sheep last grazed on the White House lawn. The whole world has gone Messenger-mad, immediately tripling the creature’s projected market capitalization, swamping the seven major banks the entity now owns with more paperwork than they can physically process. Messenger now exists above the financial stratosphere, a Ponzi scheme with the staying power of a fusion reaction. It could buy two General Motors. It has lifted its curse on the Pacific Ocean. And Eugenia Aldrich-Haines has cut Nixon out of the credit. He’s no longer the man who told a despotic alien monster where to shove it, he’s just the guy who had more name recognition than the governor of South Dakota.

That asshole who wrote the book about him once said that Nixon was followed around by some “genius of deflation,” an unseen force that put him in proximity to big, brave things but ensured he always looked vaguely ridiculous. Nixon never gave that observation much credit, but today, staring out at the gray drizzle in the Rose Garden, he can admit he feels haunted. He sighs. Fuck it. His house has a bowling alley in the basement.