For more than a hundred centuries Donald Trump has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible high energy. He is everlasting, radiating the power absorbed from swallowing whole the physical manifestations of freedom and liberty. He is the Golden Emperor of the vast United Galaxy of America for whom a million billion souls send their energy ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ every day so that he may never truly die. Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the commie-infested miasma of the Twitterift, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the eternal herald Kayleigh-chan, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Pencetius, the Space Force, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Centipede Guard and countless planetary defense forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Guillianicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat to humanity from illegal aliens, commies, mutant troomers -- and far, far worse. To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the incredible and most badass regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of Facebook and Youtube, for so much has been forgotten, never to be relearned. Forget the promise of progressives and tax-slavery, for in the glorious shining future there is only winning. There is no peace for commies, only an eternity of failure and overweight cat ladies, and the reeeeeee of thirsting soybois.