For President Benn Mugaba, the State of the Union address had been a spectacular piece of theatre. The standing ovations, applause, the lights, the faces beaming at him from all sides still filled his mind when he got up the following morning and slipped on his silk dressing gown. 
As he rubbed his tired eyes, he recalled what had happened.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YcfC2fO1p5E&feature=bz301
When he had stood on the platform, in all the glamour of youthful superhuman beauty and power and, with inspired eloquence, had expounded his universal program full of abstract goals and generalities concerning health reform, education reform and national reform, the assembly had constantly interrupted with bursts of applause as if carried away by the spell of his personality and, in an outburst of enthusiasm, someone had even joked, it was time to give him the highest honor and to elect him Roman Emperor.
What a thrill!
Okay, it had all been scripted, he thought to himself, yawning. The camera shots had all been carefully rehearsed and choreographed. The applause had been written into the programme and handed out to all the Representatives and Senators to follow. And they had.
He had finished his speech with the requisite passion, jutting out his chin, holding his head high, wagging his finger over and over again to emphasise his moral authority. His martial final flourish had been greeted by thunderous clapping and cries of joy. People had jostled around him when the time came for him to leave the Congress floor. Hands had reached out from all directions to touch him, the new emperor.
Recalling the occasion, Mugaba slipped his feet into his cashmere slippers with a sense of satisfaction.
It was raining outside. Dark clouds covered the sky. But not even the weather could dampen his elation. He walked into his en suite bathroom, flicked on the lights and stood in front of the mirror. He lifted his hand to his face and examined the dark circles under his eyes, noticing how they looked more pronounced because his face was long and narrow.
He frowned feeling irritation for the first time that morning. Any sign that he was aging always troubled him. When he reflected, however, that frowning would make him age even more quickly, he forced himself to brighten up and relax his face muscles.
He started to hum a cheerful tune as he carefully ran his fingers through his cropped short, hair. Then he applied some cream to his skin and some light make up.
He had to thank his good looks and tall and imposing figure for his meteoric rise to President.
The Illuminati, the secret rulers of America and Europe, had recognised that they needed to create a cult of personality in order to deflect the attention of the American people away from the way trillions of dollars of their wealth were being transferred from them into the hands of the banks the Illuminati controlled through the creation and manipulations of financial crisis and wars.
This totally illegal transfer had accelerated in the last few years because of the need of the Illuminati for ever larger quantities of money to pay their vast armies, secret and not so secret, as they moved to implement the final phase of their new world order with a totalitarian America, dotted with FEMA camps, mass graves, and criss crossed with railtracks transporting prisoners in railway cars with built in shackles.
Hyperinflation would drive the last Americans into total poverty and pave the way for the occupation of parts of America by the Chinese, who had been promised American homes, companies and farms as collateral for serving a gigantic US government debt that they, the people of America, did not create or want.
Mexicans and Indians were to be encouraged to repopulate the United States after the original inhabitants had been wiped out as the next wave of slaves to serve the Illuminati - or so the Illuminati hoped.
Left increasingly without any money or any rights, the Americans, however, had to be given something to believe in until the last remnants of money were sucked out of the country and martial law implement – and so the cult of the President Mugaba had been engineered by the Illuminati to tap the infantile capacity for naïve, unconscious faith that they were sure the American people still had in huge measure.
They had indeed elected him as president by a reasonable majority, expecting decisive action to roll back the violations of their constitutional rights and rebuild the economy.
Mugaba's gift of rhetoric was so extraordinary that when he spoke, people did not, at first, at any rate, realise it was all words without any substance.
He was indeed a remarkable man, a kind of superman. He was still relatively young, but owing to his great brain, he had already become a professor of law at an Ivy league college at the age of 35.
Conscious of his great intellect, he enjoyed vigorous debate and lively discussion and was know for his unfailingly polite manners even when criticised fiercely.
Mugaba went to church regularly and believed in God, hope and virtue. He believed in these in an abstract way but he really loved only himself. He believed in God but in the depths of his soul, he preferred himself.
His immeasurable self love showed itself in the amount of time he spent every morning in the bathroom, arranging his appearance. He spent almost as much time in the gym to keep his figure trim.
For the sake of his figure, he kept to a stricter diet than his appetites might otherwise have dictated. Blessed with so many gifts of good looks and brains, he considered himself be second only to God himself. But his idea of being God-like showed itself not in the exercise of moral duty to God or the world but in seizing whatever privileges and advantages he could at the expense of others.
The winner takes it all, was his motto. Carpe Diem. Seize the pleasures of the day.
He had grown up with his grandparents after his mother, a lady of doubtful reputation, had gone to work in Asia, where she had married.
Generally believed to be the son of a Kenyan, no one really knew who his father really was and his place of birth remained unclear.
His awareness of belonging outside the charmed circle of power and privilege had, in fact, fuelled Mugaba's enormous ambition.
Mugaba had entered Columbia University thanks to his mother's connections with the CIA. His smooth character and his good looks had come to the attention of a group of people whose colossal financial resources had made them the secret rulers of America and Europe and who trawled through universities looking for tools with which to build their new world empire.
Sure that they could trust Mugaba to carry out any order they gave him as long as he was given enough money and privileges, they had prepared him for the highest office in the country, for the Presidency.
He had only been elected for one month when the discrepancy between his campaign promises and his policies had become crystal clear to Americans resulting in a plunge in his popularity. The transfer of trillions of dollars into the hands of the banks controlled by Illuminati continued. Millions of houses and companies and farms based into the hands of those same banks and front companies as the depression engineered by the Illuminati hit.
Moves to curb food production in the US accelerated, so facilitating a Ukraine style starvation.
The curtailment of American’s rights was speeded up, and plans were made to disarm them before implementing martial law.
This plunge in popularity had resulted in the need for Mugaba to make an even more impressive speech for his State of the Union Address, televised around the country.
By the time Mugaba had finished dressing after exercising in the gym, it was 11 o'clock.
He strolled into the Oval Office dapperly dressed as usual. The room was cold and he ordered one of the servants to turn up the central heating.
Malachi came in a few minutes later, looking irritated.
“Why are you so late?” he asked, glaring at Mugaba.
“Tired,” said Mugaba, smiling.
“You shouldn’t have drunk all those cocktails.”
“You only live once,” Mugaba shot back.
Malachi handed him some files.
“Sign,” he said.
“Got a pen?”
Malachi took out a fountain pen.
Mugaba sat down at the desk and started to sign.
“What’s this stuff?” he asked, without looking up.
“About the FEMA camps.”
“Oh?”
“Authorising more funding for the camps so they can be turned into long term detention centers.”
“Long term?”
“Labour centers. We’re going to need labour. Only the young and the old are going to get the vaccination.”
Mugaba frowned. He frowned not because he was not troubled in conscience by the thought that millions of Americans would have to be killed to reduce the population. After all, with the economic destroyed, it would be more merciful to get rid of the people. He frowned because he was troubled by the fear of a popular revolt.
The idea of millions of people being killed, tortured, raped and abused as a result of his orders didn't bother him at all. If he thought about the "masses", at all then it was with a certain contempt. He associated Americans with his mother's harsh voice and rough manner.
“Are we really going to get away with this?” He asked. "I mean, I don't want to end up swinging from a lamp post."
“Sure, we will,” said Malachi, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyway, your job is just to sign.”
Mugaba signed the dozen executive orders. Then closed the file. He yawned.
“What’s on the agenda today?” he asked, leaning back.
“Nothing,” said Malachi. “Today, we’ve got to figure out how your speech went down and our next move. The viewer figures were okay but George got about the same for his mid term state of the union addresses, so we're figuring it could have been better. And then the number of people watching your weekly address on Youtube has plunged to the point where we have to pull it. You just sit tight and wait for orders.”
“It’s so boring waiting around,” said Mugaba. "I feel like a prisoner sometimes."
“You want some entertainment? Shall I get one of your regulars?”
Mugaba smiled.
"Hung over."
"Since when did you do anything but lie back and have it done to you like with that Harry Larson. That guy is a big mouth. You oughta be more careful. You're too quick to get that zip down."
Mugaba's eyes flashed with annoyance. Okay, he loved the things of the flesh, but wasn't that natural? Why should he feel guilty? Why in the White House were half the staff were high grade freemasons indulding in orgies?
“I guess I’d better go and grab some lunch, huh," said Mugaba, coldly, and walked off.
