{{[INPUT]}} So I’m hanging out with my horse-man pal, pickle horse-man, my best friend in the whole world and we’re talking to each other about how we’re best pals. Such good pals, when I say, “pal”, he says “best”, when he says “best”, I say “pal”. So we’re carrying on in this horrible way when we get a phone call. It’s the President of the United States of Sacramento. He says he’s been kidnapped. He says he’s on air force one and coming our way. He needs our help. We ask him who kidnapped him. He says the Secret Service. We ask him how that’s possible. {{[OUTPUT]}} He says, "Well, it seems they're not as secret anymore." There was a pause, and then he said, "Now, can you help me?" And before we could respond, he hung up. Pickle Horse-Man turned to me and said, "I think we have a problem, pal." {{[INPUT]}} We get out our palculators and start determining how big of a pal the President of the United States of Sacramento is to us. We extract data from a broad variety of databases and we come to different conclusions. It was a big moment. If you know anything about palculus you'll know that it's a very exact science. The notion that two palculus geniuses such as ourselves should arrive at different figures is like stumbling upon a total collapse of all laws of physics. "Holy shit," Pickle Horse-man said, "we need to get this data to the president." So we call up the President of the United States of Sacramento. He picks up and says {{[OUTPUT]}} "Hello, can you help me? I've been kidnapped by the Secret Service. Please, please help me!" Pickle Horse-Man clears his throat and says, "Sir, we've made some calculations. According to our palculators, your pal rating is only 7.5 out of 10." The President pauses for a moment before responding, "What?! But that's impossible! I'm the President of the United States of Sacramento!" Pickle Horse-Man continues, "Yes sir, but according to our calculations, your current situation and history of, ahem, 'pal-related' incidents have resulted in a significant decrease in your pal value." The President becomes agitated and says, "This is a conspiracy! You're just trying to make me look bad!" Pickle Horse-Man stands firm and says, "Sir, with all due respect, our findings are based on empirical evidence and strict adherence to palculatory principles." The President snaps back, " {{[INPUT]}} Listen you little shits. I don't have time to play finger-in-the-ass! I'm in trouble. I'm in the biggest deepest trouble any president has ever endured. You're either with me or against me. Make your choice right this minute." {{[OUTPUT]}} Pickle Horse-Man looks at me and says, "Well, it seems like we've got no choice but to support our president in full." I grab the phone from him and tell the president we're prepared to toady-up for him. "I knew I could count on you, Bonky and Pickle Horse-man, trademark of @Picklehomer on X (formerly twitter.) I need you to infiltrate Air Force One. The No-Longer-Secret-Service has converted it into a prison." Pickle Horse-man scratches his chin, "unfortunately, Mr. President, we know very little about prison. We've been to jail a lot of times, and we've been kept in dungeons and various states of entrapment, but never a prison." "The thing you need to understand about prisons," said Mr. President, "is that once you're in, you're locked up, whether you like it or not. In some ways, it's the safest place in the world, you begin to enjoy your enprisonment. I can't let you allow that to happen. If the president of the united states of sacramento enjoys being locked away in prison, the whole moral calibration of Sacramento follows suit. By God, you've got to help." So Pickle Horse-Man gives his, in part voice and the response. "Sir, before we agree to this mission, I have a request for you." The President of the United States of Sacramento says "now what would that be?" "I need you to allow me to visit my wife's grave." {{[OUTPUT]}} There was a long pause before the president responded. "Very well, Pickle Horse-man. I will lift the restraining order placed on you by the courts of Sacramento. You may visit your wife's grave before embarking on this mission. But make it quick. Time is of the essence." Pickle Horse-Man thanks the president, hangs up, and turns to me. "Let's go visit your ex-girlfriend," he says with a grin. "Then we'll head over to Air Force One and spring the old goat from prison!" We clippy-clop to the cemetery, or rather, I clippy-clop and Pickle Horse-man makes whatever noise he makes while running. We arrive to where Pickle Horse-Man's wife is buried. It's a somber moment as he pays his respects and tells her about the important mission we're about to undertake. As he gets up off bended-knee, we see a ghostly apparition at the edge of the cemetery grounds. It's his daughter. They hadn't spoken for many years. "What are you doing here?" She asked, her horse-man ears pinned back. "Your mother wanted me to visit her grave," He said softly. She snorted derisively and her eyes rolled. "You never cared for her," she spat. Pickle Horse-Man took a deep breath and decided it was time for a little truth serum. "Actually," he said, "I did love your mother very much. And you know what? I still do. Even though we didn't always get along, and even though things were hard sometimes, I would never want anything bad to happen to her." His daughter seemed taken aback by this admission. After a moment of silence, she nodded slowly and said, "Well... That's a crazy thing to claim considering you MURDERED her." "Sweetheart," he said, lowering his head, "one day you'll understand why I had to do what I did. Just know that I would never murder your mother, unless it were absolutely the morally correct thing to do by any measure." She stopped and seemed to think about this. Then, with a strange look on her face, she leaned in close and whispered, "Follow me. There's something you need to see." On our way, she shows us her pal score with the President of the United States. "This can't be possible," says Pickle Horse-man, "this pal score is off the charts." "That's right," she said, "do you know what this means?" Pickle Horse-man looked at her and blinked, a fly wandered into his open mouth, then back out. Then it went back in, then out a bit, then in, then back out, and it really kind of bothered me watching it. "I'm pregnant," she said, "I'm pregnant with the future president of the united states of sacramento." "Oh my God." Pickle Horse-man said. I just nodded. I figured as much. It's not like we didn't have a good idea about her fertility cycle or anything. I mean, horses intuit this stuff. We're really natural. When people think of horses, they think of nature and natural. Which is kind of bullshit because we've been domesticated for thousands of years and bred into all sorts of shapes and sizes. We're basically the chihuahua of ungulates. They embraced, tears streaming down their faces. I just stood there for a minute, feeling sort of left out, but then remembered how much better it was when all three of us were together. As they held each other close, I couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for them after all. "I'm going to be a grand-dad," said Pickle Horse-man, wiping away a tear. "Not really," said his daughter, "I'm just a surrogate." "What does that mean?" He asked. "The embryo isn't mine, I'm just carrying it to term." Pickle Horse-man was clearly confused. "It means I'll be having the baby, but genetically it is unrelated to us." Pickle horse-man was clearly confused. "I just needed the money. But the President of the United States of Sacramento and I are super best pals. I just thought it was neat. I wanted to show you. Maybe I wanted to make you jealous for what you did to mom, but really it's just an interesting piece of palculus that really any palculist ought to know." Pickle Horse-Man looked at her with tears in his eyes. "I forgive you, my little filly," he said. She smiled through her tears. "Thank you, dad. Now let's go save the president!" Together, we galloped off into the setting sun, determined to free our leader from the clutches of his former protectors. As we rode, I couldn't help but wonder if there was still hope for the future of the United States of Sacramento. And then I realized something. The whole time, I had been clipping-clopping along behind them, and I hadn't even made a single poop. That was sort of weird, considering how much oats I'd eaten earlier. I shook the notion out of mind, certain that this constipation was merely circumstantial, unrelated to the larger plot. For now, saving the president seemed like a pretty good distraction. So we kept on galloping, following the ghostly apparition of Pickle Horse-Man's daughter, riding towards destiny and the promise of a brighter tomorrow. We arrived at a field, and there was Air Force One. It had been converted into a prison, as the President had said. There were guards all around, and they looked mean. Like the Secret Service, only slightly less so. Pickle Horse-man looked at me and nodded. "You stay here," he whispered. "I have a plan." "Are you sure?" I asked. "I could come with you." He patted me on the neck. "No, no. You're not as fast as me. Just be ready for my signal." That moment, the President of the United States of Sacramento called me. I picked up and began narrating to him what I saw," "Okay," I said. "He's scurrying towards the airplane. The guards see him, just, like, right away they see him. It looks like he went in with no plan at all. He literally thought he would just run in and figure it out from there, I guess. Now they're shouting at him. They're running after him." "Oh God," the president moaned. "Don't worry, Mr. President. He's just... distracting them, if you will." The president sighed heavily. "I should never have listened to that little shit. Bonky, it's all up to you." "Bonky," Pickle horse-man's daughter put her hand on my mane, "before we go any further. I just want to tell you, I'm not really pregnant. I'm just kind of constipated. It's just easier for me to explain pregnancy than it is to explain being blocked up with a whole new york style pepperoni pizza." I nodded. A horse is really a very understanding creature. Intelligent. Empathetic. Pickle Horse-Man managed had distracted most of the guards, but one remained. He seemed to be staring right at me, his eyebrows raised in suspicion. I didn't dare move. I was certain that if I didn't move, he would think I'm just a regular old horse. Then, suddenly, he lifted his gun at me. "Halt!" he shouted. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I braced myself for the impact of the bullet. But it didn't come. The Secret Service Agent lowered his weapon, confusion written all over his face. "What are you doing?" asked another agent, rushing over. "That's Bonky, the rape-horse!" "Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said, calling for a time-out. "You can't just call me the rape-horse, okay. There are extenuating circumstances involved in the event you're referring to and I don't think it's right to label a person based on one mistake they made when they were underage. Unless, wait, which particular event are you referring to? Because a lot of them can be explained." Before they could respond, Pickle Horse-Man karate-chopped them into unconsciousness. He double-chopped 'em. One hand for each of them. Really impressive. Never seen a double-chop before. There was something odd about his hands though. "Come on!" He shouted. "We've got to save the President!" And with that, we ran aboard Air Force One. It was a tight squeeze, but we made our way through the narrow passageways until we found the cell where the President of the United States of Sacramento was being held. The door was locked, but Pickle Horse-Man expertly picked the lock, and as he did I noticed he had a set of really disgusting rat hands. All this time I thought he had human-ish hands, but these were a pair of bonified rat phalanges. The President looked relieved when he saw us. "Thank God," he said. "I thought I was going to rot in this hellhole forever." "No need for that, sir," Pickle Horse-Man said. "Your freedom is but a mere hoofstep away," he winked at me, but I don't know why. I think he was kind of trying to telegraph that this was some sort of trademark quip that I should somehow relate to or find particularly clever, but I'm the one with hooves and even if I said it I don't think it would be particularly clever. Like, I wouldn't say "Don't worry, Mr. President, your freedom is in our disgusting rat hands sent by the devil," and look to P.H. for some sort of confirmation. I saw the President's face falter from victory and fade away. I looked back over my shoulder, and the not-so-secret-service had piled onto the plane behind me. Trapped! They had us right where they wanted us. I hung my head in defeat. It was all over. The bad guys had won. "Take me away," I said. The not-so-secret-service hesitated. Probably because it's very difficult to arrest a creature so noble, so honorable, so proud as to give himself up even in the case of persecution. The silence broke only by the distant sound of hoofbeats and the gentle fluttering of wings. And then, from the back of the plane, emerged a single white feather. The feather shot down the aisle and landed gently upon my nose, and for a moment, I felt the presence of an angel among us. "Remember." It seemed to say. "Remember." I clutched my belly and said "ooOOoOOoh, I'm so preggy." I rolled around. "I just don't think I could get any more preggy on this airplane," I said, kicking my legs up in the air and rolling around like a pregnant woman most definitely would. The not-so-secret-service stopped dead in their tracks. They looked at each other, confused. Then, they parted. One agent emerged. Walked up and patted me on the head. "It's okay there, big fella. We'll take care of you," he said. Another agent handed me a blanket. "Here, put this around you. You must be freezing." I thanked them politely and took the blanket, wrapping it tightly around myself. The rest of the agents formed a circle around me and began praying, a healing and protective prayer. "That horse isn't pregnant!" One of them shouted. Everyone stopped. "That horse is just fat as shit!" All eyes were on me. I now knew what it was like to be a woman. Having to defend yourself against claims that you're fat when you're really constipated pretending to be pregnant. Not in my America. My lip quivered. My eyes watered. I choked back a sob. But his not-so-secret-service sunglasses disguised all emotion so my female intuition couldn't connect. Without that connection, my miracles skills as an empath could not reach him and extort him emotionally. Disgusting pig. "Look," he said, walking back his aggression the tiniest bit, probably in response to my affected crying and whimpering. "Maybe I'm just being a bit overly cautious, but we need to figure out whether this horse really is pregnant or just fat." They began googling horse pregnant or fat????. I looked at the president and pickle horse-man. Their faces were pale and their mouths drawn thin with worry. But I liked my odds, because I was neither actually pregnant nor fat, but a secret third thing. The not-so-secret-service looked up from their phones at one another, confused. Then one of them spoke. "I'm getting mixed messages from the horse subreddit. We need to contact The Elon of Mars," he said. They all started trying to call The Elon of Mars, but he wasn't picking up. They tried contacting him through twitter but he began furiously shadowbanning them and subtweeting that the secret service had gone woke. They tried contacting his A.I. that he released that should be a perfect replica of him but it called them woke and banned them from its services, posting all their private messages with it on twitter with insinuations that they were pedophiles and then doxed them. With the doxxing arrived a fleet of criminal tesla-enthusiasts and maga and dark enlightenment philosophers and christian nationalists and news junkies who just wanted the news to stop telling them everything was bad and evil and distorted but instead of just simply not watching the news they watched more and more of it because the fear and torment was better than the nothingness that prevailed over their empty lives and they couldn't stand that. Anyways, all those people showed up and a fierce battle ensued between the not-so-secret-service who had found themselves as woke according to the spurious whims of their boss, The Elon of Mars, and MAGA whose boss, the Elon of Mars, had sent them after his employees. "Stop!" I shouted, raising a hoof from my reclining position as I nursed my constipated belly, "can't you see what he's doing?" All eyes turned to me. The fighting had ceased. "He wants you to fight." They eyed each other, still suspicious. I got up, slowly, now with the clumsy gait of a truly pregant horse. Via a miracle I had gone from faking pregancy, to actually being pregnant - with wisdom!!!!!!! They tried to help but I waved them off. "He wants to turn MAGA against pedophiles. Pedophiles against Tesla-enthusiasts. Tesla-enthusiasts against the government. The goernment against the government. Can't you see that? Can't you see that you're all stronger together? As a unified front of sociopaths?" I closed my eyes and sent up a silent prayer, and a tear rolled down my cheek. Just then, a bright light filled the cabin of the plane, and when I opened my eyes, there he was. The Elon of Mars. His eyes twinkled like stars as he surveyed the scene before him. He walked over to me and placed a hand on my neck. "You've figured me out," he said, his voice warm and reassuring. "I've been playing eight dimensional chess. I've been playing it for so long, so many eons, and no one has ever truly seen through my facade. Until you." He lowered his head and kissed me on my nose. "Don't kiss me while I'm pooping." I said. "Don't kiss him while he's pooping," Pickle Horse-man intervened on my behalf. "He doesn't like being kissed while he's pooping. He likes kissies, that's fine, you didn't do anything wrong, but he needs to concentrate." As I was dropping them road apples, I thought about what they had just gone through and realized something. Elon wasn't just dividing people into groups and making them fight against each other. He was doing it to show them that they could work together. That they could be better than their differences. That they could be a team. A family. A herd. And just like that, the not-so-secret-service, the MAGA, the Tesla-enthusiasts, the pedophiles, the influencers, the dark enlightenment philosophers, the news junkies, the christian nationalists, the nazis, the white nationalists, and even the criminal traitors, they all put aside their differences and came together. They hugged and cried and laughed and sang and danced and played games and told stories and shared jokes and made plans to fuck the entire planet and everyone in it just out of a pure unifying maliciousness that conveniently transcended particular differences. The Elon of Mars smiled at me proudly, and as we flew off into the sunset, I couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for the United States of Sacramento after all. "Do you like Xbox?" He asked. "Not in the fucking slightest," I said, directing all power into the engines to crash us directly into the fucking tower that was supposed to replace the twin towers.