By Prashant Shah

In a land that used to be a calm, if sometimes chaotic, democracy, there arose a leader who believed crowns were more efficient than Congress and declarations more powerful than debate. Each morning, before breakfast and long before reality had time to catch up, he stood before his gold-framed mirror and announced to no one in particular—but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear - “I am the King! What I say is the law of the land!”

And with that, the daily storm began.

King Donald Trump ruled by confidence, by showmanship, and by the firm belief that if he said something boldly enough, the world would eventually agree. His advisors, who rotated faster than restaurant staff during a dinner rush, tried to translate his declarations into actual policy. But the King’s mind was a river of new ideas, twists, arguments, announcements, reversals, re-reversals, and the occasional statement that left even his most loyal staff blinking in confusion.

The first area he “ruled” with gusto was immigration. Every few days he unveiled a bold new plan, each one simpler—and somehow stranger—than the last. One proposal required a national loyalty pledge recited while facing his portrait. Another introduced a giant mechanical gate that opened only for people who smiled at him with what he called “proper enthusiasm.” After watching a documentary on ancient kingdoms one morning, he proclaimed that all immigrants must undergo a “test of loyalty and appreciation,” which sounded suspiciously like making them compliment him on demand.

Then came his signature initiatives: an aggressive deportation drive that separated thousands of children from parents who lacked legal status, which he defended as “tough love” and “excellent character-building.” And to “protect jobs for Americans,” he proposed raising H-1B visa fees to a heroically absurd $100,000, proudly calling it “the bargain of the century.”

When an advisor politely pointed out that none of these ideas resembled actual policy, the King waved him off. “Of course they do,” he said. “If they don’t admire me, why would they be good for the country? Think about it.”

Trade was his next stage, especially tariffs. He loved tariffs like some people love sports. He put them on, took them off, put them on again, raised them, lowered them, and occasionally forgot he’d changed them until someone complained. The markets trembled daily, unsure whether “Tariff Tuesday” or “No Tariff Thursday” was in effect. Business owners tried to plan but couldn’t, so they began writing two prices on every product: one for when tariffs were on, and one for when they were off. The King admired this creativity and declared himself “the father of modern unpredictable economics.”

His approach to foreign policy, meanwhile, drifted between bold ambition and pure improvisation. He liked calling himself a peacemaker, though his peace talks often involved more bragging than strategy. His “peace talk” attempts with Ukraine and Russia changed weekly. One week he promised he could end the war in 24 hours. The next week he said the real problem was that the leaders there “didn’t appreciate his genius enough.” And then came the moment he planned the big Alaska meeting with Putin—highly publicized, highly dramatic, and highly confusing.

When reporters asked why the meeting had to be in Alaska, he explained that Alaska was “neutral ground, America but almost Russia, like a shared driveway.” Alaskans were not amused. Putin arrived with a knowing smile, while King Donald arrived with a camera crew. The meeting lasted only thirty minutes and resulted in no agreements, but he declared it “historic,” “tremendous,” and “maybe the greatest diplomatic moment in modern human history.”

Next, he turned to the Gaza Strip. He insisted he had a simple solution—so simple that experts would be embarrassed they hadn’t thought of it. When asked what it was, he said he couldn’t share it because “it would end the conflict too fast” and “people weren’t ready for that level of brilliance.” His aides later found a scrap of paper on his desk that read: “Tell them to stop fighting. Should work.” Experts decided, wisely, not to ask further.

Then there were his territorial interests—his royal ambitions beyond the kingdom’s borders. He announced one day that Canada would make an excellent 51st state. “It’s basically ours already,” he said. “They speak English, drink coffee, and watch our TV. Why pretend they’re separate?” Canadians protested vigorously, politely, and with great confusion. The King found this “very ungrateful” and threatened sanctions unless they reconsidered. When they didn’t, he suggested that Canada needed a “better attitude.”

His demand for Greenland was even more dramatic. He insisted Denmark should “do the right thing” and give him the island. “You’re not using it properly,” he declared on television. When Denmark refused, he accused them of “being difficult for no reason” and threatened—of course—sanctions. The Danish government sighed, the world laughed, and the King announced he would get Greenland eventually because “kings always win in the long run.”

He then turned to one of his favorite topics: the Nobel Peace Prize. He believed he deserved it for his “so-called effort to stop nine wars,” although no one could identify exactly which nine he was referring to. When asked for details, he waved his hand and said, “Everyone knows. I’ve stopped so many wars they can’t keep track.” The Nobel Committee remained silent. The King called this “suspicious” and suggested that the prize should instead be awarded by popular vote on social media.

Sanctions, meanwhile, remained his favorite royal tool. He used them the way a chef uses spices—lightly, heavily, randomly, on everything, and without warning. If a country refused a demand, even one he had made only moments earlier, he threatened sanctions immediately. His advisors kept a daily “Sanction Watch” bulletin to prepare businesses for what might happen. It read like a weather report: “High chance of sanctions in the afternoon. Possible storm of penalties overnight.”

Opponents inside the kingdom fared no better. Anyone who disagreed with him was labeled unpatriotic, unfriendly, ungrateful, or, on bad days, part of a conspiracy. He announced that all true citizens should support him “because only a King can protect the nation from disloyal people.” Critics organized, protested, and posted jokes on the internet. The King saw this as “a personal attack on royal dignity” and threatened to ban negative comments, but lawyers quietly reminded him that the Constitution still existed. He didn’t like that answer.

His attitude toward India was one of his most dramatic love-hate relationships. One day he praised India as a “great ally with a great leader.” The next day he complained that India wasn’t following his advice. One week he called the relationship “the best in world history.” The next week he accused India of “not respecting the King enough,” which he considered a serious diplomatic offense. Indian officials learned to keep smiles ready for good days and polite silence for bad ones.

And yet, despite all this royal roaring, the kingdom carried on. People debated, marched, argued, and laughed. His supporters applauded; his critics rolled their eyes; the rest stocked popcorn. The institutions he tried to bend occasionally bent—but they did not break.

Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, King Donald emerged on his balcony to gaze over the land he believed he ruled absolutely. He raised his arms, the wind ruffling his hair in ways nature never intended, and proclaimed once more: “I am the King! What I say is the law of the land!”

And below him, the people—going to work, walking dogs, shopping for groceries, living their lives—shrugged and whispered the same truth:

Reality is stubborn.

And kings—especially self-declared ones—cannot command it forever.

(AI Generated political satire)