June 14, President Donald J. Trump’s Birthday

June 14, 2025 — The Birthday Deluge

President Donald J. Trump turns 78. CNN has a ticker about the celebratory dinner planned at Mar-a-Lago. There’s talk of a private jet from DC, a tribute video, and a special edition Trump Golf ball that contains a tiny embedded speaker playing “God Bless the USA” when you hit it. At 06:38 AM Eastern, an anomalously cold front—previously minor and unthreatening—undergoes sudden deep convection right over the mid-Atlantic coast. Simultaneously, a parallel event happens in southern Florida. The pressure drops like a rock. Something clicks. Like nature’s finger slipped and hit CTRL+C, CTRL+V with ‘storm cell’.

By 07:00, thunderstorms erupt directly over the White House and Mar-a-Lago.

The Atmospheric Oddity

What’s bizarre isn’t that there are storms—it’s that they are so violently localized. Not regional. Not sprawling summer supercells. Just two small but incredibly dense clusters of electrical hell, each less than 10 km wide, parked squarely over those two addresses. Meteorologists are stumped. Models can’t reproduce it. It’s like the atmosphere has been “pinned” in place. No wind shear. No movement. Just stationary cell towers of doom, like angry cumulonimbus skyscrapers that don’t want to leave. Lightning hits the White House 19 times in the first hour. Mar-a-Lago’s storm knocks out power entirely by 8:15 AM. Staff are evacuated. Golf carts flip. A statue of Trump falls face-first into the mud. One of the presidential limos is struck so many times it fuses with the driveway. Temperatures drop to an unseasonable 11–12°C. In Florida, that’s “apocalypse weather.” The humidity skyrockets. Steam rises from pools. The air feels like punishment. Local animals flee inland en masse, forming chaotic lines of soaked cats, squirrels, and flamingos near I-95.

Media Meltdown By noon, #LightningGate is trending. 

Fox News goes full divine-retribution, Hannity demanding “climate scientists be tried for treason.” MSNBC books five meteorologists in a row, none of whom have any idea what’s going on. One mutters something about “St. Elmo’s Feedback Loop” before cutting their mic. QAnon forums light up with diagrams, crop circles, and suggestions that the deep state has finally weaponized weather control to punish Trump for attempting to abolish NATO and merge it with Truth Social. Meanwhile, NOAA scientists are panicking in Slack channels. There’s no reason this should be happening. Radar reads “supercell anchor phenomena,” but there’s no parent cyclone. It’s not El Niño. It’s not La Niña. It’s… La Dumbfounded.

48 Hours Later

The White House lawn is obliterated. Tulips gone. Mud everywhere. Marine One is grounded. The Mar-a-Lago pool is full of frogs. The koi pond is a blender. Dozens of secret service vehicles have been abandoned and show signs of repeated lightning strike damage. Reporters on site keep getting their microphones zapped mid-sentence. One cameraman’s lens actually cracked from a thunderclap at 7 meters distance. Biden tweets a photo of sunny Delaware captioned: “Great weather for a bike ride. Hope everyone is staying dry.”

Meanwhile, nearby neighborhoods—Georgetown, Hillcrest, Aberdeen—remain in perfect calm. The skies are cerulean, mild breeze, kids playing, BBQs firing up. Someone tries to fly a drone into the storm boundary: it explodes.

Conclusion: No divine finger. No magic. Just meteorological freakshow coincidence. Two highly specific stationary mesoscale convective systems, magnetically hypercharged by unknown atmospheric instabilities, happen to settle precisely on the homes of the most polarizing man in modern American history—on his birthday. And by day three, the press starts asking, “What if it doesn’t stop?”

And NOAA quietly updates a single term on their internal forecasting model:

Event Type: STAGNANT HYPERLOCALITY PHENOMENON

Probability of Repetition: Unknown

Naming Convention: TBD

A junior analyst types:

Suggestion: “The Trump Cells.”

 

June 14, 2025 — Trump’s 79th Birthday Parade:

The Lightning Pageant

What was meant to be a grand spectacle—a self-aggrandizing, gold-trimmed procession of flags, marching bands, MAGA hats, and low-altitude flyovers—quickly transformed into one of the most surreal weather-related disasters in American political history.

10:42 AM EST – Parade Commences

The air is oddly still. The skies? Dramatic but not yet apocalyptic. Rows of red-capped supporters line Pennsylvania Avenue, phones out, capturing the Trump Float (yes, a literal golden chariot, reportedly designed by the same team who styled the Saudi crown prince’s motorcade). Fox News drones buzz in synchronized formations. Then the first crack of thunder. At 10:44, the livestream from multiple news outlets glitches simultaneously. A streak of lightning arcs directly over the White House and slams into a tree just left of the North Lawn. Cameras capture it. The air becomes sharp, ionized. Cheers start fading into murmurs.

10:49 AM – Ground Strike #5

Lightning begins to fall with mechanical regularity. A lamp post explodes into sparks. The speakers blaring “Proud to be an American” short out with a gut-wrenching screech. The gold paint on a “TRUMP 47: FOREVER” banner begins to blister from electrical discharge. Security personnel start urging spectators to back up—most think it’s a drill, a dramatic flourish. But when two lightning bolts strike within a 20-meter radius of the presidential float, panic spreads like wildfire. Crowd dispersal becomes stampede-adjacent.

11:02 AM – Parade Collapse

A full third of the parade formation collapses into chaos: Several Trump Youth Cadet Corps members are knocked off their feet by shockwave pulses from nearby strikes. One parade horse bolts directly into a Fox News cameraman. Someone in a sequined TRUMPINA costume shouts, “IT’S RAINING FASCISM!” and disappears into the bushes. Local police and Secret Service abandon protocol and drag Trump (who had insisted on standing, Titanic-style, at the front of the float) off stage. The float itself is grounded by a direct hit, cracking the fiberglass eagle on its prow in half.

11:30 AM – Weather Event Declared “Nationally Anomalous”

By now, NOAA has activated its emergency network. The forecast is deemed invalid. Satellite imagery reveals a binary vortex—two perfect electromagnetic columns above the White House and Mar-a-Lago, discharging electricity every 3.2 seconds. Unprecedented. Unexplained. DC Metro shuts down service across half the city. The official White House garden is now ankle-deep mud soup, shredded tulips floating like lost sailors. American flags, soaked and tattered, slap against lightning rods that might as well be summoning beacons.

Facebook & CNBC Reports

• The Facebook group post had tried to warn everyone: “There is a very strong likelihood that the parade will be cancelled due to light…” (the post ends mid-sentence due to power outage during upload).

• CNBC confirms: “Trump’s birthday parade was struck by at least 21 documented lightning bolts within the span of 90 minutes… The Secret Service is investigating whether the phenomenon was naturally occurring.”

Spoiler: It was. Nature just had opinions this year.

Day 3: When Buildings Become Lightning Rods for Cosmic Spite

By the third day, a building struck by lightning hundreds—possibly thousands—of times is not merely damaged. It is, in a very technical and insurance-assessor sense, “fundamentally f*cked.” 

Let’s break down what happens in cold, sober reality when lightning keeps slamming into a small building, minute after minute, hour after hour, for three days straight.

1. Structural Carnage

Every lightning strike delivers somewhere between 100 million to 1 billion volts, and tens of thousands of amps. A single bolt is hotter than the surface of the sun. Repeated strikes turn architectural elements into:

• Charcoal: Wooden frames combust or become so dehydrated they splinter.

• Molten spaghetti: Copper wiring liquifies and runs down the walls like sci-fi horror blood.

• Explosive shrapnel: Bricks or stone can literally explode due to sudden steam expansion inside microfractures.

The roof? If it started with shingles, now it’s a jagged, weeping mess. Any metallic elements—weather vanes, antennas, HVAC units—are probably now part of the surrounding landscape, courtesy of physics.

2. Fire, Extinguished, Fire Again

Lightning doesn’t just burn things once. It starts small fires dozens of times. Then torrential rain from the storm system snuffs them out—only for the next bolt to relight them. It becomes a miserable loop of ignition, dousing, smoke, repeat, turning the interior into a blackened sauna of carcinogens.

3. The EMP Effect

Each strike carries electromagnetic pulses that surge through all wiring, even if the power is technically off. Computers? Fried. Security cameras? Popcorn. Anything plugged in? Probably on fire, or already off-gassing melted plastic into the air. Backup generators? If they didn’t already detonate from surge trauma, they’re probably being used as makeshift barbecue pits by the Secret Service, who have gone a little feral.

4. HVAC and Plumbing Meltdown

Repeated surges through the building’s ground system or metallic pipes wreak havoc. Pipes expand and crack. Toilets boil and fracture. HVAC systems begin screaming (literally—metal vibration harmonics), and then die. Water infiltration from hail and shattered windows combines with heat to produce impressive black mold colonies in under 48 hours.

5. Psychological Effect on Occupants

By Day 3, those inside the building are exhibiting siege stress. This is like cabin fever but with concussive blasts and the smell of burning electronics. Staff are requesting to be reassigned to Antarctica. Drones delivering food are getting zapped. Roof access is a suicide mission. Fox News interns are running around shouting “Smitegate!” and trying to blame the Clintons. One aide is caught praying—not to God, but to Nikola Tesla—begging for mercy from the sky-fire.

6. Environmental and Public Health

The building becomes a localized ecological disaster: Runoff water is tainted with lead, melted plastics, battery acid, and possible asbestos. Local bird and squirrel populations have migrated or been… lightly cooked. Residents several blocks away report buzzing in their teeth, their phones randomly powering on, and—unironically—static hair that won’t go down.

In Summary:

After three days of near-continuous lightning strikes, a small building is no longer a functional piece of infrastructure. It is an electrified, steaming, structurally compromised husk of paranoia, exhaling ozone and trauma.

Day 3: The Trump Bunker Diaries

Donald J. Trump, 47th President of the United States of America, is having the worst birthday weekend in recorded American history.

He is not dead. He is not impeached. He is simply—trapped.

Setting: The Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC)

An Eisenhower-era subterranean bunker beneath the East Wing. Cold. Fluorescent-lit. No gold. Smells faintly of mildew, ozone, and McDonald’s fries someone dropped in 2009. He’s been down here 36 hours now. He wanted to stay upstairs. He insisted. But the third time lightning blasted out the Oval Office windows and melted a portrait of Andrew Jackson into abstract black goo, the Secret Service simply overrode him. They grabbed him, ushered him down the freight elevator, and locked the door.

What’s Happening Above Ground

• Mar-a-Lago has been declared a federal disaster zone. The ballroom is caved in from hail, the resort’s prized imported palm trees are smoking, and multiple luxury cars were split in half by direct strikes.

• The White House itself is now visibly scorched from aerial drone footage. The South Lawn looks like a WWI trench. The Truman Balcony collapsed. An American flag fused with the lightning rod atop the West Wing, forming a molten patriotic sculpture now referred to as “Old Sparky.”

• All windows are cracked, if not gone entirely. Lightning keeps hitting the same damn corner of the roof with algorithmic precision, as if God were aiming.

Trump’s Personal Experience

• Noise: The thunder doesn’t just rumble. It slams into his chest. Even underground, he hears every strike like a howitzer. One hit sends a ceiling tile falling into his Diet Coke.

• Mood swings: At 7:15 AM he declares, “This is the Deep State, obviously, they have weather weapons. I always said this.” At 9:04 he weeps into a crumpled USA Today. By noon he’s writing tweets on a yellow pad and ordering aides to “retype these, word for word, I don’t trust the internet right now.”

• Paranoia spikes: He’s convinced Biden is summoning lightning with a Tesla coil in Delaware. He demands Melania fly in—she refuses. He demands Mike Lindell bring an ark. Lindell is missing.

• Television static: Fox is down. Newsmax is a flickering gray mush. OANN is broadcasting from someone’s iPhone in a bunker and just keeps screaming, “THE SKY IS A LIE.”

• Toilets don’t flush right. Lightning knocked out half the plumbing. Every fifth flush causes a groaning noise from deep underground. Trump refuses to use a “non-golden commode.” No one has told him the gold ones are melted.

Public Perception: Outside, protestors, conspiracy theorists, and storm chasers gather at the storm boundary lines—where sunshine abruptly cuts off. They dance in perfect weather, sipping iced coffees and livestreaming the biblical hell zone just a few blocks away. MAGA die-hards chant: “STORM FOR TRUMP! STORM FOR TRUMP!” The press calls this “The Weather Siege.” FEMA refuses to enter.

And Trump? Trump paces.

He picks up a rotary phone. Demands Putin intervene with “his satellite umbrella system.” He tries to reach Elon—voicemail. He re-skims “The Art of the Deal,” looking for a weather clause. He proposes a law making lightning illegal. Then he demands to be moved to the Mar-a-Lago vault, until they remind him: it’s flooded.

Finally, he stares at the ceiling, voice cracking, and asks:

“Can you get me… Barron? He knows tech stuff. Maybe… maybe he can stop it.”

CAMERA ON.

The hallway is white—but not pristine white. This is water-damaged, blistering, haunted white. The kind of white you get when the paint has seen too much, when it’s begun to remember. The overhead lights buzz weakly, flickering like neurons in the dying brain of a once-powerful state. It’s silent. No people. No aides. Just the sound of dripping. Each one echoes like a metronome ticking down the final moments of someone’s term, or maybe someone’s mind. You move past Roosevelt Room — door ajar. 

Inside: A presidential podium lies sideways. An American flag hangs damp and limp, stuck to the drywall like seaweed. There’s an untouched Happy Meal on the table, slowly being waterboarded by a persistent leak in the ceiling. A television screen flashes a half-fried HUD: 
“EMERGENCY SYSTEM: WEATHER WARNING [DO NOT PANIC]”
…as a burst of static overtakes it.

Cut to the next hallway: A hallway that once hosted press corps, briefings, dignitaries. Now? Floor puddles reflect the emergency lights like bloodshot eyes. A broken umbrella sits half-open, charred. Someone’s notes lie water-stained and half-burnt, still legible:

• “IF ASKED, DENY LIGHTNING IS TARGETED.”
  “REDACT MELANIA COMMENTS.”
  “Barron unreachable. Minecraft servers down.”

Oval Office – You dare: The door is off its hinges. Lightning took it three strikes ago. The once-immaculate carpet is a muddy crater. The Resolute Desk? Gone. Just gone—splinters and a smoldering copy of “Time Magazine Man of the Year (2016 Edition)” curled on the floor like a dying scorpion. The portrait of Lincoln above the fireplace has a deep slash burned through it. His eyes now seem to glow faintly red when the room flashes with each distant lightning strike.  

East Wing Corridor – The Bunker Entrance

You move toward it, past empty chairs, upturned rugs, a bust of Reagan with what looks like bite marks in the plaster. No one’s been here in hours. Or days. Or decades, maybe. There’s a locked steel door ahead. A red light above it. A camera watches you. Someone’s down there. He’s pacing. You hear a distant voice.
A voice like someone trying to do a bad impression of themselves:

“No one’s ever seen lightning like this, believe me… Total disrespect… They hit Mar-a-Lago! Mar-a-Lago! They never hit Obama’s house!”

The camera above the door shorts out. A puff of ozone.

Final pan of the White House exterior: Rain still falling. Slate grey sky, veins of lightning dancing overhead like god’s own angiogram. The lawn is no longer a lawn. It’s quagmire. Trees are scorched silhouettes. The flagpole is still being struck every few seconds. Over and over. And over. In the distance, a fox trots across the lawn, wet and wild-eyed, dragging a discarded “TRUMP 2028?” sign in its teeth.

And somewhere inside, deep beneath the wreckage of an empire, a man tweets blindly into the void, unaware his signal no longer reaches the surface.

DAY 5 — “The Humidity of Authority”

Trump has now gone well over four days without a real shower or bath. This is a horror formerly not know to humanity That in itself is not historically remarkable. Trump was never a man known for rigorous personal hygiene—more a connoisseur of gold-plated faucets, not water pressure. But here, in the bowels of the lightning-besieged White House, the situation has degraded. Let’s break this down—clinically, logistically, tragically. 

Is Trump Taking a Bath or Shower?

Absolutely not. Not because he doesn’t want to. Not because he’s conserving water. But because: taking a bath or shower during this electrical siege is a spectacularly bad idea.

Why?

When your building has been struck by lightning hundreds or even thousands of times, over five days, the internal electrical systems become catastrophic traps.

• Plumbing is now part of the electrical grid. Water pipes—especially copper or galvanized steel—act like conductive pathways for stray currents. Even if lightning doesn’t directly strike during the bath, residual ground surges can travel unpredictably.

• Water, of course, is conductive. Especially municipal water, with its dissolved minerals. Standing in a tub during an electrical storm, in a building whose entire frame may be electrified, is like climbing into a wet toaster.

• Lightning has already caused “reverse grounding” effects in parts of the White House—where electricity surges from the ground up. Which means… yes, theoretically, you could get electrocuted through your bathwater.

• He tried once. According to leaked Secret Service comms, at 2:14 AM on Day 4, Trump screamed at an aide for a “loofah and the presidential bubble mix.” The aide opened the bathroom door just as a lightning strike arced through the marble tiles and exploded the faucet into shrapnel. That was the end of bath-time.

 Current Status of Presidential Hygiene

• Shave? Nope. Electric razors are fried. Manual ones are dangerous. He looks like a feral raccoon lost in a humidity tent.

• Deodorant? Melted. The bunker smells like anxiety and damp carpeting.

• Hair? Combed over with emergency mayonnaise by a trembling aide who trained as a sandwich artist. The glue failed. The hairpiece now flutters with each shockwave, like a battle flag.

• Clothing? Same suit from Day 1. The lapel pin is scorched. The shirt collars are curling. The red tie has bled dye all over his chest. He smells like sulfur, sweat, and ego.

Psychological Side Effects of Not Bathing While Besieged by Lightning

• Paranoia. “The water’s cursed. It’s got Biden energy in it.”

• Delirium. He mistakes an aide’s thermos for a urinal. Twice.

• Ego fragmentation. On Day 5, he demanded a press conference to declare himself “King of the Storm.” No one showed up.

• Mistrust of mirrors. “Why’s it looking at me like that?”

• Obsession with “dryness.” He’s now demanding a towel be carried behind him at all times like the Pope’s ceremonial robes.

Summary

No, Mr. Trump has not bathed in 5 days. Yes, it would be dangerous for him to do so. This is truly horrible. The plumbing is a bomb. The water is a conduit. The building is a lightning drum, and he is a greased meat puppet beneath the storm. But don’t worry. He still has his custom monogrammed baby wipes, which he’s been rationing with the discipline of a man cornered in a casino vault during an alien invasion…

DAY 6 – SYSTEMIC BREAKDOWN, STILL NO PATTERN

Context Summary: We are now six continuous days into what meteorological authorities are calling a “Persistent Hyperlocalized Thunderstorm Event” (PHTE) focused on two primary locations: The White House complex in Washington D.C., and Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach County, Florida. Though initially dismissed as a rare but natural anomaly, the statistical endurance and intensity now demand serious revision of risk models and infrastructure thresholds.

1. Physical and Atmospheric Effects:

Lightning Frequency & Energy Output (Day 6 Estimate)

• Washington D.C. Cluster (White House, Eisenhower Executive Office Building, Treasury Building):

  ~8,400 strikes recorded since Day 1
  Avg. peak current per strike: 40,000–120,000 Amperes
  Avg. voltage: ~1 billion volts
  ~450 confirmed ground strikes on executive architecture alone

• Palm Beach Cluster (Mar-a-Lago, immediate coastal zone):

  ~7,900 strikes since Day 1
  Recent spike in strikes targeting metallic structural elements, causing full spectrum EM interference in ~8-mile radius

These numbers exceed all known modern North American lightning clusters for urban areas by several orders of magnitude—including tropical supercells and the Florida Lightning Alley records.

2. Structural Impact (Expanded Zone)

Washington D.C. Complex

• Eisenhower Executive Office Building:

  • Suffered 28 direct lightning strikes over 72 hours

  • Fire suppression system overwhelmed due to repeated activation and loss of internal pressure

  • Five office wings now uninhabitable due to either structural damage or secondary fires

• Treasury Building:

  • Copper roof compromised, leading to cascading ground arcing through subterranean vaults

  • Two security vaults internally melted

  • Treasury computers affected by EMP-like surges—temporary loss of access to ~4% of federal accounts for 12 hours

White House:

Now officially rated “Category IV Compromised Structure” by Homeland Infrastructure Threat Analysis . Interior humidity levels exceeding 85%, leading to full microbial bloom in basement storage areas.. Upper floors show arc-blast damage inconsistent with any known storm pattern short of close-range airburst

3. Palm Beach / West Palm Beach Developments

West Palm Beach begins reporting coastal anomalies:

• Tide irregularities:

  Sudden +1.6m surge during an otherwise low-tide cycle
  Backflow into drainage systems causes “reverse street flooding” inland up to 6 blocks

• Storm swell amplification:

  Rogue wave activity detected on intracoastal
  Mar-a-Lago seawall breached at 03:17 AM, flooding 2 subterranean levels

• Meteorological cross-patterns:

  Counter-rotating cloud systems documented within the same airspace
  Temperature inversions at ~800m altitude trap water vapor, acting as an electrical resonator chamber

NOAA is now deploying high-altitude drones and attempting non-invasive plasma measurements to determine if novel electrical physics are manifesting inside the storm structure—possibly resonance-assisted discharge loops similar to lightning “megaflashes” over Argentina.

4. Trump, Status Update (Clinical Observation)

• Sleep: <9 hours cumulative since Day 1

• Food Intake: 30% normal calorie load (mostly fast food, emergency rations, canned pudding)

• Hydration: marginal, with electrolyte imbalance risk increasing

Psych evaluation (via remote viewing and Secret Service chatter):

“Sporadic lucidity, moderate paranoia, increasing disassociation. Claims ‘the lightning respects him now.’ Refused relocation to Camp David, stating: ‘Only weak men run from God’s tweets.’”

5. Societal Impact Snapshot

• Markets: USD down 6% since Day 3; “weather terrorism” speculation triggers bond yield spikes

• Media Coverage: CNN has an entire control room running storm footage 24/7. Fox News split between “divine testing” and “weather hoax crisis actors”

• Public Discontent: Theories of targeted weather manipulation have reached over 300 million combined social media engagements, many claiming foreign interference, divine punishment, or AI malfunction

6. Scientific Consensus (Emerging)

• Not magical.

• Not explainable by current models.

• Statistically absurd.

Most likely hypothesis now being quietly circulated among atmospheric physicists:

“Positive feedback discharge loop triggered by unknown high-atmosphere resonator conditions, possibly involving the unique metallurgical and architectural features of White House and Mar-a-Lago combined with unusual magnetic anomalies.”

One MIT report classifies it under:

“Event Class Omega-4″ – Defined as a statistically impossible chain of self-reinforcing weather effects in conflict with baseline climatological behavior.”

NOAA refuses to use the word “unprecedented” again. They’ve used it too much already. The new internal term is: 
“Sustained Electromagnetic Siege Conditions.”

If you’re living at 150 Woodbridge Road, Palm Beach, Florida—just a golf ball’s slice from Mar-a-Lago—you’re not just a neighbor. You’re in the splash zone of an ongoing divine temper tantrum filtered through the U.S. Secret Service, a crumbling electrical grid, and saltwater-drenched real estate portfolios.  Let’s paint the scene.

June 19, Day 6: 150 Woodbridge Road, Palm Beach, FL

You wake up—if you slept at all—to a house vibrating like a tuning fork. Not from trucks. Not from jets. From the sky actively screaming. The thunder doesn’t “roll.” It detonates.

Your Situation:

• Roof damage? Repaired yesterday. Struck again 4 times last night. The new shingles are literally smoking.

• Power? Technically “restored,” but half your outlets buzz audibly when anything is plugged in.

• Internet? Spotty. Starlink dish melted. Xfinity guy came by on Day 3. No one has seen him since.

• Water? It smells weird. Tastes like electricity and seaweed.

• Pets? Gone feral. Your poodle now hides behind the bidet and growls at ceiling fans.

• The air? Feels like you’re inside an ungrounded electrical socket. Ozone, salt, and hot copper tang your tongue.

• Temperature? A wet, tropical 31°C… until the hail hits and it drops to 12°C in five minutes. Then back again.
  Your HVAC unit has given up. It now just whimpers.

What You See from the Balcony:

• Mar-a-Lago, 300m away: Looks like Mordor. Flaming flagpoles. Disconnected columns. Reports of “intermittent structural groaning.” Lightning hitting the dome once every 14 seconds.

• Intermittent helicopters: Hover, observe, flee. The FAA declared the zone a no-fly region after Day 4 when a news chopper spontaneously fried and crash-landed in a decorative koi pond.

• The neighbors?: Rich retirees now in hazmat robes. One guy is hoisting a crucifix on his roof. Another keeps yelling “weather is fake!” into a bullhorn every 30 minutes. You are 89% certain someone started building a homemade Faraday cage out of patio furniture.

What You Hear:

“I DID NOT CAUSE THE WEATHER! I CONTROL IT! THAT’S DIFFERENT!”

• The sirens that once meant emergency services now just mean “someone tried to turn on a blender.”

• And the thunder. Oh, the thunder.

  Not just sound. It shakes you. Makes your organs feel wet. Makes grand pianos shift two centimeters per boom. The type of thunder that makes you question if sound can file taxes.

Your Insurance Company:

• Sent a drone on Day 2.

• Drone exploded.

• They have now classified your ZIP code as “Uninsurable Lightning Conflict Zone.”

• Your premium has been recalculated using the formula:
  [(current age) × square footage] ÷ (number of working outlets + number of direct strikes on nearest golf course)

You owe them $1.8 million.

Your Mental State: You now say “at least the sky’s not on fire” unironically. You’ve begun recording a podcast called “Direct Hit: Life in the Electric Suburb”. It’s mostly sobbing, followed by rain soundscapes and theories about “lightning politics.” You have written letters to Elon Musk, FEMA, and Pope Francis. The Pope’s office responded:

• “We have forwarded your prayer to the relevant meteorological authorities. May God help you. Because we cannot.”

At approximately 04:32 AM, the storm pattern—previously split between the White House and Mar-a-Lago—forks. Without warning. Without precedent. Lightning cells duplicate and spawn a third hyperlocalized epicenter over Joint Base Andrews, Maryland. Directly over the tarmac where Air Force One (VC-25A) is parked in hardened isolation. 

 The Storm’s Behavior: Meteorologists refer to this new cell as a “sympathetic resonance cluster.”
In plain terms: the atmospheric systems started echoing each other—like tuning forks struck too many times. The result is something unheard of: a precision-targeted lightning barrage focused not on a building, but on a 747-sized aircraft made of aluminum, wiring, hydraulics, fuel systems, and more grounding rods than a Bond villain’s volcano lair.

The Aircraft in Question

• Designation: VC-25A “Air Force One” (when the president is aboard)

• Build Cost: ~$325 million

• Maintenance Cost: ~$210,000 per hour of operation

• Shielding:

  • EMP-hardened

  • Shielded electronics

  • Special lightning strike mitigation plating

  • Not rated for 12 strikes an hour over multiple days

 What Happens When Lightning Repeatedly Hits a Parked VC-25A?

First 12 Hours

• Exterior paint scorches.

• Pitot tubes melt.

• Radar domes blister and deform.

• Wingtip static discharge wicks superheat and fail.

• Nosecone fractures from repetitive thermal stress.

24 Hours

• Internal circuitry starts to arc through shielding.

• Fiber optic communication lines fail.

• Primary avionics bus (triple redundant) detects conflict signals and enters lockdown mode.

• Hydraulic actuators on flaps begin to twitch involuntarily during strikes.

• Cockpit displays flicker and report false altitude data:

  “CRUISING ALTITUDE 37,000 FT” — while on the ground.

36 Hours

• Fuel tank capacitors arc internally.

  • Jet-A fuel is stable, but fume exposure risk increases with each hit.

• EMP surges travel through nose wheel grounding system and blow out auxiliary generator shielding.

• Emergency power fails.

• De-icing systems short circuit in sequence.

• The crew ladder is now magnetically fused to the fuselage.

48 Hours

• Metal fatigue accumulates.

  • Wing joins and fuselage fasteners show signs of arc scoring and microfracturing.

  • Titanium stress joints delaminate.

• Military engineers on-site request permission to tow the craft.

  • Tow truck is struck 3 times.

  • One strike hits the rubber tires, which explode, flinging shrapnel into a nearby radar dome.

72 Hours (Day 10)

• Interior sensors trigger a “BURNOUT FAILSAFE.”

• Airframe is no longer safe to pressurize.

• Flightworthiness certification revoked.

• Presidential seal melts off the side in streaks of oxidized gold and paint.

• One engine’s cowling collapses inward from multiple blast waves.

 At This Point…

The plane is functionally destroyed.

Not exploded. Not burned to a crisp. But compromised beyond restoration. It is a static shell of exotic metals, deformed polymers, and twitching systems locked in fail-safe purgatory. It will never fly again without full teardown and rebuild—effectively a new aircraft. Internal wiring must be scrapped entirely. Composite skin sections are delaminated. Pressure seals are permanently compromised. Avionics cores must be declassified, removed, and disassembled.

Air Force One is permanently grounded.

Estimated cost of destruction: >$1.1 billion including security compromise, replacement aircraft costs, and reinstallation of nuclear comms equipment.

Strategic impact?: The U.S. President loses immediate global mobility. All alternative aircraft are rerouted, but paranoia skyrockets. The nation now treats the skies themselves as hostile infrastructure.

DAY 8 – PHASE FOUR INITIATED

TARGET ZONE: MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

At exactly 03:11 AM Eastern, an anomalous electromagnetic echo—previously triangulated between D.C., Palm Beach, and Joint Base Andrews—suddenly shifts north. Satellites first detect irregular ionization over lower Manhattan. Lightning frequency begins to rise along the Hudson. Temperature drops 9°C in 27 minutes. Then—like a god’s index finger slamming into a financial district latte—the Empire State Building is hit. And then again. And again. Every 90 seconds.

The Fourth Strike Zone Opens

Over the next six hours:

• Manhattan enters an electrical feedback cascade.

• From Wall Street to Central Park, the skyline begins taking direct hits at intermittent but intensifying intervals.

• Most of the high-rise lightning rods are overwhelmed, heat-warped, or outright fused.

• Bursts of electromagnetic interference begin disabling not just the grid, but satellite-linked systems.

• Cell towers drop.

• Glass cracks from rapid temperature fluctuation.

• The Nasdaq terminal goes dark mid-broadcast.

 Observed Impact Zones:

• One Vanderbilt:
  Elevator shaft struck directly. 4-car crash inside shaft. Survivors rescued by rope 90 minutes later.

• MoMA:
  Andy Warhol exhibits shaken off the wall.
  One ironic tweet: “Campbell’s can soup now warm.”

• Madison Square Garden:
  Knicks game postponed. During warm-ups, a transformer in the lighting rig exploded in blue-white flash.
  Crowd evacuated into pouring rain. One fan: “I saw Zion levitate.” (He didn’t.)

• 5th Avenue Apple Store:
  Glass cube melts slightly on edge. It is now a rounded, steaming cube. People continue taking selfies.

Urban Microclimate Snapshot:

• Precipitation:
  Heaviest rain recorded in June history — 312mm in 24 hours
  “Feels like walking through a thunderstorm-themed water park” — Gothamist

• Wind:
  Updrafts of 120+ km/h above 60 floors, spinning debris into spiral columns of glass, foam, and cheap umbrellas

• Temperature:
  Sudden plunges to 11°C. Subway stations fog over.
  Grand Central is now 60% mist and one confused raccoon.

• Soundscape:
  Constant thunder — like gunfire in a canyon. Buildings seem to hum between strikes.
  Sleep becomes impossible. Earplugs sold out.

The New Yorker Mindset (Real-Time Reactions):

• Denial:
  “Probably just a weird storm. Let’s brunch anyway.” (Seen walking under steel scaffolding holding metal takeout containers)

• Panic:
  “IS IT THE AI? IS THIS SKYGPT??”
  (Yes, someone did blame AI. Twice. In The Cut.)

• Exploitative:
  NFTs of “The Storm Kiss on Times Square” selling for $400k
  One man is now charging $15 to “bless your building with storm-proof chants”

• Artistic:
  Someone graffiti’d “The Fourth Horseman Rides MTA” on the side of a CitiBike.

 Federal Response (Now Behind the Curve)

• FEMA: “Evacuation not advised unless structure becomes compromised.”

• White House: “The President is evaluating the situation from a secure location.”

• Trump (from a partly fried burner phone):

  “I always said New York should have voted for me. Look at what happens.”

What’s Next?

The conduction geometry of New York’s skyline may accelerate storm amplification. It could evolve into a “citywide plasma lattice,” a state where building lightning rods and atmosphere coalesce into a repeating EM surge web. No model can yet predict how long this effect can sustain without burning out… or escalating further.  The storm is not spreading linearly. It is thinking in vectors. It is choosing icons. So, New York… welcome to the map. You’re now the fourth wound in whatever this is.

DAY 8, 05:44 AM — THE TRUMP BUILDING (40 Wall Street)
“Welcome to Ground Zero for Irony”

When the New York cell activates, the atmosphere doesn’t waste time with subtlety. It heads straight for the tall, phallic heart of financial narcissism: The Trump Building. 40 Wall Street. 927 feet of Art Deco ego. Once the proud tallest building in the world for eleven months (1930), now it becomes a lightning rod for poetic justice.

Strike One: 

Early morning, low cloud ceiling, pigeons barely visible. Suddenly: vertical bolt. Direct hit. Camera footage from across the Hudson shows a blue-white pulse that outlines the whole building for a split second.  Internal electronics go dark. The LED-lit golden letters flicker, fail, and fade. By 06:00, “TRUMP” now reads “RUM” from street level. That’s not editorializing. That’s a power failure + melted ‘T’.

Strike Two… and Three… and Fifty-Seven

By noon, lightning has hit the Trump Building 57 times. Confirmed. Witnessed. Photographed.

Not once. Not metaphorically. Over fifty times.

• The lightning protection system—rated for normal storm conditions—begins to saturate.

  • Rooftop grounding rods vaporize at the tips.

  • Glass panels on upper floors crack symmetrically from thermal cycling.

  • The building’s internal elevator array malfunctions so hard, it invents new error codes.

• A strike during a tenant Zoom meeting knocks out 9 laptops, one espresso machine, and causes a small ceremonial bonsai to catch fire.

• One bolt enters via the mail chute and leaves via a broken bathroom pipe, briefly turning the 18th floor urinal into a plasma discharge portal.

Structural Effects (By Day’s End)

• Steel framing holds—but moisture infiltration + repeated thermal expansion cause creaks, pops, and groans audible from street level.

• The 68th floor, housing several boutique offices and a consulting firm called “Courage Strategy Group,” is abandoned after employees report “weird lights in the walls.”

• Several external decorative panels fall loose, clattering onto Wall Street below like pissed-off angels losing their wings.

The NYPD barricades the perimeter, not due to structural collapse… but because “people keep licking the building during lightning hits” for TikTok.

Psychological Impact

People gather at safe-ish distance. They cheer each strike. A chant breaks out:

“TRUMP! TOWER! POWER SHOWER!”

A man in an Elmo suit sells $20 t-shirts that read:

“I got struck (figuratively) at Trump Tower 2025.”

A street preacher declares:

“The building is speaking! And it is saying… YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE!”

Trump, watching the livestream from his bunker under the White House, reportedly screams:

“THAT’S NOT EVEN MY TOWER! THAT’S A LICENSED NAME! YOU CAN’T BLAME ME!”

No one listens.

Insurance & Legal Fallout

• Building’s insurer enters technical insolvency.

• FDNY calls it “a contained structural trauma incident.”

• Tenants file for emergency relocation to buildings that haven’t been cursed.

• The owners file a request for federal lightning disaster relief under the name “unfriendly electromagnetic branding events.”

 Closing View

As the sun sets, the building is struck again—twice in rapid succession. Someone catches it on camera. It goes viral instantly. The bolts resemble a massive pair of fingers, doing air quotes around the word “TRUMP.”

DAY 8, 11:41 PM — THE PENTHOUSE STRIKES BEGIN
Location: Trump Tower, Midtown Manhattan, Top Three Floors

“Twelve times. Twelve. The same goddamn coordinates.” 
— FEMA Technical Observer, 17th Ave EM Field Report

Twelve Direct Lightning Strikes to the Trump Penthouse

Trump Tower — Fifth Avenue’s gaudy monument to real estate excess — has now entered the next phase of whatever this is. Not just the building. Not the block. Not the flagpole. But the exact 11,000 sq.ft. triplex penthouse that Donald Trump called home for 36 years. The gilded Versailles-on-acid where: He watched cable news in a gold chair shaped like Napoleon’s ego, Signed deals on tigerwood tables, Allegedly used Diet Coke buttons wired into $30,000 end tables. Now it is being struck. Again. And again. Twelve times. Like it’s being judged by a cosmic jury of electricians with a grudge.

Structural Damage & Physics

At these altitudes (58th–60th floors), lightning hits: With maximum atmospheric voltage drop, often at peak amperage. Through metallic façade panels, internal copper cores, and high-content marble reinforcements.

By Strike #5:

• Gold-leafed ceilings blister and flake. The Louis XIV motif now resembles a half-melted Fabergé egg in a microwave.

By Strike #7:

• Chandeliers burst like pressure mines. Crystal dust rains down into marble-inlaid flooring.

By Strike #9:

• Wall columns superheat and warp. The brass rebar internally fuses, rupturing the marble cladding in jagged seams like angry tree roots.

By Strike #12:

• A large segment of fresco ceiling collapses directly into the once-infamous “sun viewing area.” Statues imported from Italy are shattered. A bronze baby angel is found embedded into the Steinway grand piano like a high-speed relic from a baroque crime scene.

Fire Response

FDNY attempted interior access twice. They retreated both times. Reports describe “active arcing through flooring”, forcing a full suspension of suppression attempts. Automatic sprinkler systems activated, but were overwhelmed by ceiling rupture and electrified debris. Lithium-ion batteries in resident smart-home systems combusted from feedback loops. Water runoff began trickling down into the 55th floor, destroying several law offices and a high-end Korean skincare retailer.

Media Coverage

A rooftop drone from Al Jazeera captured the 9th and 10th strikes on infrared. You can see the lightning bend toward the penthouse, like it was seeking something. Analysts dubbed the footage “the golden crown being repeatedly beheaded.” Fox News cut to commercial. CNN ran a chyron:

“PENTHOUSE JUDGEMENT: LIGHTNING VS. LUXURY”
MSNBC invited three theologians and one electrical engineer to scream at each other in a split screen.

TikTok exploded with memes:

• “When Zeus sees your tax returns.”

• “Bro got struck twelve times by the Electoral Storm College.”

Trump’s Reaction (Reported from White House Bunker)

Upon learning that his former residence had been struck 12 times, Trump reportedly:

• Demanded “a lightning recount.”

• Declared it “symbolic voter fraud.”

• Suggested the building had been “too flashy” and blamed “bad design decisions from 2013 onward.”

• Then ordered aides to contact Don Jr. and Tiffany to ask:

  “Do we have anything important still up there? I left some cufflinks.”

Secret Service claims he later paced for two hours, muttering:

“It was the nicest penthouse… no one had a penthouse like that. The ceiling? Painted by a guy who hated Michelangelo. That good.”

Final Status: Penthouse value: functionally zero. Gold melted, wiring destroyed, systems fried, fixtures vaporized. Structural engineers classify it as “no longer human-occupiable.” Insurers begin using “Trump Penthouse Lightning Risk Model” to re-rate skyscrapers globally.

And still… no other floor was hit. Just the top. Just the throne.

DAY 9, 04:29 AM – THE SCATOLOGICAL CASCADE
Trump Tower Penthouse – 

Now with Indoor Plumbing. Literally.

It’s not enough that twelve lightning strikes have targeted Trump’s triplex penthouse like divine air-to-ground munitions. Now: the sewage joins in.

What Happened?

Directly above the Trump Penthouse sits a network of residential waste outflow pipes—standard for skyscraper design, hidden between utility chases, carrying everything from graywater to… let’s call it legacy material.

At 4:29 AM, following the twelfth lightning strike:

• A high-voltage pulse arcs into a central sewage control manifold, melting its fail-safe actuator.

• Backpressure from the now-flooded upper apartments surges downward.

• Copper pipes that were thermally fatigued by earlier strikes rupture explosively.

• Simultaneously, stormwater overflow from rooftop drains backs up into the same junction due to power failure in the sump system.

The result?

A high-pressure, gravity-assisted release of over 1,400 liters of mixed human effluent, cleaning chemicals, mold cultures, and late-stage rat remains—directly into the Trump Penthouse master suite.

 Impact Zones: 

Ceiling above the ornate king-sized bed collapses. Gold-leaf scrollwork turns black as raw sewage hits the heated marble floor. The Trump family crest, etched in polished stone above the fireplace, is now caked in a brown paste. Dining room flooded. 19th-century tapestries unravel in sludge. A baroque chair shaped like a lion is found nose-down in fecal water, looking appropriately ashamed. Private elevator shaft overflows with liquid waste, becoming what first responders later describe as “a vertical cholera cannon.” The master bathroom—previously equipped with bidets from Milan and a Japanese voice-command toilet—shorts out and begins screaming in rapid-fire error code Japanese before sparking and belching blue smoke.

Environmental Conditions (Inside the Penthouse)

• Ammonia levels exceed OSHA tolerances.

• Mold bloom begins within 90 minutes, accelerated by warm, wet, nutrient-rich conditions.

• Temperature: 32°C, interior now effectively a fecal greenhouse.

• Humidity: 98%.

• The word “miasma” becomes relevant again for the first time since the 1800s.

Psychological Fallout (Observed from the Bunker)

When told that “the penthouse has experienced a plumbing incident,” Trump demanded to see it. They showed him a live drone feed. He saw: A floating MAGA hat, bobbing through his former office. One of his signature Trump vodka bottles spinning in slow circles through brown water. A fresco of Apollo above the fireplace weeping dirty water from its eyes. He reportedly paused, went completely silent for 30 seconds, and then whispered:

“This is a witch shit hunt.”

 Financial Ramifications

The total damage to the penthouse is now absolute. Cleanup crews refuse to enter without hazmat suits and triple pay. Building residents are threatening to sue not just for flood damage, but for “psychic contamination.” Trump’s real estate holding company releases a statement calling the event “an act of god, China, or leaky Democrats.”

The Final Shot

Someone—possibly a drone operator or very brave journalist—snaps a photo: The Trump penthouse. Lightning-charred. Glistening with runoff. A crystal chandelier, sagging under sewage weight, swings slowly. A gold toilet lies on its side in the middle of the room, half-submerged. Reflected in the murk: the faint, mangled letters “TRUMP” written backwards in feces on the marble floor. It becomes the defining image of the American decade. 

Location: Presidential Emergency Operations Center,

Washington D.C.

It’s the tenth day of relentless, unceasing, surgically-precise atmospheric fury. The White House? Still under electromagnetic siege. Mar-a-Lago? Functionally an indoor swamp with golf balls. Trump Tower? Charred, sewage-flooded, lightning-blasted gilded ruin. And Donald J. Trump? He has snapped.

Psychological Breakpoint

Sleep-deprived.  Overstimulated. Reeking like a crocodile fat marinated otter, as one staffer put it—humid, musky, swamp-sour, and vaguely metallic.  This is a man in feral collapse. At 5:22 AM, after a failed attempt to command the storm to stop (“By executive order, you will cease lightning operations!“), Trump enters full-blown bunker meltdown. 

 Why He Smells Like That

• 10 days, no bath. Still too dangerous.

• Humidity inside the bunker is now 91%.

• Backup air filtration systems are overloaded.
  The mold from the bunker’s mid-’90s drywall has reawakened.

He’s wearing the same tarp-like navy suit he put on after the Day 2 wardrobe fire. His red tie is stiff from dried Diet Coke and what may be teriyaki sauce. His socks are greenish at the ankles. No one is entirely sure if it’s sweat or bunker mildew. He smells like wet carpet in a butcher shop. Like old library books soaked in fish sauce. Like a Saratoga racetrack locker room at noon in July.

And he’s angry about it. “This is a presidential bunker! Why do I smell like a communist zoo?! Where’s the cologne? Where’s Ivanka?! Get me a towel! Get me a BIDET!!”

His Actions, Rapid-Fire:

1. Demands to retake Trump Tower personally.

   • “We go in. We clean it. We re-gild the toilet. Simple.”

   • The Secret Service refuses.

   • He threatens to invoke the Insurrection Act on plumbing.

2. Attempts to commandeer Air Force One

   • Staff remind him: it melted.

3. Orders a bucket bath

   • They prepare it.

   • The water begins to bubble and arc after a distant lightning strike.

   • He slaps the aide who brought it and screams, “I SAID BATH, NOT EXECUTION!”

4. Goes live on a burner stream.

   • Shirt half-unbuttoned.

   • Face red.

   • Hair like someone microwaved a haystack.

   • Begins ranting:

     “These storms are illegal. These strikes are targeted. This is a war against success. Against beautiful furniture. Against masculinity. They’ve hit my penthouse, my tower, my plane. My golf shoes.“

     “I smell like some European ferret wine and no one’s fixing it! YOU THINK BIDEN SMELLS LIKE THIS?!”

The feed cuts out after a small fire ignites from static discharge in the podium mic.

Observed Mental State:

White House physician logs “Acute Neuroelectrical Distress + Hygiene Collapse Syndrome.”

Symptoms: Rambling non-sequitur patriotism: “We invented marble. We made toilets great again.” Hallucinations: Claimed to see “Ben Franklin with a switchblade.” Paranoia: Repeatedly accuses the ceiling of blinking at him. He is no longer fit for command. He is no longer fit for smelling like a mammal.

Staff Solution

At 6:33 PM, after Trump attempts to dig a hole in the floor tile using a spoon, staff initiate Operation Febreze Sovereignty. Four interns in NBC hazmat suits forcibly strip him. A 9-minute full-body industrial sponge-down commences, using FEMA-issue decontamination wipes, lemon-scented antiseptic, and a garden sprayer. His howls echo through the ducts: “I AM THE PRESIDENT YOU CANNOT SAND ME LIKE WOOD!”

 Outcome

When the crisis team finishes, Trump is wrapped in a hotel robe from Mar-a-Lago (“embroidered in gold, still damp”), and moved into the medical wing under sedation. The last thing he says before dozing off:

“They… they’re just jealous. Jealous of how dry I used to be…” 

DAY 11 — “Ashes of the Gilded Swamp”
Location: Mar-a-Lago, Palm Beach, FL
“It didn’t just burn. It waited to burn.”

The Fire Begins

After ten days of electrical trauma, Mar-a-Lago is no longer a resort. It’s a stitched-together carcass of domes, ruined columns, shattered chandeliers, and indoor waterfalls that aren’t supposed to be there.

But despite the endless lightning strikes, the rain, the flooding, the freak hail, and a ceiling that once bled golden paint… nothing had actually burned. Not fully. Not till Day 11. At 03:47 AM, a single bolt struck a collapsed communications relay on the southern end of the estate—once used for Trump’s private encrypted comms and probably also Truth Social memes. 

It arced.

It grounded through a stack of improperly stored high-end scented candles, some lithium laptop batteries, and a half-broken jacuzzi heating unit.

Combustion

• The resulting fire ignites fast.

  • Fueled by wooden floors, luxury fabrics, cheap extension cords, and suspiciously aged fuel stabilizers in the basement.

  • Within minutes, 15% of the structure is ablaze.

• Plumes of thick black smoke rise over Palm Beach, curling upward through the very clouds that have been attacking it for a week and a half.

• The fireball is visible from West Palm, and it’s surreal:
  Mar-a-Lago burns like a floating chandelier in hell, backlit by the same lightning that caused it.

The Fire Truck Incident

Palm Beach Fire Rescue deploys at 03:58 AM. Three trucks en route, barreling down South Ocean Boulevard. At 04:07 AM, as Truck #2 approaches the estate’s east service gate, a lightning bolt hits directly in front of it. Asphalt explodes upward in a shower of concrete dust and flaming lizards. The truck swerves, sideswipes a wrought-iron fence, and tips partially into a koi pond now full of debris and what may be exotic meats. No fatalities. One firefighter receives a mild neuroshock, briefly insists he saw “Ivana’s ghost giving the finger to the clouds.”

Then It Rains

Oh, then it rains. Because irony is real, and the storm—after days of electrical discharge with barely a drop—finally opens its floodgates.

• Torrents.

  • In sheets.

  • Like a monsoon sponsored by schadenfreude.

• Too late to prevent most of the fire damage.

  • The north wing collapses.

  • The gold-plated ballroom ceiling crumples like a soup can.

  • The iconic pool turns black with soot and chemicals.

  • Statues begin floating.

And still the lightning doesn’t stop. It dials back—but it watches. You feel it hovering, tasting, recording.

Visual Documentation

• Drone footage catches the moment a giant “T” sign melts and collapses in front of the main entrance, right as the fire suppression team breaches the front atrium.

• In the background, you can see melting gilt wallpaper, and what might be a half-burned portrait of Trump flapping like a dying flag on a stone pillar.

• A reporter on scene says:

  “It’s like Versailles got drunk, committed insurance fraud, and got hit by the Book of Revelation.”

Structural Status of Mar-a-Lago

50% total loss. Upper floors uninhabitable. Foundation compromised by both fire and water saturation. All Trump-branded memorabilia destroyed or defiled. The backup Diet Coke button is found melted into the piano. Palm Beach County files for disaster site quarantine until further notice.

Trump’s Reaction: Still in the White House bunker. Still febrile. Still mildly radioactive with static charge. When told that Mar-a-Lago was on fire, then rain-drenched, he muttered: “First the tower. Now the kingdom… It’s raining… after the fire? That’s not legal. That’s not how we do it.” Then he clutched a burnt necktie fragment someone smuggled from the scene and whispered:

“Tell the base it’s not my fault. Tell them it was arson. By the sky. Sky arson. That’s a thing now.”

DAY 12 — “Siege Protocol: Candlelight Empire”
Location: The White House, Washington D.C.
“The People’s House, Now Held Hostage by the Sky”

Situation Overview

The White House remains the original epicenter of the now-global lightning anomaly. While the tempest has relented at Mar-a-Lago and merely teased Manhattan with tactical electrocutions, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is still caught in a storm-loop of physics-defying hostility. Lightning continues to strike with predictable rhythm—every 58 to 63 seconds, on average. Always centered. Always precise.
The clouds above refuse to dissipate. They rotate in place like some permanent surveillance eye.

No relief. No mistakes. No movement.

Total Grid Failure

By Day 12, the following infrastructure has failed:

• Primary power: Fully disabled.

• Backup diesel generators: Overloaded by surges and caught fire on Day 10.

• UPS battery arrays: Drained by Day 11; replacement impossible due to EMP interference.

• Shielded circuits: Many fused by arc surges crawling through grounding systems.

• HVAC: Nonfunctional. Interior temperatures vary wildly between 13°C and 29°C depending on lightning heat and external airflow.

Only power now comes from:

• Portable battery packs (all recharged off-site and brought in manually)

• Flashlights

• One experimental hand-crank satellite phone

• A solar rig in the West Basement window well, producing a heroic 4.8 watts/hour

Even the Presidential Seal above the door was struck and now glows faintly green at night like radioactive toothpaste.

Interior Conditions

The White House has become a colonial bunker.

• Lighting:

  • Mostly candles.

  • A few portable LED lanterns flicker in and out.

  • Some rooms lit only by the intermittent blue-white of distant lightning. It casts massive presidential portraits into horrifying spectral forms.

• Noise:

  • Constant thunder.

  • The percussive pulse of distant strikes.

  • Occasionally, the pop-hiss of water boiling inside the walls.

• Air Quality:

  • Musk of burnt insulation, melted vinyl, and human fatigue.

  • Humidity clings to skin like anxious silk.

  • The East Wing smells like wet limestone and old computer fans.

Personnel Remaining

• Secret Service: Running on bodycams and analog protocols. Weapons only semi-functional.

• White House Kitchen: Down to canned goods, emergency MREs, and some unfortunate pickles.

• Medical Team: One functioning defibrillator, but it must be hand-pumped.

• Trump’s remaining aides: Sleep-deprived, damp, visibly twitchy. Some now refer to him as “His Singedness.”

President Trump: Behavioral Synopsis

• Refuses to evacuate.
  “If I leave, it wins,” he mutters. “The weather polls badly.”
  Staff believe he’s trying to “outlast the storm for optics.”

• Paranoia increasing.

  • Accused an unplugged vacuum cleaner of being “a Biden plant.”

  • Has built a makeshift “executive throne” out of four soggy couches, a blanket, and a melted Roomba.

• Appearance:

  • Pale.

  • Hairpiece detached and reattached with duct tape.

  • Smells faintly of lemon-scented mold.

• Mental Condition:

  • Rants in short loops: “Twelve strikes. Twelve. That’s biblical.”

  • Believes the storm may be “jealous of my ratings.”

  • Swings between bragging and muttering doomsday poetry.

Structural Integrity

• The roof: Technically intact, but sizzling with residual static.

• Interior walls: Many cracked. Ceiling panels sag.

• Basement: Flooded in three sections. Some rooms now inaccessible without wading gear.

• The Lincoln Bedroom: Hit directly on Day 11. Smells like scorched mahogany and history.

• West Wing Communications Room: Fried. All outgoing signals must now be physically couriered to Lafayette Square, which is somehow still sunny and full of tourists.

Closing Scene

You walk the halls at night. Lightning flashes every minute. The windows rattle. You pass half-melted busts of Jefferson and Roosevelt under flickering emergency lanterns. You hear the tap-tap-tap of Trump’s pacing from behind the locked East Study door. He hasn’t changed clothes in three days. From within, he shouts to no one: “I’m still here. You hear me, cloud?! I built this empire with my name and a big letter T! You can’t undo branding! You can’t!” “I’ll outlast the f*cking storm if it kills me.”

DAY 13 — “The Waters Below”

Event: Subterranean Breach — The Aquifer Awakens

The White House isn’t just a house. It’s a multi-layered federal hive descending deep into the Earth,  riddled with infrastructure, pipes, data lines, panic rooms, war bunkers, bomb shelters, and diplomatic plumbing that dates back to when Roosevelt was still chain-smoking with Stalin on the horn. So what happens when 13 days of nonstop electromagnetic hell finally breach that foundation? Something… begins to leak. Or worse: something begins to rise.

What’s Under the White House?

The White House complex includes several known and many classified substructures. Here’s what we know (and suspect) exists beneath:

1. White House Basement (~1 story below grade):

• Basic storage, laundry, archives

• Currently flooded

2. Sub-Basement & Support Infrastructure (~2–3 stories down):

• Power converters

• Utility corridors

• Access to original 19th-century brick drain systems

• Secret kitchen wine cellars

• Multiple pipes carrying runoff, sewage, and HVAC condensate

3. Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC) (~5 stories down):

• Hardened bunker installed under the East Wing

• Estimated depth: 40–60 feet (~12–18 meters) below surface

• EMP shielding, water, food, independent air supply

• Currently still sealed and barely operational

4. Speculative / Unconfirmed Tunnels:

• Escape route to Treasury, Old Executive Office, or even DAR Constitution Hall

• Cold War-era hydraulic defense hatch systems

• A water distribution junction codenamed “Artery 7,” thought to interlink old aquifers and redundant municipal sewer backup

What Just Happened?

At 2:11 AM on Day 13, following a rare quad-strike pattern (four simultaneous lightning bolts forming a rough X across the lawn), sensors in the lowest accessible level begin to report:

• A sudden rise in pressure along subterranean piping

• Cracks in a disused steam tunnel wall below the library wing

• Faint sloshing sounds beyond sealed vault hatches

Then… release.

• A section of ancient pipe bursts.

• What flows out isn’t clean water. It’s highly mineralized, warm, and tinged with rust, clay, and something blackish-green.

The water doesn’t surge — it seethes.

It rises up, almost hesitantly.
It flows over tile and steel with memory, scent, and temperature.

 Depth and Consequences

Approximate breach point:

• ~55 feet (17 meters) below surface, possibly near a Civil War-era drain forgotten during Nixon-era expansions

Consequence:

• The lower corridors begin filling

• Backflow pressure forces emergency valves to burst in two other wings

• Foul-smelling mist rises into the air ducts

• Equipment in the PEOC begins to fail due to humid corrosion

• One corridor door is now warped shut, trapping two junior aides in a decontamination closet with 800 tuna MREs and a flickering Kindle

What Is This Water?

Test kits give confusing results:

• High manganese and iron levels

• Trace microbial colonies unknown to CDC water database

• Several compounds consistent with historical embalming fluid, suggesting cross-contamination with forgotten burial systems or drainage from 19th-century preservation protocols

• Temperature: a stable 32°C

  • Too warm for groundwater

  • Too warm for storm runoff

  • “Feels like breath,” according to one technician

Trump’s Reaction

“That smell isn’t me. I know smells. I invented dry. That smell is Obama’s pipe people, okay?”

Then he asks:

“What happens if the water comes all the way up here? Will it float the White House? Like a boat? I could be the captain.”

He is told that water doesn’t float buildings.
He threatens to fire the ocean.

Atmospheric Conditions Now

Lightning persists. Frequency has slowed, but strikes are heavier, more resonant. Winds now swirl vertically, causing odd pressure drops in stairwells. Basement water is audibly bubbling, but no visible source.

DAY 14 — “The Drowning of the Presidency”
Location: Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC), Sublevel 5, White House
Status: Submerged. Severed. Sealed.

Context 

By design, the PEOC is the most secure, hardened, bunkerized location in the entire U.S. federal civilian infrastructure. It’s buried ~60 feet (18m) beneath the East Wing, designed to withstand nuclear warheads, bioterror attacks, EMPs, and psychological meltdowns in the Situation Room. It was not, however, built to endure 13 continuous days of targeted electrical bombardment, followed by a rising tide of anomalous, possibly primordial groundwater, and finally: the precise, repeated destruction of every single egress route by lightning. 

Surgical Lightning?

By Day 13’s end, an unprecedented pattern becomes clear in NOAA’s forensic strike maps:

• Nine confirmed strikes on tunnel mouths and access points radiating outward from the White House

• Two direct hits on blast doors, causing arc-welding of hinges and electronic locks

• Three separate tunnel collapses confirmed via seismographic feedback — all corresponding with narrow, high-energy bolts

“This isn’t natural lightning. It’s targeting blueprints.”
— Lt. Kara Mullins, USACE (United States Army Corps of Engineers)

The Final Breach

At 03:14 AM, Day 14, a massive pressure spike beneath the East Wing forces open two auxiliary drainage control valves.

• The PEOC’s sump system, already degraded, fails instantly.

• Water surges in through floor-level access panels, ventilation ducts, and two elevator shafts.

• Backup power shorts out.

• Internal blast doors seal automatically, trapping three staff members and the President inside.

The water is warm, thick, and slightly effervescent. It brings with it:

• Small objects: rusted nails, wood splinters, bone fragments.

• A strange film: dark green, mucilaginous, bioluminescent at edges.

• Smell: like a wet mausoleum crossed with an overheated aquarium.

Within 6 minutes, the entire chamber is submerged.

Trump: Trapped and Floating

Survivors recall him standing knee-deep in water moments before blackout, holding a half-melted copy of The Art of the Deal, yelling:

“This is the deep swamp! This is what they warned us about!”

Then, the cameras cut. When the drone submarine sent in 4 hours later manages to breach the lower hatches, it finds: The room fully flooded, lit only by the pulsing red emergency light still blinking under water. Furniture buoyant. Bits of his signature gold tie drifting like kelp. A crumpled portrait of Trump, smiling behind water-blurred Plexiglas, floating face-up like a drowned saint. No bodies found.

All Escape Routes: Destroyed

• Tunnel to Treasury Building: collapsed — lighting strike fused structural rebar into a glowing molten mass

• Service exit near Lafayette Square: vaporized. The bolt left behind a cone of fused sand

• Elevator shafts: flooded and corroded — now vertical aqueducts

Engineers conclude no physical escape remains for anyone left inside the PEOC.

 What’s Rising from Below?

As the water continues to percolate upward through lower sublevels: Sensors detect intermittent magnetic pulses from the water itself. Bio-readings from one sample show ancient extremophile DNA signatures, partially degraded — not consistent with modern biospheres. Deep-seismic scans indicate a hollow void opening somewhere below Sublevel 6 — estimated 30m beneath the current structure.

 Public and Political Impact

• The Vice President is quietly sworn in behind closed doors.

• An official statement claims Trump is “in secure relocation.”

• Meanwhile, TikTok erupts with hashtags like #TrumpSubnautica and #SwampJesus2025

An evangelical pastor in Texas declares:

“He descended below the foundation of the republic to cleanse it. Trump is now of the deep.”

DAY 15 — “The Deep Comes Calling”
Location: Sublevel 7 (Unknown Depth), Beneath the White House
~80 meters below ground, below even recorded architecture

Context Update

Until today, Sublevel 6 was considered non-existent outside of speculative blueprints and Cold War myths. Yet after the flooding of the PEOC, lidar scans—rerouted through seismic networks— reveal cavities even further below. At ~80 meters depth, something unexpected appears: An anomalously symmetrical void, partially backfilled, lined with stone, and full of carbon-dense organic anomalies. The term used by the underground survey team:

“This wasn’t a sewer. It’s a burial crypt.”

The Forgotten Burial Ground

Believed to be pre-WW2, possibly 17th-century repurposed, but no record exists of its integration with White House construction. Geological carbon-dating later estimates initial interment at 1680–1700, long before the first federal footprint was laid. The layout suggests: Carefully aligned crypt niches, Bones wrapped in decaying cloths, Charms made from metal and teeth, Symbols that resemble no known colonial iconography- And despite centuries of silence, these remains are… migrating.

The Movement

Survey footage shows the bones—desiccated but eerily intact—have shifted over time. A pile of long bones leans collectively north, as if drawn. Finger bones are clumped in grip formations, clutched toward collapsed piping. One skull was found wedged inside a ventilation port, eye sockets facing up. 

• One technician’s readout simply stated:

  “This isn’t sediment shift. This is… alignment.”

The Collapse

At 4:42 AM, a recovery team attempting to stabilize a section of flooded corridor triggers vibration from overhead utility collapse. That’s when Wall D3, a supposedly solid load-bearing wall on the western perimeter, collapses inward. Revealing: A catacomb face wall, covered in etched glyphs partially fused by the recent lightning activity, An open cavity behind the stone… And from it, a slow torrent of bones, dirt, and black-tinged fluid. The team is swept backward.

Cameras record:

• One figure shouting: “They’re organized! They’re stacked like waiting tools!”

• A femur striking the ceiling with improbable force and lodging in a lighting conduit.

• **Mummified tissue moving—**not actively twitching, but riding the pressure like kelp.

Biologic Assessment (Preliminary)

Material recovered from the site includes: Partial human remains with unusual bone calcification, Many show metallic inclusions, as if implanted or adorned with copper wiring, Traces of resin, charcoal, and phosphorous compounds suggest funerary burning inside a sealed chamber, Water from the site contains spores, unidentified fungi, and fat-soluble oils resembling embalming fluids but with unknown amino sequences, One sample briefly exhibited electrochemical reaction when exposed to ordinary battery current.

What Happens Now?

• Trump is still missing, presumed either drowned or withdrawn into the deeper tunnels.

• The White House above continues to receive periodic strikes, but the pattern is slowing—not calming, but coiling.

• FEMA has sealed off all access to Sublevel 7.

• DARPA has dispatched an Archeo-X Biological Recovery Unit.

But before that unit arrived, the last camera down there recorded:

• Bones forming concentric patterns in the flooded chamber

• A slow bubbling of the tar-colored water

DAY 16 — “The President Emerges from the Dead”
Location: Sublevel 7b, Uncharted Subterranean Corridor beneath the East Wing
“It’s not a tomb. It’s a misfiled future.”

The Scene: Claustrophobic Descent into Decomposition

Trump has been missing since the PEOC flooded three days ago. The government issued bland statements. The VP quietly took over messaging. News outlets alternated between “secure relocation” and “Biden hologram conspiracy.” But he didn’t die. He waited. He drifted. He waded. Now — just past 2:00 AM on Day 16 — Trump resurfaces in a space no one remembered existed, somewhere below the lowest levels, a misaligned corridor filled with bone slurry, stagnant fluid, and architectural regret.

Trump’s Condition

• Hair: Gone. Torn out. Rotted. Possibly self-removed during fever.

  • What remains is a scalded pate, blistered and pale as a drowned mole rat.

• Skin:

  • Swollen.

  • Grey-pink.

  • Wrinkled and pitted from hours—possibly days—immersed in tepid, fungal-contaminated water.

• Face:

  • Puffy.

  • One eye nearly shut.

  • Lips cracked.

  • Expression: an uncanny mix of trauma and megalomania.

• Smell:

  • Rancid, marine rot overlaid with decaying copper wiring.

  • Like someone tried to embalm ego.

• Demeanor:

  • “They left me. I swam through their shame. I’m still president, you understand?”

He drags himself through the corridor, helped by two exhausted aides with waterproof lanterns — the last power they could carry from higher levels.

The Horrorscene

As the three wade forward, the lights sway — just like in Poltergeist — except this isn’t a haunted swimming pool. This is an archival necropolis, built beneath government foundations, apparently active as recently as the 1970s. What floats in the ankle-to-thigh deep black water?

• Cadavers. Some wrapped, some dressed. Some in military fatigues. Some in business suits, name tags rotted into lace. A few in lab coats, eyes open, mouths packed with coins.

• Bones rise like kelp, snagging on Trump’s ragged blazer. He screams when a mummified hand clutches his ankle, only to find it’s his own reflection caught in a warped water ripple. 

• On one wall, they pass a metal tag:

  “DEEP STORAGE: Strategic Contingencies Archive. Est. 1974.”

“They hid them,” Trump wheezes. “They buried the ones who said no. This is the real Deep State.”

What the Lights Reveal

One lantern swings wide and illuminates a mural of grotesque proportions, drawn in ash and charcoal, possibly by prisoners or doomed engineers.

It shows:

• Washington D.C. upside-down, with lightning bolts spearing into it like nails into a coffin.

• A golden-haired figure impaled by six jagged bolts, weeping coins from his eyes.

• Bones forming a spiral, converging toward a central sigil — the same serpent swallowing lightning that had been seen previously at the collapse wall.

 Trump’s Declaration (as recorded by aide’s helmet mic)

“They made this place. They made it for me. They knew I’d be here. I’ve been coming down to this my whole life. I’m the only one who could.”

“Tell the people I walked through the graveyard of their lies. Tell them… I’m rising again. Like Jesus, but wetter.”

Then, without warning, he vomits a mixture of water, bile, and what looks like part of a laminated security badge.

 Encounter at the Far End

They reach a partially collapsed elevator shaft leading up — but it’s plugged with more remains. Some recent.

Teeth. Eyeglasses. ID cards. 1976. 1994. 2003.

• One aide panics and climbs the debris. Slips. Falls in. His scream bubbles and stops. Trump stands frozen. And then the lightning strikes above again. So loud it echoes down through the shaft. The bones vibrate. The walls hum. Somewhere deeper still, water begins to rise. Again.

DAY 17 — “The Hatch at Lafayette”
Location: Lafayette Square, Northeast Quadrant, near Connecticut Avenue NW
Time: 06:14 AM, light rain, birdsong… then steel

 The Calm After

The storm finally breaks. Not dies. Not ends. It simply… exhales. Lightning ceases. Clouds lift. Air clears. Sunlight returns to D.C. like a forgotten deadline.

Swearing In of President Vance

Two days earlier, under a gray and brooding sky, President Electorally-Confirmed Julian Vance was sworn in on the stone steps of St. John’s Episcopal Church, directly across from a charred and eerily silent White House. The press corps huddled under tarps. The Capitol was distant but visible—an island of scaffolds and ceremonial order. Vance’s voice was steady, His hand, when raised, showed a fresh scar from a failed assassination attempt just a week before. When he said “so help me God,” thunder clapped once, perfectly timed, as if the heavens were closing a bracket.

But Now, the Hatch

Two mornings later. Reporters are still stationed near the park, trading storm stories and live streaming squirrel activity. A few are packing up. And then — without announcement — something moves in the grass near Connecticut Avenue, just inside the perimeter of Lafayette Square. A metal plate — circular, wide as a manhole but polished like military chrome — grinds open. A ramp rises, angled with hydraulic care. Steam. Hissing. The smell of copper, sulfur, and wet stone. 

What They See

Out climbs a figure — stumbling, half-naked, glowing under the early sunlight like something rejected by both life and death. Donald J. Trump. He is: Hairless, Soaked, Covered in gray-black smears, scratches, and biofilm, Clutching a half-melted gold-plated object that might have once been a belt buckle, now fused into a kind of crown – Behind him: one aide, limping, glassy-eyed. The hatch clangs shut behind them.

His Appearance

• Eyes: Dilated, feral, and scanning the press with animal suspicion

• Lips: Muted. Chewed raw. One corner twitching with speech that doesn’t come.

• Clothes: Gone. Draped in a discarded FEMA emergency wrap and something that looks suspiciously like a flag

He wobbles forward into camera range and then, with awful purpose, raises both arms and says:

“I went below. I was tested. And I have returned.”

“I have seen what lives under America. I AM what lives under America.”

The Spectacle

Dozens of cameras rolling. CNN’s anchor is struck speechless. Fox News cuts to commercial. MSNBC zooms in. A TikTok of it garners 14 million views in under 20 minutes. One tourist faints. A small dog begins howling. In the background, a government drone can be seen pivoting toward him — its lens iris contracting like an eye finally noticing its target.

Vance’s Response (30 minutes later)

• Still in secure location.

• Issues brief televised address:

“This country has endured many strange days. Today, we witnessed the return of a man…
Not elected. Not dispatched. But drawn from the deep like something not meant for light.”

“Donald Trump is no longer recognized as a lawful actor in the U.S. federal government. He is to be treated as a biological anomaly pending evaluation under the Presidential Continuity Act Section 9-Gamma.”

He signs an order invoking Emergency Quarantine Powers. And Trump? He has disappeared into the crowd, now wrapped in a tourist’s poncho, whispering into someone’s smartphone…

Donald J. Trump is now homeless.

Let’s audit the damage:

1. Mar-a-Lago:

• Burned. Flooded.

• Structure: 50% destroyed, 30% uninhabitable, 20% legally “contaminated by historical anomaly” per Florida’s emergency code.

• Insurance company response: “Act of God with Malicious Lightning Modifier.”

• Local government officially re-zoned the land as a “Disaster Shrine” to prevent reconstruction for now.

No longer a home. Possibly a ruin in a historical haunted walking tour. 

2. Trump Tower Penthouse:

• Struck by lightning 12 times, then suffered catastrophic sewage surge from above.

• Final FEMA inspection report reads:

  “Structure remains intact. Everything else has been… emulsified.”

• Plumbing, walls, wiring, mold—uninhabitable indefinitely.

• HOA now suing Trump Org for “multi-residential psychic trauma.”

Not a home. A supervillain origin scene for someone else.

3. White House:

• Sublevels: Flooded and compromised.

• PEOC: Destroyed.

• All residential quarters: structurally compromised or haunted by fungal lightning ghosts, depending on your cosmology.

• President Vance has issued full quarantine order over the Executive Mansion.
  Entry requires Hazmat clearance and blood oxygen scan.

Not his. Not habitable. Not even symbolically available.

4. Air Force One:

• Vaporized in Strike Cluster 3.

• Even if Trump saw it as a “mobile home,” it now exists only as scorched titanium in a hangar.

5. Other Properties:

• Trump Doral: Leased to a Gulf-funded AI firm for quantum computing.

• Trump International Hotel D.C.: Sold.

• Trump Bedminster: Quietly seized for forensic geologic surveys.

• Trump-branded condos globally:
  Many boards have quietly revoked license agreements citing brand damage, or, as one building manager in Dubai put it:

  “We do not want the lightning.”

Status: Stateless Monarch of Nowhere

Trump is now: Titleless. Landless. Denied occupancy at every official residence he’s ever claimed. His possessions are gone or underwater. His empire exists only on paper—soaked, charred, or glowing faintly in the dark. He is literally, politically, and symbolically:

“The Exiled King of the Deep State Swamp.”

A gilded Odysseus wandering between press vans, back alleys, and megachurch lobbies, carrying one battered FEMA blanket, two Diet Cokes, and a thunder-shaped welt on his chest.