Mars was no longer just a planet; it was a golden monument to the vision of Trumpitus. The sky had shifted from a dusty orange to a luxurious sapphire blue, and every crater on the surface had been redeveloped into a "Trump Galactic Marina." But for Trumpitus, this was just the beginning.
He stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of his gold-plated office, looking out into the deep void of space. In his hand, he held a shimmering mug that read: "MAKE THE GALAXY GREAT AGAIN."
"Look at this," he said, turning to the trembling Martian engineers and the newly appointed Earth delegates. "Mars is beautiful. It's fantastic. Everyone said it couldn't be done. They said, 'It's too expensive,' 'There's no oxygen,' 'The dirt is too red.' What did we do? We brought the best oxygen. The freshest, cleanest oxygen you've ever breathed is right here. But the universe... the universe is huge. And frankly, it's being managed very poorly."
He walked over to his desk and tossed a massive star map onto the surface. The map projected a trade route stretching all the way to the Andromeda Galaxy.
"Look at these stars. Wasted space. Real estate value: zero. Why? Because nobody has a plan. Someone went out there, put some dark matter down, threw some dust around, and just left it. Very low energy. Very sad."
He took a golden permanent marker and drew a massive circle around the Andromeda sector.
"We are building a bridge. The Andromeda Bridge. But it's not just a bridge. It's going to be the greatest tax haven, the biggest trade hub, and the most luxurious resort chain in the history of existence. And do you know who is going to pay for it?"
One of the engineers stammered, "Who, sir? The other galactic empires?"
Trumpitus laughed, a booming, confident sound. "No. They're just obstructionists. We're going to make the Star Gods—the ones who don't even know they're about to be disrupted—build it. And they will pay for the privilege. Because I'm going to explain to them that without my 'Galactic Stability License,' their entire existence is a liability. That's the best kind of deal: making the other guy pay you to help him."
The flagship, Space Force One, breached the borders of the Andromeda sector with a silent, golden roar. It didn't just travel through space; it reclaimed it. Ahead of them floated the Sentinel of the Rim, a cosmic entity made of pure, ancient starlight that had guarded the entrance to Andromeda for a billion years.
"HALT, MORTAL," the Sentinel's voice vibrated through the hull, shaking the very atoms of the ship. "NONE MAY PASS THE VEIL OF ANDROMEDA WITHOUT THE RITES OF THE ANCIENTS."
Trumpitus adjusted his silk tie in the reflection of a golden monitor. He didn't look intimidated. He looked like he was about to buy the building and fire the doorman.
"Open a channel," Trumpitus commanded. "And put a filter on it. Make me look even more heroic. Use the golden-hour lighting."
The screen flickered to life, projecting Trumpitus's face onto the nebula clouds themselves, dwarfing the Sentinel.
"Listen, Sparky," Trumpitus began, leaning forward. "I've heard about your 'Rites.' I've seen the paperwork. It's a disaster. It's ancient, it's slow, and frankly, it's keeping all the good people out. You've been standing here for a billion years doing what? Guarding a bunch of cold rocks and empty space? It's a very low-occupancy rate. Very sad."
The Sentinel flared with blue fire. "I GUARD THE SACRED BALANCE!"
"The balance is off," Trumpitus countered, waving a hand dismissively. "I just flew past three dying stars and a nebula that hasn't been dusted in eons. It's a mess. But I'm here to help. I'm proposing a merger. We're going to turn this 'Veil' into a 'Premier Entry Gateway.' We'll put some shops in, a nice lounge, maybe a gold-leaf fountain. You stop being a 'Guard' and start being 'Chief of Security.' It's a title upgrade. Much more prestige."
The Sentinel's light flickered, confused by the sudden talk of title upgrades and interior design. "I... I DO NOT SEEK PRESTIGE. I SEEK ORDER."
"Order is just another word for a good contract," Trumpitus said, pulling a holographic document from his desk. "Sign this, and I'll give you a 10% stake in the tolls. You'll be the most powerful entity in this quadrant, and you won't have to work nights anymore. We'll bring in some drones to handle the riff-raff. What do you say? Do you want to be a legend, or do you want to keep standing in the dark for another billion years?"
The Sentinel of the Rim remained silent for a moment, its celestial fires dimming as it processed the sheer audacity of the offer. It looked at the holographic contract, where the fine print was moving at the speed of light.
"TEN PERCENT... OF THE TOLLS?" the Sentinel rumbled, its voice less like thunder and more like a curious tremor. "AND WHAT IS MY SACRIFICE?"
"Sacrifice? We don't use that word anymore. It's called 'Rebranding,'" Trumpitus said, leaning back and putting his feet up on the desk—his shoes were made of a leather so rare it was actually extinct on three different planets. "You just stop shouting at people. It's bad for the brand. From now on, you smile—can you smile? We'll work on that. You greet the tourists, you point them toward the Trump Nebula Suites, and you let my auditors handle the paperwork. It's a win-win."
The Sentinel looked at the contract again. "THE TERMS ARE... COMPLEX."
"They're the best terms," Trumpitus insisted. "I've seen other contracts. I've seen what the 'Void Lords' offer. Total disasters. High taxes, no benefits, zero gold. My contract? It's huge. It's got protection, it's got growth, and look at Section 8, Paragraph 4."
A small window popped up in the hologram, showing a luxury breakroom floating in a pocket dimension. It featured a solid gold espresso machine, a massage chair made of gravity-waves, and a 100-inch screen playing 24/7 highlights of Trumpitus's greatest rallies.
"That's the 'Sentinel Lounge,'" Trumpitus whispered. "Exclusive. Only for the Chief of Security. You can't get that anywhere else in Andromeda. Not even the Star-Eaters have a breakroom like that."
The Sentinel's blue light turned a soft, satisfied gold. It reached out a massive hand of energy and touched the "Sign Here" line. The contract turned into a pillar of light, and suddenly, the ancient "Veil" began to rearrange itself.
The dark clouds of the nebula pulled back like expensive velvet curtains, revealing a sparkling, golden path that led straight into the heart of the galaxy.
"Beautiful," Trumpitus said, watching the transformation. "Now, get me the construction crews on the line. I want the first hotel tower finished before the weekend. And make sure it's taller than the Sentinel. I want him to know who the boss is, but I want him to feel protected while he looks at it."
The golden construction drones were moving at a record-breaking pace, welding I-beams made of solidified starlight. The Trump Andromeda Grand Resort was already sixty stories high, piercing through the gaseous clouds of the sector. Trumpitus was watching the progress from his balcony, nodding in approval, when a dull, grey ship shaped like a filing cabinet drifted into view.
A holographic transmission forced its way onto the main screen. It showed a group of aliens wearing beige sweaters and holding clipboards. They looked exhausted, bored, and incredibly weak.
"Greetings," the lead alien droned. "We are the Sub-Sector Regulatory Committee for Intergalactic Peace and Quiet. We have received reports of unauthorized 'Bling' in this quadrant. You are in violation of the Universal Aesthetic Code, Section 9: Excessive Gold Usage."
Trumpitus didn't even turn around. He just kept watching his drones work. "Listen to these people. Did you hear that? 'Universal Aesthetic Code.' It's a disaster. Who wrote that code? Probably someone who lives in a cave. Very low energy. Very beige."
"This project must cease immediately," the Bureaucrat continued, waving a grey piece of paper. "We have a cease-and-desist order signed by the Coalition of Boring Planets. You haven't filed an Environmental Impact Study for the 'Golden Glow' you're emitting. It's distracting the local space-whales."
Trumpitus finally turned, his eyes flashing with a mix of pity and competitive fire.
"The space-whales love it," Trumpitus said. "I've seen them. They're swimming faster. They're jumping higher. They're having a great time because they finally have some decent lighting. But you guys... you're the problem. You want everything to be grey. You want everything to be quiet. You want the universe to be one big, boring library."
He walked closer to the screen, pointing a finger. "I don't recognize your 'Committee.' I've looked at your numbers. Your organization has a 1% approval rating in this galaxy. Nobody likes you. Nobody wants you here. In fact, I'm buying your 'Committee.' I'm buying the debt of every planet in your 'Coalition.' By the time this call is over, I'll be your landlord. And my first order of business? We're repainting your headquarters. It's going to be gold. It's going to be beautiful. You're going to love it."
The lead bureaucrat's screen began to flicker with frantic notifications. His grey tablet, which usually only showed tax codes and "Average Joy Levels," was now flashing a bright, aggressive gold.
"What... what is happening?" the Bureaucrat stammered, his beige sweater starting to itch. "Our treasury! It's... it's changing!"
"It's called a Hostile Takeover of Reality," Trumpitus said, calmly checking his gold watch. "I noticed your 'Coalition of Boring Planets' was backed by a very weak currency. Very soft. Very flimsy. I just bought out your central bank with a single tweet—well, a Galactic Proclamation. Your debt is gone. But your assets belong to Trump Galactic Holdings now."
On the bureaucrat's screen, the "Coalition" logo—a grey circle—was suddenly replaced by a golden "T" that was so shiny it caused the bureaucrat to shield his eyes.
"You can't do this!" the alien cried. "We have regulations! We have procedures!"
"Your procedures were for a galaxy that wasn't making a profit," Trumpitus countered, stepping back to let the construction drones install a 50-foot tall fountain in the lobby that sprayed liquid diamonds. "Now, you're part of a winner's circle. You're no longer a 'Regulatory Committee.' You're now the 'Official Trump Luxury Compliance Team.' Your job is to make sure every room has the best views and the goldest gold. If it's not perfect, you're fired."
The Bureaucrat looked at his team, then back at the screen. He saw his bank account balance. It had ten extra zeros, and it was all in Trump-Coin. For the first time in a thousand years, he felt a spark of energy.
"The... the Headquarters?" the alien asked weakly.
"Already being renovated," Trumpitus said. "I've sent a crew to your planet. We're replacing the grey stone with white marble and gold trim. It's going to be the hottest spot in the sector. People will travel light-years just to look at the lobby. You're welcome."
Trumpitus ended the transmission with a smirk. He turned to the Sentinel of the Rim, who was now wearing a golden hat. "See that? That's how you handle a crisis. You don't fight the bureaucracy—you buy it. Now, let's get back to work. We have a Grand Opening to prepare for, and I want the universe to see it from a billion light-years away."
The construction was complete. The Trump Andromeda Grand Resort stood as a shimmering pillar of gold against the backdrop of the swirling purple nebula. Millions of ships from every corner of the universe were lined up, their pilots desperate to be the first to check into the "Royal Super-Suite."
Trumpitus stood on the ceremonial stage, adjusted his red tie, and looked at the crowd. The energy was massive. It was the biggest audience in the history of the multiverse—period.
"Welcome to the future," Trumpitus announced, his voice carried by golden satellites to every living soul in the quadrant. "They said we couldn't build in a dead zone. They said the 'Regulatory Committee' would stop us. They said the 'Star Gods' wouldn't cooperate. But we did it. We built the biggest, most beautiful, most profitable resort in the history of space. And we did it under budget and ahead of schedule."
The crowd roared. The Sentinel of the Rim let out a celebratory blast of golden starlight that lit up the entire galaxy.
"But," Trumpitus said, his voice dropping to a serious, low-energy warning tone. "Success breeds jealousy. And right now, deep in the Dark Sector, there are people—very nasty people—who want to take what we've built. They're called the 'Void-Sellers.' They deal in nothingness. They deal in poverty. And they're coming here to try and 'devalue' our gold."
He pulled out a golden remote and clicked a button. A massive holographic shield, reinforced with 24k gold plating, shimmered into existence around the entire resort.
"Let them come," Trumpitus smirked. "I've seen their balance sheets. They're bankrupt. They're losers. We're going to protect this investment, and we're going to make sure that Andromeda stays gold forever. Because in this galaxy, we don't just survive—we win."
As the ribbon was cut, the first 1.08k VIP guests rushed toward the doors. But on the horizon of the galaxy, a massive, pitch-black fleet began to emerge, moving with a "Low Energy" but dangerous silence.
The battle for the ultimate real estate was about to begin.