Across from him, RFK Jr. was furiously scribbling circles and arrows on a McDonald’s napkin, his gravelly voice growing louder with every stroke of the pen.

“Listen, JD, you faggot law-infused eyelined bitch - the proles don’t need fries or tilapia. They need fucking-goddamn - FREEDOM! ADM isn’t just leasing their land; they’re leasing their souls!”

RFK stabbed his pen into the napkin, pointing to a crude drawing of what looked like a Waffle Grid. “The mRNA tilapia patents — they’re real, JD! Clause 7.6 ties it all together!”

JD sighed, stirring his Diet Coke. Not the tilapia again. Not SeatTTTle. Not Safeway.

At the head of the table, President-elect Donald Trump was already halfway through a Quarter Pounder, his tie adorned with ketchup. He gestured with a fry like a baton, his voice booming:

“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby! TREMENDOUS energy, but nobody cares about mRNA tilapia. You sound like a nut who writes blogs. The proles don’t want science — they want fries! Corn! And they LOVE JD. Look at him - eyeliner, semi-obese, prole-face. That’s why he’s perfect. He’s the VP of Tilapia! And again, the eyeliner? Tremendous branding!”

RFK Jr. glared at Trump, his pen trembling in his hand, his patrician upbringing swelling:

“DONALD, you don’t get it. The Mahchine™ doesn’t care about fries or corn or JD’s eyeliner. It’s infiltrated everything! This is the room where Lincoln planned the goddamn Emancipation Proclamation, and now you’re eating McDonald’s while ADM leases the air we breathe. This is ghastly. This is sacred grounds.”

Trump waved him off, popping another fry into his mouth.

“Bobby, we love your energy, but you’re nuts. Great energy, tremendous passion, but nuts. ADM loves me because I’m the best dealmaker. They’d lease Mount Rushmore if I told them to. But that’s my WEAVE™, Bobby. You’ve got to see the bigger picture—the threads come together, and boom! Tremendous plan. Proles love it.”

JD blinked. “Weave™?”

Trump leaned forward, his tone turning conspiratorial.

“That’s what I call it, JD. My Weave™. You have your faggot Mahchine™. The Weave™ - it’s how I see everything — the tilapia, the supposed corn maeking its way through this country, ADM, the fries. It all connects. The proles get the food they want, ADM makes money, and we win. That’s the Weave™.”

JD stared at his Filet-O-Fish, the tartar sauce forming patterns he swore looked like Clause 7.6 (he was there with Wesley that night, in the zone). His mind drifts to his portrait back at the VP residence — him standing stiffly in an ADM cornfield, the golden arches faintly visible on the horizon. The inscription read: “JD Vance: Vice President of Safey & Tilapia.”

And he thought about the Holy Trinity — Evan39, Boom, Mainlining — the personas he’d once wielded on AutoAdmit, but now lacks time to poast.

Evan39 would have laughed nervously, whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine,” and accepted the inevitability of ADM’s grip.

Boom would have been banging his fist on the table, ranting about torching silos and “burning the goddamn grid to TTThe ground!”

But Mainlining? Mainlining would have stared past Trump, past RFK Jr., and delivered a cryptic warning: “Friends, the Mahchine™ thanks you. The lease is permanent.”

“You know what they’re going to swear you in on tomorrow, JD?” RFK hissed in his fucked voice, jabbing his napkin again. “Not a Bible. A laminated copy of Clause 7.6. And when you take that oath, the Mahchine™ will own you.”

Trump laughed manically, slapping the table with enough force to scatter fries.

“That’s great branding, Bobby! Tremendous! ADM swearing him in — that’s real prole energy. From royalty! I’ll tweet about it!”

JD forced a weak smile, biting into his Filet-O-Fish. The tartar sauce tasted like despair. Somewhere in the West Wing, a server pinged as ADM filed another lease under Clause 7.6. RFK Jr. continued ranting about mRNA fish, while Trump leaned back, his ketchup-stained tie swaying like a banner of triumph.

JD couldn’t stop staring at the stain. It looked like the ADM logo.

Meanwhile, Trump turned to RFK Jr. and said with genuine concern:

“Bobby, who’s even running the faggot country right now? Biden? The corpse can barely finish a sentence. We’re out here eating the best corn-fed Filet-O-Fish, and they’re probably deciding foreign policy with a Magic 8-Ball.”

RFK threw up his hands.

“It’s not Biden, Donald! It’s the Mahchine™. The waffle grid already runs the show. Biden’s just a leased avatar for ADM!”

JD whispered to himself:

“Truman rebuilt Europe. LBJ passed the Civil Rights Act. And me? I’m the VP of Tilapia, riding a corn harvester down Pennsylvania Avenue. Yes, friend. This is fine.”

RFK slammed his fist on the table. “IT’S NOT FINE, JD!”

Trump grinned, oblivious.

“See, JD? This is what the proles want. Fries, tilapia, and tremendous leadership. You’re gonna be the best VP ever. Tremendous!”

JD’s Coke cup trembled in his hand. Somewhere deep inside, he could hear Evan39 whispering:

“Yes, friend. This is fine.”

The room, once sacred to Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Truman, now hummed with the faint drone of the Mahchine™, as JD imagined his swearing-in ceremony tomorrow — a corn harvester idling outside, Trump tweeting about his Weave™, and the waffle grid tightening around them all.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5638292&forum_id=2...id.#48367202)