dkrc Chapter 62 No one understands America better than me!
Chapter 62 No one understands America better than me!
In the private lounge of the West Wing of the Black Palace, the screen went dark.
Lucien Alden stuffed the last bite of his burger into his mouth.
I ate the Presidential Meal. Well, who knows why the Presidential Meal is this thing.
The screen was black, but the scene from just now was still replaying in his mind.
Carl Jensen stormed into the National Guard camp.
The movements were clean and without any unnecessary steps: fire, move, fire again.
The soldiers in combat uniforms fell in an order that resembled a choreographed dance.
Then he gave a speech in the square.
flame.
bow down.
A scar that glows on the palm.
Finally, that last sentence:
"I will obey the Lord's will, sit on the white jade throne, and walk the path of atonement."
Lucien put down the Coke can.
"Is this because the Lord has taken notice?"
He said softly,
"So much fighting power?"
Although he was not a soldier, he was not a complete idiot.
Two thousand against ten thousand, and they still won despite being out-equipped.
Even without that subsequent part, it would still be a miracle.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the armrest.
He didn't think he could outmaneuver the rednecks.
Ultimately, no matter how strong the opponent is, they are still just an individual.
Individuals have limits; they will get hungry, tired, and die.
He had the resources accumulated by four generations of the Alden family, the old money network connected through the White Sands Bay Club, and the private armed forces maintained by old money in various states.
More importantly, he has access to the pleasures of art, and the power to break through barriers and create extreme waves.
If you really want to take action, there are many methods.
Missile bombardment is the most direct method.
No ground troops are needed, no tanks are needed for urban warfare, just a few coordinates and a saturation attack.
But that's pointless.
and……
"The Jade Throne?"
Lucien stood up and walked to the window.
Outside the window is the South Lawn of the Black House, further away is the spire of the Washington Monument, and even further, across the Potomac River, the white colonnade of the Lincoln Memorial gleams matte in the afternoon sun.
Lincoln looks like he's sitting there.
I sat in a huge white marble chair.
Lucien had seen the design drawings for that chair.
Carved from a single block of stone, the chair weighs 53 tons, with a backrest 4.3 meters high and armrests 0.9 meters wide.
Its official name is "Lincoln Memorial Main Seat".
Only there can truly be called the Jade Throne.
Because of the color of the stone, and also because of its symbolic meaning.
"The Lord wants..."
Lucien paused.
"Hiss—I get it."
It's not about actually sitting in that chair; it's symbolic.
What does Lincoln symbolize?
He was a president who liberated slaves and upheld unity, but fell before achieving great unification.
The person sitting in that position will automatically be endowed with a sacred aura of succession.
Carl Jensen wanted that halo.
Or rather, God was guiding him to wear that halo.
Lucien turned around and leaned against the window frame.
He didn't care whether the Lincoln statue would be destroyed.
It's just a stone; if it's destroyed, it can be carved again.
He cares about the performance itself.
Public speeches in public squares are performances, burning piles of corpses is a performance, and kneeling to listen to sacred words is also a performance.
Carl Jensen is putting on a show for everyone, and the audience’s reactions—fear, fervor, and following—will fuel his power.
"However, Lord,"
Lucien said in a low voice, his right hand pressed against his lower abdomen, feeling the slightly raised outline of the cross-shaped scar through the fabric of his shirt.
"His performance was terrible."
He smiled.
"I will present you with an even more magnificent performance."
Lake and Sea Manor, the master bedroom has an attached bathroom.
The gold toilet seat is ice-cold.
Nailong Tekapo sat on it without taking off his pants.
The screen of my phone was lit up, stuck on the replay page of that live stream.
The sound was amplified, and Carl Jensen's roar burst from the speakers, echoing faintly between the gold-leaf-covered walls.
"I obey the Lord's will and sit on the jade throne..."
Milk Dragon pressed pause.
He stared at the screen, his eyes unblinking for a long time.
My eye sockets are dry, and there are bloodshot streaks on the surface of my eyeballs.
Some images are flashing through my mind.
At a campaign rally a year ago, the crowd stretched as far as the eye could see, a sea of red hats.
He stood on the stage, pointed to the sky, and his voice boomed through the speakers: "I will fight for you!"
That bullet.
The bullet that he dodged as he swayed.
The bullets didn't hit him because a greater force was protecting him.
He was chosen, destined to save the country and make America great again.
And then he won, but now he's won again.
He moved into the Black House, sat behind that 230-year-old desk, signed documents, tweeted, and spoke with world leaders.
Everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction until he felt himself becoming somewhat drowsy.
It's the feeling of aging.
It's not about aging suddenly, but a slow, irreversible erosion.
My eye bags look even deeper when I look in the mirror, I need to catch my breath more when climbing stairs, and I get a headache after looking at documents for more than 20 minutes.
Death has transformed from an abstract concept into a concrete threat.
He began to understand those rednecks.
He used to look down on them.
Shortsighted, stubborn, full of talk about God and guns, yet can't even figure out a health insurance bill.
But now he understands that when you might not even be able to pay your mortgage next week, you won't be thinking about retirement plans ten years from now.
When you're not even sure if you'll live to see next year, you won't care about global warming.
Milk Dragon simply lowered his head and looked at his outstretched left hand.
The back of my hands used to be covered with age spots, but now they have become increasingly smooth.
It wasn't because of any cosmetic procedures, it was simply because...
"Does God truly exist?"
He murmured,
"So that's how it is? As expected, I am still the one chosen by God."
Feeling his body becoming somewhat younger, and the miracle of the "Threshold-Breaking Demon" that touched the threshold.
Milk Dragon couldn't help but marvel at himself, truly deserving of being the chosen one.
Otherwise, how could her youngest son have just entered that circle for the first time and happened to run into the saint?
And coincidentally, the saint was interested in him and granted him the ability to travel the route.
"Since the Lord approves of this influence and change,"
He said to himself in the mirror,
"So..."
He paused, then clenched his right fist and raised it above his head.
Just like a year ago, like that bullet that grazed my ear, even though it was incredibly dangerous and incredibly painful.
He stood up again, raised his right hand to the sky, and shouted, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
And now, he opened his mouth and shouted,
"No one understands America better than me!"
The sound echoed in the bathroom.
Then, he didn't stand up.
He braced himself against the edge of the toilet and tried to stand up.
My legs felt numb, like two pieces of wood, and I tried twice without success.
"Charles!"
He called out towards the door.
"Come in and help me up!"
Footsteps.
The butler pushed open the door and entered, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He walked to the toilet and reached out to take Nailong's arm.
"Sir, should we call a doctor?" the butler asked.
"Need not."