Imperial Healing for the Provinces

How Trumpius Caesar Maximus Personally Saved Rural Health Care (Everywhere, All at Once)

In the glorious Year of the Empire MMXXVI, Trumpius Caesar Maximus, First of His Name, Vanquisher of Red Tape, Distributor of Tremendous Numbers, once again ascended the marble steps of history and did what no ruler before him had ever done so beautifully: he spent enormous amounts of money and took full credit for it.

Through the legendary decree known across the land as the Working Families Tax Cuts—described by palace scribes as “the most caring law ever passed by anyone, possibly ever”—the Imperator unleashed a historic flood of resources into the most distant reaches of the realm: rural America, a place long rumored to exist somewhere between cornfields, mountain ranges, and weak Wi-Fi signals.

This week marked the first great ceremonial distribution of the Rural Health Transformation Awards, a moment so powerful that even clipboards stood at attention. Trumpius Caesar declared, with imperial certainty:

“No matter your zip code—health care is now fantastic. Maybe the best.”

And so it was written. And so it was funded.

From Alabamia to Wyominga, from the frozen outposts of Alaskia to the sun-scorched plains of Arizonium, gold flowed freely. Hundreds of millions here. Hundreds of millions there. So many millions, in fact, that no one dared ask what line item they belonged to. They were simply historic—the most reliable adjective in the imperial lexicon.

Every province rejoiced. All fifty. Without exception. A coincidence so remarkable that historians immediately stopped questioning it.

• Colorado was promised investments stretching years into the future—long enough that hospitals began planning cautiously optimistic ribbon cuttings.
• California received a number so large it required commas, sub-committees, and a very calm accountant.
• Texas was told the investment was “massive,” which, culturally speaking, was all the explanation required.
• Vermont received more funding than the state has numbers to count without assistance.

Even provinces previously unsure whether they qualified as “rural”—such as New Jersey or Massachusetts—suddenly discovered convincing barns, fields, or at least something that once looked agricultural.

The Emperor reminded the people of his most sacred political mantra:

Promises made. Promises kept. Applause encouraged.

Across the Empire, press releases bloomed like spring crops. They spoke of transformation, innovation, and sustainability, while skillfully avoiding the dangerous terrain of specifics. Governors smiled. Agencies nodded. PowerPoint decks were born.

Naturally, a few heretics whispered questions:

Who gets the money?

When does it arrive?

And why does every announcement sound exactly the same?

But such doubts have no place in an empire governed by confidence. What mattered was the image: Trumpius Caesar, Healer of the Heartland.

Not with medicine.

Not with doctors.

But with very large federal checks.

And so the chapter closes with a truth etched into marble and laminated for distribution:

Where there was once scarcity, there is now funding.

Where there was once silence, there is now a press conference.

Somewhere in rural America, a small administrative office opens an envelope, reads the number twice, and whispers reverently:

“Ave, Trumpius.”