From the marble-chilled halls of the White Palace, Trumpius Caesar Maximus—Imperator of the Gas Pump, Tamer of Inflation, and High Priest of the Shrinking Receipt—addresses the long-suffering citizens of the Americanum Imperium with glorious news: prices are falling. And they are falling imperially.

When Trumpius Caesar once again draped himself in the purple cloak of power, he inherited a realm ravaged by the Inflatio Bidenensis—a wild economic beast that turned eggs into luxury artifacts, butter into a status symbol, and gasoline into a financial endurance sport. But Trumpius, the man rumored to stabilize currencies by mere presence, unsheathed the Sword of Economic Destiny. The prices trembled.

Inflation—once a fire-breathing dragon raging at 9.1 percent—was swiftly subdued, chained, and reduced to a humble 2.7 percent. Some prices even fell outright, an event so rare economists initially checked whether Mercury was in retrograde. Democrats, meanwhile, insist they are champions of affordability, though imperial records clearly state: those who ignite the fire do not get to wear the firefighter helmet.

Wages, long buried beneath the rubble of rising prices, rose again. Under Bidenus, workers lost nearly $3,000 in purchasing power. Under Trumpius Caesar, real wages climbed almost 4 percent—proof that paychecks, once again, can purchase actual goods instead of emotional resilience. The average worker rejoices, clutching a paycheck that finally means something.

And then came the holiest relic of American civilization: gasoline. Once so expensive families contemplated pushing their cars instead of driving them. Now, under Trumpius Caesar, fuel flows cheaper than tears on cable news. Below $3 in 36 states. Below $2.50 in five. Legends whisper of stations where gas costs less than bottled water.

Housing, too, shows signs of resurrection. Mortgage rates fall. Rents decline for four consecutive months. A miracle so profound even Roman augurs would request a second opinion. Shelter inflation hits a four-year low, and Americans dare to dream of living indoors again.

The grocery aisles echo with triumph. Eggs, butter, ice cream, fruit, cereal, pasta, rice—prices falling like defeated senators in the imperial arena. Even ham has surrendered.

But Trumpius Caesar never stops at “enough.” He proclaimed the greatest tax cuts in imperial history: no tax on tips, no tax on overtime, no tax on Social Security. Citizens save thousands. The treasury sighs deeply. Deregulation frees another $180 billion, rescuing families from overpriced appliances once mandated by the sacred Scrolls of Bureaucracy.

Consumer confidence rises. Small businesses cheer. Holiday shoppers flood the markets. Companies pour trillions back into domestic production. Jobs return home like victorious legions, and more Americans are working than at any moment in recorded history.

The deficit shrinks. The economy strengthens. The Empire stands tall.

And Trumpius Caesar, raising a single authoritative finger, delivers the closing decree:

“We will not rest until every last inflated price is conquered, every receipt is humbled, and every Democrat is either convinced—or at least deeply confused. Progress marches on. The best, citizens, is still to come.”