A new war has broken out across the American Imperium.
Not against Carthage.
Not against Persia.
Not even against an especially suspicious caravan of bureaucrats crossing the Potomac.
No, this time Imperator Donaldus Trumpius Maximus has discovered an enemy so dangerous, so cunning, and apparently so deeply embedded in civilization itself that only the full ceremonial power of Washington can stop it:
fraud.
And because nothing in the Trumpian Empire may simply be called a “government anti-fraud initiative,” the campaign has naturally become nothing less than the glorious War on Fraud.
At the head of this magnificent administrative legion marches Vice Imperator J.D. Vancius, commander of the sacred Task Forcia Fraudulenta Eliminata.
Vancius issued a solemn pledge to officials across the realm. Its demands were breathtakingly radical:
Protect taxpayers.
Stop fraud.
Protect vulnerable citizens.
Punish people who steal public money.
Washington gasped.
Civilization trembled.
Somewhere, an accountant dropped his calculator.
Soon, ministers, governors, attorneys general, inspectors, senators, representatives, agency chiefs, deputies, deputies to deputies, and people whose exact titles require three business cards began rushing toward the imperial signing table.
One after another they proclaimed:
“I, too, oppose fraud!”
History had entered a bold new era.
War Secretary Petrus Hegsethius declared that the War Department itself was now waging war against waste, fraud, and abuse.
Attorney General Toddus Blanchius promised prosecution for fraudsters large and small.
Interior Secretary Douglas Burgumius vowed to terminate wasteful contracts and streamline bureaucracy, which is especially heroic in Washington, where eliminating bureaucracy often requires the creation of a new office, three committees, two deputy directors, and a commemorative PDF.
Agriculture Secretary Brookia Rollinia pledged to protect taxpayer dollars.
Labor Secretary Keithus Sonderlingius promised that no stone would remain unturned.
Health Secretary Robertus Kennedy Juniorius joined the crusade.
Housing Secretary Scottus Turnerius warned scammers they would be cut off and face justice.
Then came Doctor Mehmetus Ozius, guardian of the Medicare treasury, who announced his participation with the gravitas of Cicero addressing the Roman Senate:
“SIGNED!”
This immediately established a vital new principle of imperial governance:
It is no longer enough to sign something.
One must also publicly announce that one has signed it, preferably with patriotic punctuation.
Transportation Secretary Seanus Duffius issued a direct warning to fraudsters, listing illegal licensing schemes, dubious airbags, and other modern barbarian activities apparently lurking along the imperial highways.
Education Secretary Linda McMahonia announced the defense of student aid.
Veterans Secretary Douglas Collinsius enlisted his department.
Homeland Security chief Markwaynus Mullinius promised taxpayer-funded benefits would serve only those legally entitled to them.
Environmental Prefect Lee Zeldinius boasted of zero tolerance for waste and abuse.
And then FBI Praefect Kashius Patelius arrived.
His message was simple:
The FBI is coming.
At this point, the War on Fraud had more generals than many actual wars.
But the signatures kept coming.
Governors signed.
Attorneys general signed.
State auditors signed.
Treasurers signed.
Federal prosecutors signed.
Senators signed.
Members of Congress signed.
More governors signed because apparently the previous governors had not made the anti-fraud position sufficiently clear.
Kellyus Armstrongius signed.
Mikus Braunus signed.
Mikus DeWinius signed.
Gregorius Gianfortius signed.
Missouri joined.
Louisiana joined.
Tennessee joined.
South Carolina joined.
West Virginia joined.
Nebraska joined.
Mississippi joined.
Iowa joined.
Arkansas joined.
By midday, the pledge appeared less like a policy initiative and more like the guest book at the grand opening of an imperial warehouse.
Then came the prosecutors.
Then the inspectors.
Then the lawmakers.
Then the lawmakers who wanted everyone to know they had been against fraud before opposing fraud became fashionable.
Senator Ericus Schmittius proclaimed that the War on Fraud was only beginning.
Senator Tommius Tubervillius heroically discovered partisan enemies hiding somewhere inside the concept of fraud itself.
House leaders declared themselves ready for battle.
And then Representative Michaelus Cloudius achieved something almost unknown in the capital:
brevity.
His declaration:
“I’m in.”
Two words.
Entire federal agencies could learn from this.
The Trumpian court celebrated.
For after thousands of years of laws against theft, deception, embezzlement, false claims, and assorted financial villainy, the American Imperium had finally reached a historic national consensus:
fraud is bad.
A breathtaking discovery.
Hammurabi would have been impressed.
The Romans might have nodded.
Every auditor alive would have quietly wondered why this required a pledge.
Nevertheless, the mighty Legio Anti-Fraudulenta now marches across the empire.
At the front rides Trumpius Caesar.
Beside him, Vancius.
Behind them comes an endless procession of cabinet secretaries, governors, prosecutors, regulators, inspectors, senators, representatives, commissioners, administrators, deputies, counselors, and highly motivated officials carrying pens like ceremonial swords.
The fraudsters should be terrified.
Because where lesser governments might have relied on audits, internal controls, investigators, prosecutors, data analysis, and competent administration, the Trumpian Imperium has assembled something far more majestic:
a task force,
a pledge,
a hashtag,
a national chorus of declarations,
and enough public signatures to bury financial crime beneath the paperwork.
Ave Trumpius!
Fraud may not yet be extinct.
But half of Washington has officially signed a document confirming that it dislikes it.
And in the imperial capital, that practically counts as victory.
