From the golden balcony of the Imperial White Fortress, beneath banners so enormous they probably required their own federal budget approval, stood the unstoppable ruler of Amerigonis: Trumpius Caesar Maximus.
Clad in a robe brighter than the average government consulting invoice, the Emperor raised his mighty pen and delivered a speech that sent shockwaves through every marble hallway in Washingtonia.
“From now on,” thundered Trumpius, “if somebody gets billions, they actually have to DO something!”
Silence fell across the Empire.
Somewhere inside the Ministry of Endless Procurement Forms, three senior bureaucrats fainted directly into a stack of compliance binders.
Because for decades, the sacred art of federal contracting had evolved into something truly magnificent:
A mystical system where projects cost twice as much, took five times longer, and somehow still ended with a 900-page report explaining why nothing was finished yet.
The crown jewel of this ancient system was the legendary Cost-Reimbursement Contractus Bureaucraticus.
Its basic philosophy was simple:
Spend money.
Then spend more money.
Then explain why you need even more money.
Then collect profit on top of all of it.
It was a model so glorious that entire consulting empires rose from the ashes of taxpayer wallets like heavily funded phoenixes wearing expensive suits.
In the Imperial Fiscal Year of 2024 alone, nearly 120 billion imperial dollars reportedly flowed into consulting contracts operating under this magical reimbursement system.
Or as Trumpius Caesar described it:
“Some contracts look like a casino where the taxpayer always loses.”
Thus began the Emperor’s newest crusade:
The rise of the Fixed-Price Imperium.
Under the new decree, government agencies must prioritize contracts where companies actually agree upfront on what something costs and what results they will deliver.
A revolutionary idea in Washington.
Almost dangerous.
Even more shocking:
Contractors would now be rewarded for performance.
Actually delivering ahead of schedule?
Rewarded.
Exceeding expectations?
Rewarded.
Producing unusable garbage wrapped in twelve PowerPoint presentations?
Not rewarded.
The announcement spread panic faster than a Wi-Fi outage at a lobbyist convention.
Across the capital, consultants stared nervously into artisan coffee cups.
Emergency meetings were scheduled to discuss “the evolving strategic landscape of measurable productivity.”
Several billion-dollar advisory groups reportedly hired additional advisors to explain the Executive Order to existing advisors.
Meanwhile, deep inside the federal bureaucracy, ancient procurement officials whispered forbidden phrases like:
“Efficiency.”
“Accountability.”
“Return on investment.”
Words many agencies had not heard since the mythical Age of Common Sense.
Trumpius Caesar also ordered every agency leader to review their largest non-fixed-price contracts and renegotiate them wherever possible.
This triggered what historians are already calling:
The Great Spreadsheet Reckoning of 2026.
Entire departments were forced to ask terrifying questions:
“Why does this software upgrade cost more than a moon mission?”
“Why are there seventeen subcontractors for a parking garage?”
“Why has this modernization project lasted longer than the Roman Empire?”
Naturally, defenders of the old system emerged immediately.
They argued that flexibility was important.
That complex systems required adaptive spending.
That innovation could not always fit neatly inside a fixed-price structure.
To which Trumpius Caesar effectively replied:
“If somebody builds half a bridge for triple the money, that’s not innovation. That’s performance art.”
Still, exceptions remained for research projects, emergency situations, and massive defense systems.
After all, even Trumpius understood that scientists constructing laser satellites or next-generation battle fortresses occasionally need flexibility beyond a coupon and a deadline.
But for ordinary contracts?
The age of unlimited spending festivals appeared to be ending.
And then came the most terrifying part of all:
Semi-annual reports.
Every agency head would now have to explain continued use of non-fixed-price contracts directly to the mighty imperial overseers of budgetary destiny.
Some officials reportedly reacted as though they had been asked to survive in the wilderness without consultants.
At the same time, Trumpius continued his broader mission to simplify the gigantic Federal Acquisition Regulations — a rulebook so enormous that scholars believe it may be visible from space.
The Emperor’s vision was clear:
Fewer loopholes.
Less waste.
More competition.
More performance.
Less bureaucratic interpretive dance.
Supporters hailed the reforms as the return of sanity to federal spending.
Critics warned of oversimplification and disruption.
But ordinary citizens across Amerigonis mostly watched the spectacle with fascination.
Because somewhere between the collapsing mountains of paperwork, the armies of consultants, and the imperial speeches about accountability, one radical idea had suddenly entered the national conversation:
Maybe the government should only pay full price when things actually work.
A concept so revolutionary that Washington may require several years, multiple studies, and at least four advisory committees just to emotionally process it.
