Cybersecurity Awareness Month began at the White Palatium with a historic discovery: The internet already belonged to Trumpius Caesar. It had simply neglected to pay the appropriate licensing fee.
Standing before his assembled data legions, the emperor proclaimed the Golden Age of Cyberspace. According to palace officials, the name was essential. A reasonably secure internet might help ordinary citizens, but it would look terrible engraved beneath a twenty-foot statue of the man taking credit for it.
“We’re building the most beautiful firewalls,” Trumpius announced. “Incredible firewalls. Hackers will walk up to them and cry. Big hackers. Tough hackers. Tears streaming down their encrypted faces.”
A systems administrator cautiously explained that firewalls were not physical walls.
He was immediately appointed imperial ambassador to a basement printer that had been displaying “Paper Jam” since the previous dynasty.
For too long, declared Caesar, foreign cyberbarbarians had terrorized the empire with stolen passwords, fraudulent messages, and suspicious offers from alleged princes.
The princes particularly offended him. Anyone claiming royal status without owning a gold elevator was undermining the entire imperial business model.
That era of weakness was now over.
The proclamation said so, and the proclamation had been printed on extremely expensive paper. Evidence rarely came more conclusive than that.
Trumpius had already signed an executive decree against cybercrime, using a signature resembling a polygraph experiencing an earthquake. Criminals were therefore on notice: Their activities were now both illegal and personally disrespectful to Caesar.
The crown jewel of his strategy was AQUILA AUREA—the Golden Eagle, an alliance between the imperial government and America’s mightiest technology patricians.
Together, they would unleash American Super Intelligence to locate vulnerabilities before enemy hackers could exploit them.
The first scan produced an awkward result.
Inside the palace, the Eagle discovered a single account with unlimited privileges, no tolerance for contradictory information, and a tendency to classify every security warning as a hostile political operation.
The report was immediately deleted for bias.
“Clearly, this intelligence isn’t super enough,” Trumpius declared.
Engineers promptly adjusted the system. From that moment forward, it could identify vulnerabilities only outside the emperor’s chain of command.
Industry observers praised the breakthrough: artificial intelligence had finally achieved natural obedience.
Meanwhile, Melania Augusta, First Lady of the digital empire, encouraged young citizens to embrace emerging technology through the Presidential Super Intelligence Challenge.
One student built an application comparing political promises with measurable results. The project was discontinued after palace officials warned it could overwhelm the national power grid.
Another created an assistant that answered every question with, “The emperor has already solved that beautifully.”
It received an honorary laurel wreath and administrator privileges.
Finally, Trumpius offered practical advice to his subjects.
Use strong passwords. Install updates. Watch out for scams.
For password security, he recommended something long, memorable, and impossible for hostile intelligence agencies to guess.
His personal suggestion was “TrumpiusIsTheGreatest!”
The imperial cybersecurity team quietly begged everyone to choose something else.
Software updates were equally important. The emperor himself, however, would remain on his original release. His operating system was already perfect and had been running the same claims for decades without accepting a single patch.
Then came his sternest warning: Beware of anyone promising extraordinary results, demanding immediate action, and insisting that only he could save you.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the throne room.
The courtiers began applauding.
At last, the empire had eliminated its final cybersecurity problem.
Nobody dared report it.
