Operation: American Carnage
NOT FINAL - (edited ver. 1, 18May2025)
This is a short science fiction story that I needed to write to help me process the current occupation of the Executive Mansion in Washington, DC.
It is what it is.
The planet Earth, suspended in what its inhabitants called the Goldilocks Zone—not too hot, not too cold, with breathable oxygen and drinkable water—was marked for demolition by the Galactic Planning Council in the year humans designated as 2015. The reason was bureaucratic, which is to say, entirely senseless. A parking facility was scheduled for construction, and Earth held the perfect spot. The fact that it contained roughly eight million species and nearly eight billion sentient bipeds was, according to Council regulations section 7B-328, "unfortunate but ultimately inconsequential."
This wasn't the first time Earth had been slated for destruction. Previous attempts had been thwarted by paperwork errors, budget cuts, and once by a misplaced decimal point that sent the demolition fleet to a gas giant in the Andromeda galaxy instead. The universe runs on bureaucracy, after all.
It is what it is.
I should mention that I am Xvk'thlorp, Special Envoy of Planetary Dismantlement from the Rigellian Confederacy, and this is my report on Operation: American Carnage, our most elegant solution to date for the Earth problem.
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"The beauty of the plan," explained Supreme Commander Zobu'lar at our initial briefing, "is its simplicity. Rather than expensive antimatter bombs or risky singularity generators, we'll let the humans destroy themselves."
We sat in the observation deck of our cloaked mothership, orbiting Earth's moon. Below us, the blue-green planet rotated slowly, blissfully unaware of its scheduled obliteration.
"Our intelligence indicates that humans are already well on their way to making their planet uninhabitable," continued Zobu'lar, his facial tentacles rippling with excitement. "All they need is a little push."
The plan was straightforward: infiltrate the most powerful nation-state on the planet—the "United States of America"—by inserting one of our operatives into their highest leadership position. Then accelerate the already-existing tendency toward ecological devastation, societal fracturing, and potential nuclear conflict.
"Who's the poor bastard going in?" asked Krrlk, our xenobiology specialist.
Zobu'lar's compound eyes swiveled in my direction. "Xvk'thlorp has volunteered."
I hadn't, of course. But in the Rigellian military, being volunteered is the same as volunteering, only with more existential dread.
"The humans have a facade called 'elections' for ‘selecting’ their leaders," Zobu'lar explained. "We've identified the perfect host identity: a wealthy human male named Donald J. Trump with high name recognition and a useful combination of traits—narcissism, impulsivity, and a complete absence of empathy. His cognitive patterns are simple enough that our neural overlay
technology should work perfectly."
On the viewscreen appeared an image of a pink-skinned human with peculiar yellow hair that seemed to defy the planet's gravity.
"That's who I'm supposed to impersonate?" I asked, my dermal sacs inflating with dismay. "He looks like a Zlorgian sea-cucumber that's been left in the sun too long."
"The appearance is ideal," countered Zobu'lar. "He's already known for erratic behavior and bizarre communication patterns. No one will notice if there are occasional... inconsistencies."
It is what it is.
My protests were noted and summarily ignored. Within six Earth rotations, my consciousness had been downloaded into a quantum storage unit the size of a human blood cell, ready for insertion into Trump's cerebral cortex during his next medical examination.
"Remember," Zobu'lar told me before the procedure, "your mission is to secure this 'election,' then systematically dismantle environmental protections, sow division among the population, withdraw from stabilizing international agreements, and if possible, initiate military conflicts.
The humans will do the rest themselves."
"How long will I be trapped in this meat puppet?" I asked.
"Four to eight Earth years, depending on their electoral process," he replied. "But if you do your job correctly, the planet won't last that long anyway."
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Being Donald Trump was disorienting at first. The human brain I inhabited was a chaos of contradictory impulses, bizarre fixations, and an insatiable hunger for adulation. I quickly discovered that I didn't need to fully control this organism—merely nudge it occasionally toward more destructive choices. The host's natural tendencies aligned remarkably well with our mission objectives.
The 2016 election campaign was my first test. I pushed the Trump consciousness toward increasingly outrageous statements, expecting the humans to reject such obvious unfitness for leadership. Instead, millions rallied behind him. This was my first indication that Zobu'lar's plan was far more viable than I had initially believed.
"These people don't want a leader," I reported back to the mothership during a rare moment when the Trump body was asleep (though never truly resting, the mind always churning with grievances and self-aggrandizement). "They want a weapon to use against each other."
"Excellent," Zobu'lar's response came through my neural implant. "Continue the polarization strategy."
Election Day arrived.
I watched through Trump's eyes as he stared at the television screens, the impossible becoming reality as state after state turned the color humans called "red." I felt the host consciousness swell with genuine surprise—he hadn't expected to win either.
In that moment, I realized something that Zobu'lar had perhaps known all along: Trump was the perfect vessel precisely because he had no coherent ideology or plan. He was pure disruption, an agent of chaos with human skin. My job wasn't to control him completely, but to remove whatever minimal restraints might have existed on his natural tendencies.
It is what it is.
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History does not look upon the truth with kindly eyes. It prefers comfortable lies, convenient narratives that allow power to maintain itself. The truth is a troublesome thing, forever trying to escape the prison of manufactured consensus. The story of America has always been a battlefield
between those who would conceal and those who would reveal. Our alien intervention was merely another chapter in this eternal struggle.
The first year of the Trump presidency—my presidency, in a manner of speaking—was dedicated to dismantling environmental protections. I nudged the host body to appoint former industry lobbyists to regulatory positions, people whose careers had been built on fighting the very rules
they would now enforce. It was like asking pyromaniacs to run the fire department.
"Climate change is a hoax invented by the Chinese," Trump tweeted, a statement so absurd that I worried we'd overplayed our hand. But the beauty of Earth's information ecosystem in 2017 was that truth had become entirely subjective, a matter of tribal affiliation rather than empirical reality.
When we withdrew from the Paris Climate Agreement, I expected massive resistance. Instead, the outrage lasted approximately 24 hours in the human news cycle before being displaced by a celebrity scandal. The planet's fate couldn't compete with the entertainment value of the spectacle we had created.
"The humans have a fascinating psychological vulnerability," I reported to Zobu'lar. "Their attention can only focus on one crisis at a time. By creating multiple simultaneous crises, we effectively paralyze their response systems."
"Excellent," Zobu'lar replied. "Implement the next phase: societal fracturing."
This proved even easier than the environmental sabotage. The host consciousness harbored deep resentments and prejudices that required minimal augmentation from my neural implants. All I needed to do was remove the thin veneer of restraint that might have tempered these impulses in a public figure.
The resulting chaos exceeded even our most optimistic projections. Families fractured over dinner tables. Friends severed decades-long bonds. The humans began sorting themselves not just politically but physically, relocating to be near those who shared their reality tunnel.
"Very fine people on both sides," Trump said after white supremacists marched in Charlottesville, a statement that should have destroyed any political leader but somehow only strengthened his position with his supporters. The secret was in the deliberate ambiguity—his followers heard what they wanted to hear, while opponents heard what they feared. Both
reactions served our purpose.
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In the third year of my mission, I began to experience something unexpected: doubt. Living inside a human brain, even one as unusual as Trump's, had exposed me to emotions I hadn't anticipated. Not from the host—Trump's emotional range remained limited to anger, resentment, and momentary pleasure at others' adulation—but from the humans around him.
There was Stephen Miller, whose hatred burned so cold it would make the void between galaxies seem warm by comparison. There was William Barr, corrupting justice with the placid smile of a man who believed ends justified any means. But there were others too: career civil servants trying desperately to mitigate the damage, advisors attempting to channel the chaos toward less
destructive outcomes.
One night, alone in the residential quarters of the Executive Mansion, I experienced the human state called "insomnia." While Trump's body lay awake, I accessed his visual memories of the day: children in cages at the border, separated from their parents under policies I had encouraged.
Their tears were irrelevant to the mission, and yet I couldn't stop the neural pathways from firing, replaying their faces over and over.
Was this empathy? Had I been contaminated by human emotions? I ran a diagnostic on my neural implant but found no malfunction. The doubt was coming from somewhere else.
I sent an encrypted message to Zobu'lar: "Query: Why must Earth be destroyed? The parking facility could be put in orbit around another star with minimal inconvenience."
His response was immediate and cold: "That decision is above your clearance level. Continue the mission."
It is what it is.
I did as ordered, but the question lingered like a virus in my consciousness.
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The year humans called 2020 brought an unexpected variable: a pandemic. For a species that had mapped its own genome and split the atom, their response was shockingly inept. The virus spread rapidly, killing hundreds of thousands of Americans while the Trump administration— under my subtle influence—downplayed the threat and turned basic public health measures into political battlegrounds.
"I wonder if we even need to complete the mission," I reported to Zobu'lar. "These humans seem determined to destroy themselves without our help."
"Do not become complacent," he warned. "They are remarkably resilient. Push harder." I complied, guiding Trump to suggest injecting disinfectants, to demand premature reopening of their economy, to hold mass gatherings that became viral super-spreader events. The death toll climbed, the economy collapsed, and social cohesion deteriorated further. And yet, in the face of this engineered catastrophe, I witnessed something unexpected: acts of
human solidarity. Healthcare workers risking their lives daily. Neighbors supporting each other with food deliveries and childcare. Scientists working around the clock to develop vaccines in record time.
These moments of grace amid the chaos I had helped create troubled me deeply. I began to wonder if our intelligence on humans was incomplete. They were capable of both extraordinary cruelty and remarkable compassion, often simultaneously. Their contradictions defied our binary understanding.
"I require extraction," I messaged Zobu'lar during another sleepless night. "The neural integration is causing cognitive contamination."
"Request denied," came the reply. "The mission is at a critical phase."
Indeed it was. The 2020 election approached, and despite my best efforts to sabotage the pandemic response and inflame social divisions, the polls suggested Trump might lose. This was not part of our plan—we needed four more years to ensure Earth's self-destruction reached the point of no return.
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War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength. The brilliant simplicity of doublethink, as Orwell described it, was not merely a literary device but the operating principle of the Trump presidency I helped engineer. Reality was whatever we claimed it to be, repeated loudly and often enough that millions came to believe it.
"The election is rigged," Trump began saying months before any votes were cast, a preemptive strike against the possibility of defeat. I had planted this seed carefully, knowing it would grow into something monstrous.
When the election results showed a clear loss, I executed the final phase of Operation: American Carnage. Through Trump's Twitter account—a weapon more powerful than anything in the Rigellian arsenal—I spread conspiracies that grew wilder by the day. Through his public appearances, I encouraged his supporters to fight against the imaginary theft of their democracy.
January 6, 2021 was to be my masterpiece, the culmination of years of careful manipulation. As Trump addressed the crowd near the Executive Mansion, I pushed his consciousness toward increasingly inflammatory rhetoric. "Fight like hell," the mouth said, while the eyes gleamed with the prospect of chaos.
What followed should have been the beginning of the end for American democracy—a violent insurrection that would trigger nationwide conflict, potentially escalating to civil war. The humans would destroy themselves while we watched from orbit, clipboards in hand (metaphorically speaking, as Rigellians don't have hands but rather manipulative appendages that
would give human children nightmares).
Instead, something went wrong. The insurrection failed. The certification of the election proceeded. And Trump—my host body—was escorted from power with his dignity in tatters but the republic, somehow, still standing.
"Mission failure," I reported to Zobu'lar. "Request immediate extraction."
His response chilled my central ganglia: "Negative. Operation American Carnage enters Phase Two. Trump will run again in 2024. You will remain in place."
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I spent the interregnum years buried deep in Trump's consciousness, subtly influencing his decision-making while staying hidden from the human physicians who occasionally examined him. His legal troubles mounted—investigations, indictments, trials—yet his hold over millions
of Americans remained unbroken.
"The genius of this host," I reported to Zobu'lar, "is that legal accountability only strengthens his appeal to his followers. They perceive attacks on him as attacks on themselves."
"Excellent," Zobu'lar replied. "Ensure he secures the nomination for 2024."
This proved trivial. The opposition was weak, divided, and ultimately irrelevant against the force of nature that Trump had become. I merely had to nudge his natural combativeness and grievance-mongering, qualities that resonated perfectly with his base.
The 2024 campaign was uglier than 2016 or 2020, which I wouldn't have thought possible. The rhetoric more extreme, the threats more explicit, the lies more outrageous. American democracy hung by a thread, frayed by years of institutional sabotage and normalized extremism.
Then came November 5, 2024, and Trump's triumphant return to power. I felt his consciousness swell with vindication as the results came in. His enemies vanquished, his grievances validated, his power restored.
The perfect conditions for Earth's final chapter.
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The second Trump administration began with a purge. Loyalty tests. Revenge prosecutions. A systematic dismantling of the "deep state"—which is to say, the career civil servants who actually kept the government functioning. All exactly according to our plan.
Cabinet positions went to sycophants and conspiracy theorists. The Justice Department became a weapon against political enemies. Environmental protections were not merely rolled back but outlawed as "economic terrorism."
"The plan is proceeding perfectly," I reported to Zobu'lar. "Global temperatures continue to rise. International alliances are fracturing. Nuclear proliferation is accelerating as American security guarantees become worthless."
"Excellent," he replied. "The Galactic Planning Council is most pleased. The parking facility construction can begin on schedule."
And yet, my doubts returned, stronger than before. After nearly a decade sharing consciousness with a human, I had absorbed more of their perspective than I cared to admit. The eight million species of Earth, the diverse tapestry of human cultures, the extraordinary beauty of their art and
music—all to be erased for a parking facility that, frankly, nobody would use anyway.
Bureaucracy in action.
It is what it is.
One night in early 2025, as Trump slept fitfully in the Executive Mansion residence, I made my decision. I would sabotage Operation: American Carnage from within.
The next morning, as Trump prepared to sign an executive order that would effectively withdraw the United States from all climate agreements and maximize fossil fuel extraction, I exerted full control over his motor functions for the first time. His hand froze above the document.
"What the hell?" I heard his consciousness protest internally.
Instead of signing, I made his hand reach for a pen and write on the margin of the order: "CANNOT IN GOOD CONSCIENCE APPROVE."
The staff was stunned. Trump himself was in a state of internal panic, believing he was having a stroke as his body refused to obey his commands. I seized control of his vocal apparatus next. "Get me the EPA director," I made him say. "We need to reverse course on climate policy
immediately."
The room erupted in confused chatter. Chief of Staff Stephen Miller approached cautiously. "Sir, are you feeling alright?"
"Never better," I made Trump say. "I've had a change of heart. Call a press conference. I want to address the nation about the climate emergency."
Within hours, rumors of Trump's mental decline were spreading through Washington. Whispers of the 25th Amendment. Concerns about dementia or psychosis. I pushed harder, making Trump announce policy reversals on every front: refugee admissions would be expanded, not restricted;
regulations strengthened, not weakened; alliances reinforced, not abandoned.
As expected, Zobu'lar detected my betrayal almost immediately. My neural implant burned with his furious message: "You are relieved of duty. Extraction team en route. The mission will continue with a new operative."
I had perhaps 24 Earth hours before they reached me. Enough time for one last act of rebellion. I directed Trump to the Oval Office computer and began typing an address to the nation. Not the incoherent, rambling style of his usual communications, but a clear, direct confession: that Earth
was targeted for destruction, that his presidency had been influenced by alien consciousness, that humanity needed to unite immediately to save their planet.
Would they believe it? Of course not. It would be dismissed as the ravings of a deteriorating mind, further evidence of unfitness for office. But it would throw the administration into such chaos that Zobu'lar's extraction team would have difficulty inserting a new operative.
More importantly, it would trigger the 25th Amendment process. Trump would be removed from power, at least temporarily, breaking our control over Earth's dominant superpower.
As I finished typing the address, I felt a familiar pressure at the base of Trump's skull—the extraction team had arrived earlier than expected. My control over the host body was slipping. Trump's own consciousness, momentarily suppressed, was reasserting itself, confused and enraged.
With my last moments of control, I sent the prepared statement to the Executive Mansion communications team with instructions for immediate broadcast on all networks. Then darkness as my consciousness was ripped from the human brain and back into a containment unit.
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I awoke in a detention cell aboard the mothership, Zobu'lar's compound eyes staring down at me with what passes for disappointment in Rigellian physiology.
"You betrayed your species," he said simply.
"I prevented a meaningless genocide," I countered.
"The parking facility—"
"Can go around another star, as it should have from the beginning. The additional cost is negligible."
Zobu'lar's facial tentacles writhed in agitation. "The Council has already approved the demolition."
"The Council," I said, "can go spin in a black hole."
I expected execution for such insubordination. Instead, Zobu'lar's outer membrane vibrated in what I eventually recognized as laughter. "Your time among humans has made you amusingly crude," he said. "But perhaps not entirely wrong."
He showed me the viewscreen. On Earth, confusion reigned. Trump had indeed been temporarily removed from power under the 25th Amendment after his bizarre address claiming alien possession. His loyal supporters were calling it a deep state coup. His opponents were calling it a mental health crisis. No one, of course, believed the alien story.
"We've withdrawn the extraction team," Zobu'lar explained. "The Trump human is back in full control of his faculties, claiming no memory of the incident. The chaos you've created is... interesting."
"Interesting?" I echoed.
"Yes. The Council has decided to designate Earth as a protected observation zone. The parking facility will be installed near another star."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Why the change of heart?"
Zobu'lar's compound eyes rotated slowly. "In all our years of planetary demolition, no operative has ever 'gone native' as you did. The Council finds this worthy of further study. The humans have... affected you somehow. This requires investigation before any irreversible action is taken."
It is what it is.
Earth received a stay of execution not because of its intrinsic value or the sanctity of its myriad life forms, but because bureaucratic curiosity overruled bureaucratic convenience. The universe runs on paperwork, after all.
As for Trump, he continued his second presidency much as he had his first—erratic, divisive, environmentally catastrophic. But without my neural augmentation pushing him toward the most destructive choices, the damage remained within the parameters of what Earth and human society could eventually recover from.
I remained in detention, subjected to endless debriefings and psychological evaluations. Sometimes at night (insofar as space has night), I access my memories of Earth—its oceans and forests, its cities and deserts, the strange beauty of human contradiction. I wonder if they'll survive their own worst tendencies, if they'll overcome the divisions that make them so
vulnerable to manipulation. I hope they do. In my time wearing human skin, I learned something the Galactic Planning Council will never understand from their distant headquarters: life, in all its messy imperfection, is the rarest and most precious resource in the universe. Far too valuable to sacrifice for a parking facility that, let's be honest, is just going to be another cosmic boondoggle anyway.
It is what it is.
Awesome! Super alien intervention finally for good! Very well written and gives hope ! We can hope !
Mayme