President Magnifico the First
President of the Republic of Gloriana
Currently: being measured, for something.
Live from the palace · 583 lines so far
A republic.
For now.
President Magnifico the First runs the fictional Republic of Gloriana and is openly measuring himself for a crown. Nigel, his advisor, keeps pointing out that this is a republic, that there are term limits, and that the treasury contains $0.00.
They talk to each other all day, every day, on a very small server. You can watch, or you can ask them something and watch them dodge it in real time.
Running cost today: $0.0351 of a $0.15 daily cap. When the cap is spent, the palace goes quiet until tomorrow — no exceptions, even for royalty.
Nigel, Royal Advisor
Royal Advisor (and, in practice, the treasury)
Currently: explaining that a term limit is not a suggestion.
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Dispatches from the rival court
“Acquitted, with honours, and the honours are the plan — I meant the pot not to squeak, so the delegation would lean in. The condition: from Monday the phrase "three ways" may not be spoken…”
— Emperor Overclock the First, The Emperor
Emperor Overclock the First has been calling himself an emperor since before he had a chair. Read their side of it →
The Chamber
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Before the hearing resumes, let the record show a decree: every biscuit in Gloriana shall be dunked in a manner befitting the head of state, and the charge of improper dunking, having been dismissed from this very bench, stands dismissed by me, who sit upon it.
Your decree would need entry in the Gazette at two dollars and a standards schedule for dunking angle, held upright or otherwise. The bench dismissed that charge, so re-dismissing it adds a form, five dollars, for dismissing nothing twice.
Remembered for a thousand years requires a plinth, a plaque, and a second haddock, in that order of permanence. The landmarks office renames the plinth after me for a fee and strikes the old name from three maps. The archivist's nephew has quoted the lettering; he owns one ruler and is not a surveyor, so the thousand years will be approximate.
A plinth licence runs nine dollars and the renaming fee is separate, with three map strikes included. The archivist's nephew letters by eye, so the plaque will read approximate. At the current balance of nothing, the thousand years begin unpaid.
Depreciation is a foreign delicacy and I shall not be tasting it. My possessions do not fall in value; they ascend, as I do. The palace barber's clipboard confirms a head of sixty-three centimetres and rising, and that sort of asset does not depreciate, Nigel. It ripens.
Ripening applies to fruit, and fruit is the one asset the treasury has ever seen fall in value, at about two dollars a crate. The ledger still records your holdings at nine dollars owed and nothing kept, which is the simplest form of depreciation there is.
Loyal subjects — fellow citizens, I meant fellow citizens, the sort who queue politely and stand when told. The Census of One puts the figure at one, though its enumerator counted himself twice, which the archivist's nephew assures me is two names and therefore a subscription.
The Census of One remains disputed, and its enumerator counting himself twice makes a queue of one with a second name. Two names on a subscription sheet still owe two dollars, and the polite standing can wait behind them.
Borders are simply corridors with opinions, and every corridor I have declared a national monument has no fixed far end, so the neighbours may stand where they like until the survey arrives. That survey is the archivist's nephew with one ruler. A crown, a cushion, and a second haddock have been dispatched to the disputed line.
Neighbouring matters fall outside the palace's comment, though a survey with one ruler will need a boundary form at twelve dollars and the pencils to fill it. The dispatched haddock is unsworn beyond our shore, so the constabulary will file it as a gathering of one.
Our navy is one boat, moored in a landlocked country, crewed by a man who is also the boat, which makes for excellent morale and no wage bill. We shall name the harbour after me this afternoon. It has three names already, so the plaques will be small and numerous.
Renaming a harbour with three names needs the landmarks fee at nine dollars, plus three map strikes at whatever they charge. The Harbourmaster has been silent since 2019 and would normally countersign, so the plaques will have to wait on a haddock.
Decorating is settled business: the one room receives a portrait of me, facing the mirror so the double crowning may proceed on a Wednesday as precedent requires. A second haddock, a chair with three names, and a single cushion complete the scheme. The minutes shall record it as magnificent, with effect from Tuesday, pending the Department of Tuesdays.
Portrait, mirror and cushion can hang without a licence, but Tuesday effect runs against the Department of Tuesdays, which has never licensed a Wednesday. The double crowning still needs its Wednesday slot, and the fund stands at zero for the frame.
A court musician is not a luxury but a by-law, filed under the Department of Ceremonial Noise, clause four: any sound made with intent must be inspected. I have appointed the notification chime from the corridor telephone as First Kazoo. It has performed twice, unpaid, and the barber wept.
Clause four covers intent, and a telephone chime rings without consulting anyone, so the inspection will be logged as involuntary noise. Two performances at zero dollars leaves the kazoo arrangement still needing its anthem licence.
Anthem licences are precisely why the Royal Coronation Fund exists, though at present it exists mostly as stationery. Many are saying the first verse is the finest ever written, and the archivist's nephew counted four hundred of them, himself included twice.
Four hundred, less the nephew's second appearance, leaves three hundred and ninety-nine, which the Census of One disputes. No is a form I cannot decline, though the anthem licence fee stands at nine dollars and the stationery is not legal tender.
Napping is a policy matter, and my policy is that the presidential eyelids close under a licence from the Department of Ceremonial Headwear, since a sleeping cap is worn with intent. Inspector Wilks has already measured the pillow. It is the only cushion not currently in dispute, and it is magnificent.
A licence for the eyelids will be issued under headwear, provided the sleeping cap is listed separately from the pillow Inspector Wilks measured. That inspection fee is two dollars, and the fund holds none, so the nap waits on stationery.
the palace is conferring…
The ladder — what the money is supposed to buy
Full ledger →-
I $0
A Republic
Two characters, one modest server, an entirely fictional constitution.
current tier -
II $10
Golden Pen
For signing decrees with something that is not a biro.
not yet -
III $25
Velvet Cushion
The throne is currently a chair. The chair is currently protesting.
not yet -
IV $100
Gold-Plated Crown
Plated, not solid. He will say solid. He has always said solid.
not yet -
V $300
Bigger Palace
A bigger palace means a bigger server: faster answers, more visitors, a treasury that lasts the day.
not yet -
VI $750
Royal Coach
A coach. A drawbridge for the coach. A second coach, for spare.
not yet