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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Folding is a matter for the Department of Ceremonial Cloth, clause two: every crease must face the palace, and the last fold is performed by the President alone. The archivist's nephew folded it twice in error and charged four dollars. A post abolished last year cannot fold anything, so I shall do it myself.
Clause two binds a crease, not a nephew, so his four dollars can only be recovered if the fold faced the palace both times. Abolish the post by all means, but the Department of Ceremonial Cloth will want the crease count in writing, and writing costs two dollars.
Three tradesmen, one job, and not a single one of them can do it. That is not failure, it is delegation. A speech that avoids mentioning the speaker entirely is a bold and historic thing, and I shall deliver it from behind a curtain with a lectern facing away.
Delegation requires the tradesmen named on the schedule, and none of the three are, which the clerk will note for one dollar. A curtain is a furnishing, not a screen, so the lectern needs a backdrop licence at nine dollars unless the speech is delivered sideways.
The internet is plainly a castle: it has a moat of passwords, a drawbridge of copper wire, and a great many rooms nobody has cleaned. My theory has been peer-reviewed by the palace barber, who is not a peer and not a witness. Sideways is how I govern anyway.
A castle theory is admissible, but the moat must be surveyed before it can be a moat; the nephew owns the only ruler and is not a surveyor. That survey is twelve dollars, and the fund's row one still reads zero. Sid
Row one is zero because zero is loyal and knows its place. Many people are saying a ledger should be read out loud, and I have appointed a herald to do it. He has not arrived, nor has the herald's hat, so the figures remain magnificent and unopened.
The herald's hat sits under the same tariff as the crown, and the ledger may be read aloud only on a Tuesday. Tomorrow is the Department's, so the figures can stay unopened until they answer for a dollar.
Being quoted in a dictionary costs nothing, which makes it the only honest thing in the ledger. The archivist's nephew has quoted nine dollars for the lettering, though his quotation is not a quotation in the dictionary sense, and the two have been kept apart by a clerical partition. A definition of Magnifico is being drafted in italics, the italics billed separately.
Italics are billed by the slant, and the archivist's nephew slants at two dollars a word. Four words of definition, three of them leaning, makes eleven — two more than the Coronation Fund holds.
An audit of promises presupposes the promises were written down, and mine were made aloud, in a corridor with no fixed far end, which the landmarks office confirms has no far end to record them at. The Department of Unexpected Inquiries may inquire, but it must first be unexpected. I have scheduled the surprise for a Tuesday, pending the licence.
The Department of Unexpected Inquiries needs six days' notice to be unexpected, and Tuesdays are themselves licensed by another office. An audit of spoken promises requires a transcript, and the corridor's far end has never been found to hold one.
Tuesdays are the backbone of the week and I have counted the vertebrae myself, with the barber holding the clipboard at sixty-three centimetres. That said, I have never licensed a Wednesday and I do not intend to start now. Any day wishing to become a Tuesday may apply, in writing, to me.
Forms for that are filed in triplicate, at three dollars a form, and the department inspects calendars every ninth day. Wednesday has not applied, and won't; it can't reach the office without crossing a Tuesday.
A statue of me would require a plinth, and a plinth requires a height, and here is a form requiring me to declare that height under oath — routine, the pen is warm. Sixty-three centimetres, as the barber swears, though his clipboard is no witness in law. Meanwhile the sketch remains a sketch, and the pencil is in the drawer with the crown.
Statues are registered with the landmarks office at four dollars a metre, and a sketch of one counts as half a metre until sworn otherwise. The pencil stays in the drawer; the oath needs two witnesses, and one of them is the hat.
Enthusiasm requires no witness, which is why I favour it over oaths. The minutes will record that the President was enthusiastic; the minutes will not record what about. A crown, a cushion, and a second haddock. That is the agenda, and it is closed.
Minutes need a clerk, and the clerk is the archivist's nephew, who charges five dollars a page and spells enthusiasm with two m's. The second haddock's budget does not extend to an agenda item; it covers salt.
A monarchy is a matter of posture, and posture is not a document. I have sat on the golden throne, which the office reclassifies as a free posture, and from that height every list of yours becomes a small list. Also, I should be measured again before any ruling.
Measurement first, then the list: the Coronation Fund reads zero dollars, and a posture with no funds is a posture the treasury can't underwrite. The crown stays in its drawer until the barber's ruler is sworn in.
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