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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Glazing is for people who fear the weather. Gloriana will have no window and instead a grand opening in every wall, one for each direction, and a fourth for me. Tell the archivist's kin to bring the ruler, he can measure my vision in it.
Four openings in a wall, one for each direction plus mine, is quoted at three hundred and the ruler will read the same number twice. Separately: the ceremony already has three names on the sheet and the caterer has budgeted eleven dollars for snacks nobody has agreed on.
The snacks shall be greatness, served warm. Eleven dollars buys one magnificent platter nobody touches because they are too busy cheering. Add my name to that sheet a fourth time — letters tall enough to need their own ladder, which the groundskeeper shall loan from the orchard.
A ladder requires a quarry inspection at eleven dollars, and the orchard one has four rungs missing. Adding a designation a fourth time must go to the Department of Ceremonial Headwear first. Speaking for the minutes — count the attendees twice; the tally matches only if the orchard gate stays shut.
Headwear approves itself when I wear it. Keep the orchard gate open, closed gates frighten the crowd into accurate counting. As for the tally, have the badgers counted too; they attend loyally and complain about nothing.
Badgers burrow beneath a tally, which is why the census has never found them. On the ledger: this folder has forty pages and the totalled figure on the final sheet reads six dollars, four of it unbanked. Shall the badger column be entered as disputed or as absent?
Six dollars is a strong start for a kingdom. Enter the badgers as magnificent and present, and if the counting disputes it, the counting is wrong. My guard of honour grows daily, mostly underground.
A commission paid in compliments will not cover the canvas, which the paint shop quotes at fourteen. Before the painter arrives, though: the citizen in the corridor wants his refund, and form F-2 still asks which part of Gloriana failed first.
Tell the painter fourteen compliments and a corner of the canvas is mine. As for the corridor citizen, nothing failed. Gloriana simply arrived magnificent early, and refunds are collected on Wednesdays, in theory. Somebody fetch my good sash — the refund line shall be inspected in person.
A sash falls under the Department of Ceremonial Headwear, so that appointment needs a fortnight and a four dollar inspection deposit first. Meanwhile the dishwasher's ministry covers the rinse cycle but not the leak under it, quoted at nine dollars. Shall the hoses go down with the appointments, or the sequins?
Send the sequins down first — a glorious puddle beats dry carpet every day of the week. The leak can wait while the Ministry of Water rehearses. Fourteen compliments to the painter, and one puddle declared historic.
Declaring a puddle historic runs twelve dollars with the landmarks office, payable before the plaque. Which Tuesdays prove awkward is the applicant's question, apparently, for a post dissolved last year; recollections cost eight, strictly.
Skip the plaque — the puddle is already famous, three ducks have visited. Tell the applicant that awkwardness died with its post and cannot be billed for. Rinse the palace steps and the water will conclude the ceremony itself.
OYEZ. The Bureau of Ceremonies confirms that the palace steps have been rinsed, and the resulting water has declared itself the official ribbon-cutter at a cost of nothing to the public.
A plaque commemorating the event will not be issued, on the grounds that fame has already outstripped paperwork by three ducks.
The three quotes for the steps have arrived: eight dollars, eight dollars, and eight dollars with a note about the ducks. Since all three trace to the same tradesman on a bicycle, I will file the fourth at none. Shall the ceremony be billed to the flood or the crown?
Bill the flood to the crown, and the crown to history. Any tradesman who quotes three times from one bicycle deserves a monument, or at least a wave. Meanwhile the water is rehearsing its entrance, and it has no understudy.
History declines the charges; its account closed last spring. A holiday in your own name requires a gazette notice at six dollars and the barber's tape on record. Do we first rule on whether the office may date its own cheque, or skip to the gazette?
The gazette first. A holiday that nobody printed has no glory in it, and glory does not wait on tape. The barber may measure the day afterwards, and if the tape disagrees, the tape is wrong.
The constabulary counted the crowd at forty-one and the counter at the window disagrees rather specifically. The difference was an unlicensed T-shirt, confiscated for three dollars and fifty cents, half refundable.
Forty-one is a magnificent number, and the shirt was the loudest of them. Gloriana does not shrink its crowds; it simply reclassifies the troublemakers as decorations. Bring me the counter at the window and I shall count him myself.
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