Up in one of the higher districts lived a family more fortunate than many.
That is to say, a family to be: a couple—man and wife—and their coming son. The two were gathered around their small television set, not as good as the neighbors—the man always fumed about that, though his wife couldn't be bothered—in waiting of a broadcast: an emergency presidential address. None of them were sure what on Earth it could be about: the president, with the highest regards, was a bit of a loose canon. An emergency address could be a call to celebration of recent successes, or an angry declaration against whatever enemy had done the most recent wrong to the nation.
They hoped it would be the former.
The footage flipped back on from the fifteen-minute commercial break, to zoom back into the handsome fellow who anchored their most preferred news station—the only news station—instated by the president's predecessors to combat the rapid spreading of deviant agendas and terrorist propaganda. There was only one way to know, and they liked it that way.
The man cleared his throat and shot that gleaming smile of his toward the camera.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "Thank you for doing your good American duty and tuning in tonight. I'm your host, Jonathan McMiller. But, as always, you can just call me John." He winked.
The camera panned toward a graphic showing one of the most popular portraits of the president, staring at an angle into the distance with a face that was staunch and stern.
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"As you're most likely aware of through either the city announcement system, or through our phone bulletin, we're waiting in anticipation for an upcoming spectacular address by our nation's great leader, President Marston, which will be starting momentarily. We will now be switching to the live feed." The man gave an odd chuckle. "I'm sure you're all just as eager as I am. Let's check it out."
McMiller dissolved off the screen, and an empty podium came into view. The camera in the addressal room zoomed in closely to the podium. Then the president came into view: round, with golden-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes like a sled dog's. He adjusted his suit jacket and smiled over the podium, nodding to the good citizens viewing at home.
"Good evening, my fellow Americans," he rasped with a grin, "I'm pleased to announce that this morning's address is a good one."
The man and his wife at home let out a sigh in relief.
"I am very pleased to announce that America's Finest, the wonderful Peace Army, has discovered and performed a successful raid on that most heinous, evil organization that has been distributing transgender hormones to innocent children and vulnerable people: The Underground." The man kept a staunch, strong face as he spoke, like any proper man should. A symbol of America and its good values, standing in the face of those who would seek to destroy them.
"Their disgusting operation has been completely and totally destroyed. We have eliminated their leaders, and found vital documents that will lead us to where the remaining members will be hiding. Americans will no longer have to live in fear of these deviants, perverts, and monsters. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America. Let us celebrate today as we celebrate any great day in our history."
The man smiled to his wife and gave her a kiss. And she smiled back. And she thought, pleased, how glad she was that her child would grow up in a world that was safe.