181: Chapter 181 Plotting to Bomb Earth and Divide Up a New Planet

The public's only impression of Biden since the Hoover Dam incident was martial law,

blocking the skies, blocking the internet, and sealing the mouths of every ordinary person trying to discuss the truth.

Neither possessing high-tech equipment nor a hero's image,

placed side-by-side with Prant at that moment—who had just had his right ear grazed by a bullet, stood up from behind cover, raised his fist, and roared—the contrast was simply too cruel.

Following closely,

Hunter Biden's video of refusing to pay a prostitute and instead beating people up,

hitting a homeless person, a hit-and-run, the resurfaced 911 dispatch recordings, and the drug-use list all exploding across the internet completely smashed what basic credibility the Biden family had left to smithereens.

Prant's legal team and legal commentators repeatedly emphasized the same phrase across various platforms:

"A president who can't even control his own son expects to manage a million-vessel fleet of Grey Alien?"

He didn't say this line himself, but it spread faster than anything he had ever said.

...

Oval Office.

Joseph Biden sat behind that world-famous large desk, the unfolded tablet screen before him scrolling with the latest polling data curves.

Two lines on the right side of the chart extended in opposite directions at a suffocating intersection angle.

He watched for a long time, neither smashing things, nor cursing, nor making any overly aggressive venting gestures.

He simply pushed the tablet aside, then crossed his hands on the desk with his fingers interlocked, as quiet as the most silent patch of sea before a storm arrives.

He could not just sit back and await his doom like this.

If he lost the presidency in the next election,

then the Longevity Faction's technological assistance to him would also come to an end.

Lord Zhang Long made it extremely clear that the reason he offered those conditions to the Biden Administration was because Biden represented the legitimate regime of the Lighthouse Country.

Once political power changed hands, the agreement between him and the Longevity Faction would become wastepaper.

Meanwhile, standing behind Prant was the Tech Faction, which was the sworn enemy of the Longevity Faction.

The Tech Faction would never share any technology in its hands with an old politician who had signed a sternly enjoined agreement with the Longevity Faction.

All hopes:

the Longevity Faction's technological aid, the low-end technological materials promised by Lord Zhang Long, and the opportunity for extended life and longevity in the floating city within the subspace constructed by the correct spacetime of π = 3...

would all vanish from his own hands simultaneously on the day of the next presidential inauguration.

He had already lost one son; he must absolutely not lose this opportunity again!

Thus, he picked up the encrypted phone on his desk and dialed the dedicated line to Casablanca Manor in Scottsdale, Arizona.

After the call went through, he spoke only an extremely brief sentence into the microphone.

"I am Joseph Biden."

"Please tell Lady Diana that I need to see her as soon as possible."

...

Florida, Palm Beach, Mar-a-Lago, private banquet hall.

This banquet hall was located on the second floor of the east wing of the estate's main residence, with three sides of floor-to-ceiling windows facing a private beach shrouded in moonlight.

Prant sat on the sofa, holding a whiskey glass in his right hand, the white gauze on his right ear particularly conspicuous under the chandelier.

Edward Warren sat opposite him, his posture still maintaining the steady composure of an old Nevada politician,

but tonight he had draped his suit jacket over the back of the chair, loosened his tie by half an inch, and unusually held a glass of wine in his hand.

Musk leaned against an armchair, his legs crossed, holding a can of zero-sugar cola in his hand with an undisguised smile hanging at the corners of his mouth.

"The polling data was just updated tonight, and my approval rating has already exceeded Biden's by a full several percentage points."

Prant swirled his whiskey glass, the ice cubes clinking crisply in the amber liquor,

"Pennsylvania and Florida have both turned red, and even Michigan's blue wall is starting to crack."

"At this rate, there's hardly any suspense left regarding the position of the next president."

Edward nodded slightly, setting his wine glass on the edge of the table.

"That image of you raising your fist in Butler is more effective than any campaign advertisement."

"Standing up from behind cover after being shot, covered in blood, shouting 'Fight' to thousands of people—once an image like that is carved into the voters' memory, it can never be erased."

Musk rested the cola can on his knee, his tone carrying the calmness of an engineer, but the content was not restrained at all.

"Levitation Combat Boots, the post-shooting tough-guy image, plus the consecutive explosions of Hunter's scandals on Biden's side—this isn't an election anymore; it's a landslide."

"I looked at the internal analysis during a meeting at SpaceX, and the data team gave a probability of eighty-seven percent."

He raised the cola can, shaking it slightly at Prant as if making a toast.

Right at this moment, the door of the banquet hall was pushed open from the outside,

campaign manager Eddie Rosenthal walked in quickly, clutching a tablet flashing real-time data updates, an expression on his face even more excited than when he heard the gunfire in Butler.

"Sir! The latest batch of exit polls is out!"

"The approval ratings among independent voters in the three states of Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin have all surged by more than double digits!"

"Among them, the support for you among blue-collar male groups in Pennsylvania has been directly pulled from less than forty percent four months ago to sixty-eight percent!"

"The overall topic popularity across social media has also ranked first for several days running!"

"That image of you raising your fist and shouting 'Fight' after being shot was just made into a limited-edition NFT last night, fetching hundreds of thousands of dollars per piece on online collectible platforms!"

Prant tilted his head back to finish the last drop of whiskey in his glass, placed the empty glass on the coffee table, and the curve of his mouth deepened a bit more than before.

Musk stood up holding the cola can, and Edward also picked up his wine glass; the three of them clinked glasses together under the warm yellow light of the chandelier.

Becoming president was merely the first step on the task list given to them by the Tech Faction.

What needed to be done next,

was to deploy ten thousand Black Hole Bombs around the entire Solar System,

blowing all of Grey Alien fleet rushing over from thirty-nine light-years away, along with the entire distorted spacetime, into a singularity.

Then, transporting all of humanity through the Space Jump Gate to Maoer Star, twelve light-years away,

restarting the colonial era of human civilization on that new planet with Maoer indigenous people!

Initially, when they heard this set of plans in front of Joshua, they felt somewhat sentimental in their hearts.

After all, the Solar System was everyone's parent star system, and Earth was everyone's mother planet.

Using ten thousand Black Hole Bombs to blow their own mother planet into a mass of infinitely compressed subatomic dust...

This thought, no matter which normal person it was placed upon, could not possibly be easy.

However, once human beings had a new cake big enough placed before them, their sentimentality over the old cake would ferment—at a speed they couldn't even perceive—into a sense of relief bordering on rejoicing.