Chapter Text
The atmosphere in the main hall is heavy with tension.
I look at the group, all of them striking various poses, unblinking and unmoving, as if waiting for me to speak to them. What a bunch of weirdos! A group of five mostly harmless looking students are grouped together, so I decide to speak to them first.
A man in a cowboy hat and boots is the first to greet me. "Howdy pardner! You said your name was Joey, correct?"
"Actually, it's—"
"Howdy, Joey! My name is Xi Jinping, the Ultimate Cowboy!" He wears a big belt with a hammer and sickle engraved on the buckle.
I heard about Xi Jinping. When he was a child, he visited America and has been obsessed with it ever since. He's starred in various communist western blockbusters since the age of eight, and is a popular star in both America and in his homeland of China. He is kind of…overbearing in person.
"Is that a real gun?"
"Heck no! What kind of clodhopper brings a gun to—no! It's just a water gun. Here, look." He takes out the gun and shoots me in the face with it. Damn commie.
"A water gun? How mignon," the Frenchman from earlier says. He is dressed in a white shirt that has a French flag pin attached to its lapel and a black tie. A red beret covers his neatly styled brown hair, and a red silk scarf is tied around his neck. He looks at me, face flushed. "Ah! I must introduce myself next!" he exclaims. "Bonjour, je m'appelle Emmanuel Macron, ze Ultimate French Culture Expert."
I recognize that name. Macron is one of the national symbols of France. Entire stores are filled with merchandise with his face plastered on them. Brands pay millions to use his likeness to sell their products.
"Merci!" He hides his face, blushing. "Monsieur Biden is staring at me! My face burns hotter than my national pride. Please skip to ze next introduction before I faint, showing off my assets in a most gratuitous manner!" He faints and falls backward with his legs up in the air. "Brigitte Bardot…" he mumbles.
Huh?
“Uh, okay.“
"Just ignore him,” the rotund man with the slimy nose says. “He's clearly touched in the head. Now, did you want an introduction? Ted Cruz. I work with…symbols. Call me the Ultimate Cryptologist." An oversized suit clings to his body, the sleeves just barely concealing various symbols tattooed on his hand. His eyes narrow when he catches me looking at them. "I see you've noticed my tattoos. Wanna know how I got my first?"
I start to answer, "No thank—"
"It was the summer of '69 and smothering heat lay over LA like an itchy wool blanket. I was out on the prowl again. 'Cruzing', you can call it."
"I don't think I will," I say.
He continues, ignoring me: "I was like a junkie looking for his next fix; a craving for biblical violence. I found this Volkswagen parked on the side of the road—all painted blue and decorated with orange flowers. Hippie bullshit. Inside the van were four pothead teens and a Great Dane."
"Was the dog cute?"
"Yes. It had big, floppy ears and a boopable nose. Now stop interrupting me. Anyway, they asked me for directions. I said I would be happy to give directions, but under the pale streetlight, it would be hard to show them my map. They invited me into their van. I was quick." He licks his lips. "To this day, the cops continue to find pieces of them washed up on beaches throughout the state."
Sharks, of course. I shake my head sadly. "Weed and swimming do not mix. Or so I'm told. But how did you get your tattoo?"
"I got this tattoo in…" he chuckles, "remembrance of them." He pulls his sleeve up to reveal a tattoo of a giant 's'. "I never wanted to forget them."
"I like it!" Xi exclaims.
"It got infected, and I almost died."
"Aw shucks! Sorry, pardner." Xi set a hand on Ted's shoulder in comfort.
I turn to a blonde lady who could pass for a malnourished Victorian child. She looks at me with dull eyes the color of stormy London skies. I greet her.
She slowly waves at me. "Hello," she says.
I wait for her to continue, but she just keeps staring at me. I loudly clear my throat. She blinks in realization. “You want me to introduce myself? I should warn you that there's nothing interesting or notable about me." She sighs in resignation. "I am Liz Truss, the Ultimate Unlucky Student."
"How is that even a talent?"
"It takes a certain talent to be so incompetent." She shrugs. "I like to think I'm God's favorite joke. It makes me feel better about my failures. Do you agree with that philosophy?" she asks me.
I smile politically. "That's—" I begin. She walks away from me mid-sentence. "What the hell?" I call after her. She sits in a corner, pulls out a granola bar, and begins eating it. Man, these people are weird. The other guy in the group, however, looks perfectly normal. I greet him next.
He's handsome in that BuzzFeed-listicle kind of way—imagine if Clark Kent and Fidel Castro had a secret lovechild who grew up to be a Bitcoin trader. "Hey, I'm Justin Trudeau, the Ultimate…" his voice trails off. He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "Haha. That's strange. I can't seem to remember my talent." His eyes drop to the floor, a barely perceptible blush forming in his cheeks.
"You forgot your talent?" I ask him, incredulous. Hope's Beak students are scouted and chosen from thousands of applicants. It's simply not possible to “forget” your talent, even if you were hopelessly stupid like Liz Truss.
His eyes meet mine. "Trust me, I don't know how I forgot either." His face turns serious. "But I'm pretty sure it has something to do with espionage."
"R-really?"
"Yes." He breaks out into a laugh. "Ha! No! I have no idea what I am. I was just joking." Oh. I knew that.
"Maybe you have amnesia?" I suggest. "I saw that in a film once."
"Possibly. But…" His face darkens. "What if I'm lying to you?"
"Are you?"
"Of course not! Anyway, don't you still have to introduce yourself to the others? We can discuss my talent—or lack thereof—later." True.
I walk over to a group of five students huddled together as if planning war crimes together. I speak to the one in royal regalia first.
"Another approaches," he drawls out. He faces me, giving me a full view of his ruby-tipped Dumbo ears.
This is Prince Charles, the son of Queen Elizabeth II. I'm guessing he's the Ultimate Prince. He has a certain weightlessness about him in person, like he's floating on a cloud of arrogance and superiority. I didn't realize a prince would be attending Hope's Beak this year.
He looks at me as if expecting something. "Aren't you going to bow?" It comes off more like a demand than a question.
I bow from the neck. "S-sorry! Forgive me, Your Royal Highness."
He watches me with an oppressive smugness. "Good, good. I might have a job for you as my servant…if you behave," he says, eyeing me lazily.
"Do not be so impertinent, Charles!" a chubby guy dressed in a black Mao suit reprimands him. He strikes Charles in the shoulder with a wooden paddle. Charles yelps and clutches his shoulder in pain. "Have some respect for your fellow students!"
"You'll regret striking me, Kim,“ Charles screeches at him and scrambles away.
He lowers the paddle and appraises me. "Ah, Joe Biden. We meet again."
"I have literally never met you before."
"Hm. Is that so? Then let me correct that. I am Supreme Leader Kim Jong-Un! Ultimate BL Artist, Ultimate Chef, Ultimate Pop Singer, and Ultimate Athlete!"
After his father died, Kim Jong-Un became Supreme Leader of North Korea. In his first move as Supreme Leader, he used his clout to secure himself a position at Hope's Beak. North Korean media put out a statement calling him, "the brightest and most talented individual to ever attend Hope's Beak." I didn't realize that also extended to him receiving more than one Ultimate title.
"That's one hell of a title," I say.
"You can just call me the Ultimate Great Leader, if it pleases you."
"You have four talents?"
"And counting."
I gesture towards the paddle he's holding, noticing it's coated in lacquer with the word "YAOI" engraved into its surface in bold black letters. "What's that?" I ask.
Kim Jong-Un examines the paddle as if just remembering he held it. "This, Joe Biden, is a yaoi paddle. It is a sacred object in my country. I use it to strike down my enemies!" He demonstrates by swinging the paddle through the air as if fighting an invisible army. After a few more swings, he bows.
Yaoi, huh? I think I've heard about that before. "Yaoi…that's anime guys being homos, right?"
Kim Jong-Un nodded solemnly. "Yes, but not just anime, Joe Biden. When a guy playfully grabs the behind of his friend, and thinks, 'Hey, this feels kind of nice,' and lets his hand linger there a second longer than necessary—that too is yaoi."
I nod in understanding. These foreign customs are so darn strange! I love learning about them though. "Thank you, Kim Jong-Un, for sharing your story."
"Think nothing of it, Joe Biden." He turns around mysteriously. What a nice guy, if a bit strange and mystical. I approach the nerd guy next.
"Hey, nerd," I say in greeting.
"Please do not call me that." He adjusts his thick glasses. "My name is Bernie…Bernie Sanders." He has the aura of a kitten abandoned in the freezing rain.
"And your talent?"
He swallows harshly. After a moment, he sighs. "Promise not to laugh?" he asks me.
"I promise," I lie.
He gives me a crooked smile. "Thanks. I am the Ultimate Knitter."
"That's not so bad. I thought you were going to be something stupid like Ultimate Programmer or Ultimate Environmentalist; you know, nerd stuff."
"Yes, imagine the horror."
"Yeah, imagine! Hey, you're pretty cool!" I pat him on the back. He narrows his eyes at me. I think that means "I like you" in nerdspeak.
"Shall I introduce myself next?" a familiar voice asks. I turn to face a young woman with scrutinizing brown eyes. Her eyes scan my face a second longer, before she breaks out into a practiced smile. "Nancy Pelosi, Ultimate Strategist. Though, you already knew that."
Nancy Pelosi is one of the smartest people in the country, at least according to Forbes and Times magazine. After making a fortune at a young age by gaming the stock market, she used her newly acquired multi-millionaire status to buy her way into politics, and then used her political connections to eviscerate her enemies. I became acquainted with her intimately during my brief stint as a White House intern. She is as ruthless as she is beautiful.
"Fancy meeting you here. Still insider trading?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "I can't help being Italian."
"I didn't realize that was a stereotype."
"It is now." She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face in irritation. "Joe, let's not fight. Can we agree to act civilized until we figure out what's going on?"
I know from my time in Washington to not make an enemy out of Nancy Pelosi, especially if you were in the field of politics. After letting her sweat for a moment, I respond, "Fine, but this isn't joever."
"Sure."
I introduce myself to a man with emotionless eyes that bore right through me. "I'm Vladimir Putin. Ultimate Hitman. Now fuck off," he says in a harsh Russian accent. He flexes a hand gloved in thick black leather. I back away slowly.
Okay, so that's ten people down. Thank God they were all conveniently in groups of five. I walk over to the last group and introduce myself.
The orange man is the first to speak up: "I saw you talking to crazy Pelosi. Did she talk about me?" He is dressed in a black business suit and wears a red hat that reads: "Make America Great Again".
Unfortunately, I already recognize this jackass. This ray of sunshine is known as Donald Trump, the Ultimate Businessman. His father was the head of a business empire that produced many successful—sometimes not so successful—restaurants, hotels, resorts, etc. Because his father recently passed, it's now under the control of Donald. I find the title "Ultimate Businessman" ironic considering his father was the one that did most of the work.
"Are you slow? I asked you a question!" he yells at me.
"Chillax brah." A man comes up and places a hand on Donald's shoulder. He has slicked-back black hair carefully cultivated by expensive hair product and a smile similar to Christian Bale's in "Psycho". "Dude, you're turning red." He laughs.
"Nobody asked for your opinion, New Scum!" Trump swats his hand away.
"New Scum" puts his hands up in surrender. "Chill! I surrender!" He backs away, laughing. Trump turns back to me.
"Listen here, Joe," he says, sounding out my name slowly, "you seem decent, if a bit slow. Let me give you a little advice: stay away from Pelosi. She's crazy! She hates hard-working, honest men like you and me—not a nice lady! And just between you and me, I think she's a lesbian." He leans in close as he says the last part.
I recoil back. "Is that so?"
He nods gravely. "Shocking, isn't it? I think she was a product of DEI. They were in the market for vile lesbians. Not being homophobic! Huge fans of gays, especially the lesbians—am I right? You get me. Anyway, just offering my advice. Take it or leave it. But if you have any sense at all, take it."
He rants for a few more minutes about DEI before I manage to remove myself from the conversation. I greet "New Scum" next.
"'Sup, Joe. Name's Gavin Newsom—Gav for short. How's it hanging?" He throws me a Shaka—that surfer hand gesture with the thumb and pinkie finger extended—and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
I recognize the name. Gav is a popular surfer from California, known for his charming personality and easy-going nature. I watched a video that went viral of him riding a colossal wave off Waimea Bay.
"You're the Ultimate Surfer, correct?"
His eyes widen in surprise. "I am! How'd you know? Bro, are you a psychic?"
"No, I'm a politician. I saw a video of you on TikTok."
"Oh. That's, like, way less cool, man."
"Y-yeah, I agree. Moving on, why was Trump so angry with you?"
"Hell if I know man. He dislikes anyone who doesn't pull down his underwear and give his soggy orange cream puffs a sloppy kiss.“ Ew! “He has a serious 'tude problem."
"Thanks for that horrifying image, Gav. I'm going to meet the others before I vomit."
"Bye bro!"
I move on to the next person, the blonde lady in the blue pantsuit. She has both hands on her hip in a domineering pose. "Hey! Nice to meet you!" I hold my hand out for her to shake, and finally, after some hesitation, she takes it.
"Hillary Clinton."
Hillary Clinton became famous after writing a series of self-help books following a breakup with her longtime boyfriend. After her debut became a bestseller, she toured the country and gave motivational speeches to sold out venues. This has earned her the title Ultimate Girlboss, according to her leaked emails.
"I'm a big fan of your work," I say.
"Judging by the fact that you did not ask for my talent, I'm guessing you've read my emails."
"Well, not the entire—"
"Firstly, I do not own sweatshops! All clothes sold at Haus of Hillary are ethically produced and child slavery free! Nor have we worked with any right-wing paramilitary groups plotting to overthrow their democratically elected local governments! Unfortunately, those statements continue to spread on fake news sites like Amnesty International. What do those people know? People just hate to see a woman succeed."
"W-wait, child—?"
"Secondly, I'm not in charge of a pyramid scheme! Rodway is a 100% legal multi-level marketing, female owned and operated, company under American federal law. Let me stop you there! I'm guessing you'll mention Housegate, Jazzgate, Taxgate, Poolgate, Madonnagate, or, heaven forbid, Cannibalgate next?"
Sweat trickles down my nose. "That's a lot of gates."
She flips her hair. "All great empires require them. It's how an empress protects her land. Now, did you need something?"
"What about the child—"
"Bye queen! Rock on babe! Yas!" She hands me her business card, blows me a kiss, and then shoos me away. I look down at the card: it's a photo of a smiling Hillary standing next to one of her exhausted factory workers with the caption "I'm with her!" printed above. Hillary is so kind.
I talk to the last two remaining people: the tall Black man from earlier and the woman with the contagious laughter. They're already speaking to each other.
"We got to take this stuff seriously, as seriously as you are because you have been forced to have taken this seriously," the woman says, nodding intently.
"Uh…yes. I agree."
They turn to me when they notice me standing there. "Hi Joe!" the woman says. She brings a hand to her pearl necklace and smiles at me. "My name is Kamala Harris, the Ultimate Lawyer. Joe, right?" She laughs. I tell them my talent. "Wow, you even look like a politician!"
"Why is your hair white?" the man asks me.
"Barack, you can't just ask people why their hair is white!"
"No, it's fine. It's been that way since I was a child," I reply. My mother said it turned white from shock upon learning about the concept of taxes.
"Sorry, Joe." He holds a hand for me to shake. "My name is Barack Obama, but just call me Obama—everyone does. I'm known as the Ultimate Hope." He is dressed in a black suit with a blue tie and an American flag pin attached to his chest.
I shake his hand enthusiastically. "That's a talent?"
He shrugs. "Hope's Beak seems to think so. I applied as an Orator—"
"—that means he's good at talking!" Kamala adds.
"—yes, Kamala, thank you. Uh…as I was saying, I applied as the Ultimate Orator but was given the title Ultimate Hope. Maybe they thought my speech was so good that they wanted to give me a special title?" He brings a hand to his chin in thought.
"I don't know. But I'm sure we'll find out eventually, Obama." I hug him. He stiffens underneath me.
"Hey, Joe?"
"Yeah?"
“Get the fuck off me."
My cheeks heat. "Sorry!" I step away from him and smooth my suit down.
And with that, introductions were done.