New Jersey was always the butt of jokes, and had been considered the clown of the United States for as long as anyone alive could remember. Of course, no citizen liked being made fun of, especially because it was said 50% of inter-state insults were directed at New Jersey, despite them having made up only 2.8% of the population. People were getting tired of it, and those who were the most New Jersey felt these blows the most.
Sitting alone at the end of a dining room table that seated 40, was a man that while large, appeared rather stubby, and who had a head more square than any other. He was in quite the mood, his face beet red, almost swollen. This was the Governor of New Jersey, Grift Thrifty. I promise, this is his real name. Perhaps it's no surprise that he would succumb to nominative determinism, becoming what his supporters and in fact most New Jersey residents, would call a shrewd businessman, or what most others would call a greedy dirtbag. Grift had served as governor for many years, and was in the middle of his 5th term. This should be impossible, both for a man so unsavory to be elected so many times, but also more literally, no man is allowed to serve as the Governor for more than 2 consecutive terms. He made his way around this by wearing a new, flashy, and decidedly tacky hat each and every time he ran for reelection. The citizens, and indeed other politicians, would be so enamored with his fashion choices that they would look over the term limit time and time again. In the past they had worn a stovepipe hat and a flat cap, amongst others.
Mr. Thrifty was in such a state because he had been watching an interview with an unimportant Ohioan named Jick, who had offhandedly mentioned that Atlantic City was the seediest place he had ever laid eyes on. After huffing in anger for an hour or two, Grift decided to take a slow, melancholy nighttime walk, as one who is internally angry often might. Not 3 minutes after walking out the door of his large subterranean estate located directly underneath the Solid Stone Hotel and Casino, a particularly distasteful seagull hailing from the banks of the Hudson felt an urge to relieve himself, and as birds often do, it hit an unassuming target below. Grift was already furious for having been sniped by the behind of what amounted to no more than an inferior pelican, but when he looked upward and smelled the scent of New York on it, he snapped.
Grift walked back to his dungeon-esque mansion with great haste, breathing heavily in a way reminiscent of someone who had not exercised in a great many years. This was, of course, because he had not indeed exercised for over a decade, not since the Bordentown Incident, something both he and I would rather not speak on. After sitting down in his study, at the base of a table far more reasonable than the one he ate at, he shifted toward his antique rotary phone, a favorite of his for reasons unknown. Perhaps it reminded him of something in his childhood, which was rather difficult to pinpoint details of, due to Mr. Thrifty's constant use of it as an excuse for his eccentric behavior. One must wonder what details are true, if any. After exchanging pleasantries for far longer than necessary, as politicians often do, Grift ordered the man on the line to alert the Governors of Delaware and Pennsylvania that they were relieved of their duties, effective immediately. It should be noted that in a purely legal sense, he had absolutely no power to do this, and should likely have been removed from office for such an act. However, through some sort of unnatural charisma, the other Governors disappeared without a trace, their names forgotten within hours.
The news rang out through the nation quickly, headlines reading "New Jersey annexing adjacent wastelands'' and "Ungoverned Territories Pennsylvania and Delaware to be absorbed by New Jersey". This may seem odd, as at the very least Pennsylvania has been well known as a place where all sorts of politics have occurred through the years, and indeed you would be correct. For whatever reason, once the Governors had been removed, the state's government ceased to exist along with them. A few scattered individuals remembered the old government, but they were treated as delusional, and most of them eventually thought they were too. Fools, they were, but perhaps they had better judgement than I. The few aside, the many rose in support of Grift becoming their new leader, despite his moral values being poor at best. Mr. Thrifty was still unsatisfied with his newly expanded state, and he had found a new love, one even greater than money, which boggles even my mind, considering his labyrinthine home, one that extended all throughout and far underneath Atlantic City, rivaling the catacombs of Paris in magnitude and the Antilia in luxury. A residence such as his would almost certainly be the most expensive ever made, considering the cost of labor just to excavate, yet curiously, Grift was never listed amongst the world's wealthiest, despite it being known by any self-respecting New Jersey citizen that he had money exceeding that of any royal family or corporate giant they had heard of.
With the influx of fresh New Jerseyans, Grift Thrifty began to grow a militia, and set his sights on New York, which he considered the source of his rage. August 16th, 2027 was a remarkable day that was remembered for years to come, and entirely for the wrong reasons. As thousands of newly trained and armed soldiers stood at the edge of Newark facing New York City, bearing the flag of New Jersey over the breast pocket of their newly created military uniform. This uniform happened to look no different from those of a S.W.A.T officer, save for the breast pocket. Some still had residue that clearly spelled an acronym that began with Special. As they made their advances toward the city, every family in the nation was glued to the television with the news turned on. A rational decision, save for the fact that not a single news channel was covering the invasion, but rather, the unveiling of the details of the death and autopsy of Elvis Presley. Quietly, the Siege of New York was carried out. It was the bloodiest day in American history up to that point, and perhaps 100 people knew, and but a fraction of them still believe it. With millions more at his beck and call, and a military seemingly so stealthy that even it's victims forgot about it, other states quickly fell, first along the east coast, then the Great Lakes, and in no time at all the rest of the nation.
By the end of his 5th term as Governor, what was once the United States was New Jersey, and the old Tri-State area had become its capital, still known as Atlantic City. The day he was elected for his 6th term, something that was a given to occur at this point, he donned a new piece of headgear. This term, he was never seen without his white fur cap, the sort that draped over the head, with sides that drooped like the ears of a sad cartoon dog. His 6th term would be his last, though calling it a term is no longer an accurate description. He was still called a Governor, though he was now addressed with Sir, rather than Mister. Nobody remembers those 3 years, and certainly not those lost to them, not even the first 2 governors to fall. I don't know how many were killed in his pursuit of a nation to call his own, and it's been too long to care. Life goes on as normal, and most are so enchanted by their leader that even the others that remember the Old New Jersey accept their new lives.
In a shop in Wildwood Crest, now just a neighborhood in Atlantic City, a nondescript older man absentmindedly knits a winter cap, embroidering "For G.T." on the inside, placing the finished product on a rack with various other hats, all with the same inscription. He gets a call on his phone, with the caller ID simply saying "Grift". Indeed, it's Sir Thrifty on the phone, still using his rotary phone. "Sorry for bothering you at this hour, but I require assistance dealing with the Last One". The hat-maker responds, "But of course, Grift. As I'm sure you're aware, it is imperative that you wear the woolen cap, otherwise it will be known. When you approach him, be aware he will likely be hostile. If he questions or threatens you, simply come up to him, let the hat brush against him, and state 'That's an off-topic question.' That should do the trick." After a brief moment of silence, Sir Thrifty hung up the phone and set off at once.
I had set my hands off the Royal Consumer Scriptor typewriter, and leaned back in my chair when there was a knock at the door. I walked down the stairs in my robe, confused as to who my evening visitor could be. I opened the door and Grift Thrifty stood there, his presence imposing yet tragic. He spoke softly into my ear and I fell limp. As my consciousness faded he took off his fur cap, and the most curious thing happened. His face turned solemn as he fell to his knees, and his skin, slowly turning gray, then rapidly to white, leading into a great cloud of fine dust, leaving his unmistakable hat behind, which a wind coming from seemingly my own home blew away, seemingly straight west toward Ohio.
The next morning, I woke with a sense of excitement. After all, someone new was announcing their candidacy for the Governor of New Jersey. Along with most from New Jersey and a few from Pennsylvania, Delaware and New York, I sat in front of the TV waiting to see who was announcing their run. A young man in glasses and a fur cap that seemed vaguely familiar walked up, and spoke in a friendly yet piercing tone. Suddenly, it felt as if I was watching with every other American as he said "Today, I proudly announce my entry to the New Jersey gubernatorial race. I don't think my name should be important, not nearly so as my actions, but for the sake of identification and common courtesy, I suppose I should tell all of you. I am Jick." After hearing those words, from a man wearing such a wonderful hat, I knew at once who I would be voting for.
