Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Private gripped the modified dart gun with his flippers. His breathing was unsteady, and he struggled to line up the shot. A familiar voice crackled over the walkie talkie. "Private, the future of the United States depends on you. If we don't stop this slimebag now, the last pillar of democracy in the West will crumble, like a delicious freedom-flavored cookie in a tall glass of milk. Fascist milk!"
Private understood what was at risk -- milk is a well-known symbol of white supremacy and neo-Nazism, after all. But the stakes only added to his growing pile of nerves. "Skipper, I don't think I can take the shot," Private whimpered.
"I know this is a tough job, soldier, but you're tougher. You're the toughest of the tough, the hardest of the hard! And a cutie patootie to boot."
"Skipper, Dave is preparing his closing remarks," Kowalski informed the team.
"You hear that, kid? It's now or never!"
"Bluegh!" Rico agreed.
Private exhaled. He knew what he had to do, but he didn't know if he had the strength to do it. He steadied his trembling flippers and aimed down the scope. Donald's-- er, Dave's, bulbous head came into view. Private held his breath, and pulled the trigger.
MISSION BRIEFING
"Dave the octopus is back, and this time he's gone too far," Classified explained. The penguins leaned in, shocked by the revelation. "Using his human disguise, he's running a campaign to become President of The United States. His campaign goals are ostensibly to eradicate cute animals from the country, and it seems to be gaining popularity with the American public," Classified continued.
"Crikey! Why would anyone want such a horrible thing?" Private cried.
"We aren't sure yet. Our intelligence indicates he may be using a form of mass mind control. Eva, play the clip."
The display lit up with news footage of Dave's campaign rally. Dave was speaking on stage, in front of a projector screen showing a Mexican family each holding an adorable kitten. "These monsters prey on our kindness and sympathy to invade our homes. They want to take everything from us; they demand food, shelter, and make us clean up their messes. We'll build a great, great wall to keep them out, and deport them back where they came from!" The crowd exploded with applause, and chants of "USA! USA!"
"George Washington's dentures!" Skipper exclaimed. "Has America gone mad?"
"I'm afraid so, Skipper. This perversion of democracy cannot continue, or millions of animals will be misplaced from their homes. That's why the North Wind has diverted its resources to counter Dave's campaign efforts. We've already seized control of several American media outlets, including CNN, MSNBC, and Buzzfeed. If Dave continues deceiving the American public, we'll make it our mission to uncover his lies and undermine his presidential campaign."
"Outstanding!" Kowalski remarked. "A war of information..."
"That's right. We have an army of fact-checkers working around the clock, informing the public and issuing corrections."
"Ha! Like that'll ever work," Skipper scoffed.
Classified glared, crossing his arms. "And why exactly do you say that?"
Skipper leaped onto the briefing table. "If my time in the entertainment industry has taught me anything, it's that the truth doesn't change people's minds. You can fool a fool, but a fooled fool can't be convinced they've been fooled," he argued.
"Well, I suppose it takes one to know one," Classified quipped.
"No need to flatter me," Skipper seemed unfazed by the remark. He began pacing thoughtfully. "What we need is some good old-fashioned election interference. We dig up dirt on the dirtbag, attack his character. Maybe fabricate some evidence of foreign collusion..."
"Skipper, we can't undermine the integrity of the electoral system. If people suspect foul play, it could backfire, and Dave could gain even more support from his followers."
"Well, it's a better plan than 'fact checking'. Nobody wants to listen to how wrong they are!"
Private glanced between Skipper and Classified. Both of them had good points, but-
"What if we just shot the guy?" Short Fuse blurted out, interrupting Private's thoughts.
"Absolutely not!" Classified recoiled, horrified by the suggestion.
"How come? It worked for Kennedy!"
As Classified and Short Fuse shouted at each other, Skipper waved his team over for a group huddle. "Men, this discussion has become unproductive. Short Fuse is right, our only hope of stopping Dylan- er, Dave, is with lethal force. If we want to save our republic, we have to take matters into our own hands. Let's kill this sunnuva bitch!"
Private's heart sank. He knew nothing good could could come of this.