It makes sense in context, kind of.

The Death of His Majesty King Brandon I of Vineyards was a quiet sort, his goal of a moon base had succeeded, and humanity was on the moon, this allowed him to join Comrade Stanislav in death, and presumably in a new game. The now corpse monarch made no such mistake as to trust the word of a demi-god, and Q was the least trustworthy of the all.

The former monarch awoke not in a fire-and-brimstone hell, which was a plus in his mind, but he awoke in a dark room.

“Why am I being narrated?”

Quite simple, you are now in my domain, the question is why?

“Well, I reached an agreement with Q that after my stint as a world leader I would be removed to a place that wasn’t the future or past of the moment I had been whisked away to become a world leader. I guess this is a compromise.”

Well, ah, here it is.

“What? Here what is,” he said into the nothingness nervously, “What? What? If anyone can hear me, let me out of here, help me.”

The frantic calling of this former monarch was too much for this Storyteller to handle. I chose to break one of my covenants with the writer, by picking up an old book; I flicked through the pages searching for the location of the story for, there, SDN World III, the Union of the Low Countries. The man now twitching in the centre of my domain was to become the Chairman of a Syndicalist Commune, the leader during a time period where the countries would be ruled by other elites from a clique, commanded by Q to lead countries of their creation through the fires of war to final victory as the leaders of the world.

So, let us see into that world for a bit, shall we?

…

“Huh, ah,” Mr. Michaels awoke from his slumber on the desk with a start, he felt a great pain in his forehead but he could not figure out why. In sixteen days he would go from a lowly Trade Union bureaucrat to the autocrat of the Benelux, he lied to himself at no time during the process of ensuring his victory in the election, he was rigging a system to place himself at the top of an allegedly democratic system. If his predecessor had not done similar he would have felt a shred of remorse, but democracy in the Union died long ago, he was just to keep the country from going with it.

These were noble words for a man whose autocracy had just begun, who knows; soon he may look upon his younger self and laugh, what noble words for such a tyrant.

He looked upon his notes he had been reading previously, the splitting headache only just subsiding, the notes were about the invitations to a International conference to be held in The Hague. This was not what he remembered; he turned to the wall that in his office would always hold the massive television that would be constantly playing the latest from VNN, or ShroomSat broadcast. The wall was there, but there was no television, there was only a radio sitting upon an end table.

This sent the Chairman’s mind into overdrive, Q had chosen to alter the deal, and the Chairman prayed Q would not alter it further. He was back in the game, and this game was new. He sat back down to try and reorganize his memories, the memory of his previous life was still flashing before him. He remember the moon base, FASTA, the FUN, the MESS, the Civil War, he remembered it all, but he could not remember this reality, he could not remember how he had made it into this position, or what the position actually was.

He would have to look at the facts he instinctively knew, the year was 1924, the last days of 1924, and he was in an office in The Hague, in a Union of Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg. He was originally an American citizen, though he was now a citizen of the Union. He had previously been the Minister for Security for six years for the previous chairman, where he had obliterated and rebuilt the Union’s government to the point where he would be the Chairman after the death of the incumbent. He could recall, slowly, his actions that led to the murder of the former chairman, and the words spoken to him by that same man whom he would later kill, “This, Mr. Michaels, is why I have chosen you to be my heir, to be my political switchblade, to paint the room in the guts of both the enemies of the state and my enemies. Not because you issue any personal loyalty to me, but because you would only kill me when you know you can do better.”

Mr. Michaels, now sure in whom he was, where he was, and when he was, stood up to pace a lap around his “new” office. The office was a simple office, nothing of note was hung on the walls, and nothing on the desk seemed to mean anything. Reports littered the desk, and folders sat half-opened. The desk was the desk of a bureaucrat, not a showman, or a politician, simply a worker’s workspace, optimized for operations at the cost of appearance, et cetera.

The office, devoid of personality, was also the office of a spymaster, of a man whose projects were based in the liquidation of assets, human. Mr. Michaels, as the former monarch/chairman-elect should refer to himself as, was a former Minister for Internal Security, like the FBI, the KGB, and other policing units within a country, his position was politicized. He was the end result of dirty Trade Union practices, he organized strikes, order assassinations, prepared riots, extorted employers, beat enemies, and other deplorable, but necessary actions to maintain the function of the Syndicalist State.

His career, and his aforementioned discussion with the Chairman, led him to take the reigns of the country in an odd manner, after the death of the Chairman, he had expected the Deputy Chairman, newly elected Jeremy vanHumbeck, to lead the country to the end of the term, but the Deputy immediately called for an emergency Special Election for chairman, which Mr. Michaels’ Centrist Coalition won by allying with the right-wing Modernist Front.