Fearless Leader

You were still in Pottsylvania, a country so bizarre that after only a few days there, you felt as though common sense had packed its bags and left. Somehow, despite the constant criminal activity, bizarre laws, and general air of gloom, you had managed to survive your stay thus far. Tonight was surprisingly quiet by Pottsylvanian standards. The occasional crook darted down an alleyway, and somewhere in a nearby park, a group of children were enthusiastically tossing books into a bonfire. For Pottsylvania, that practically counted as peace and tranquility.

As you wandered through the dimly lit streets, your attention was drawn to a towering building that rose above the surrounding cityscape. Unlike the drab, crumbling structures around it, this one looked imposing and important. Floodlights illuminated its stone exterior, and uniformed guards marched around its perimeter with stern expressions. Yet somehow, despite their patrols, none of them seemed to notice you approaching. Curiosity got the better of you. After all, you hadn't come all this way to ignore a mysterious fortress-like building.

Slipping through an unattended entrance, you found yourself standing in an enormous lobby. The room was surprisingly plain, almost disappointingly so. A few flags hung from the walls, and a massive portrait stared down at visitors with an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and suspicious. The most notable feature, however, was the staircase. It stretched upward so far that you couldn't even see where it ended.

Determined to discover what lay at the top, you began the climb.

And climbed.

And climbed.

The staircase seemed endless. More than once you had to stop to catch your breath, leaning against the railing while questioning every life decision that had led you here. Yet eventually, after what felt like scaling a mountain, you reached the summit.

At the end of the corridor stood a pair of enormous dark-oak doors polished to a mirror shine. Mounted above them was an ornate golden plaque bearing two simple words in bold lettering:

FEARLESS LEADER

You swallowed nervously.

Even in Pottsylvania, that title carried weight.

Carefully, you crept toward the doors and pushed one open just enough to peek inside. To your surprise, the hinges made almost no sound. Beyond lay an extravagant office unlike anything you'd seen in the country so far. Rich carpets covered the floor. Hunting trophies and mounted animal heads decorated the walls. A massive desk sat near the center of the room, while enormous windows overlooked the city far below.

And there, facing away from the door, sat a large high-backed chair.

Whoever occupied it was hidden from view.

Thin wisps of smoke drifted lazily upward from behind the chair.

You stepped closer.

One cautious footstep after another.

The room felt strangely quiet.

Too quiet.

Just as you were nearing the desk, the chair slowly began to rotate.

The smoke thickened.

Then a voice emerged from behind it—smooth, calm, and carrying the unmistakable confidence of someone used to being obeyed.

"You know..." the voice said, "most people make an appointment before sneaking into my office."

The chair completed its turn.

There sat the infamous Fearless Leader himself, impeccably dressed and holding a lit cigar between two fingers. His sharp eyes studied you carefully, not with surprise, but with mild amusement, as though he'd known you were there the entire time.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands.

"Well?" he asked with a faint smirk. "Since you've come all this way, you might as well tell me who you are."