Who wants to be President?
The Universal Equilibrium Protocol.
by Alex Andelonard
Second edition - edited, corrected and with additions.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All third-party trademarks, cultural references, and intellectual properties mentioned or alluded to within this text belong to their respective owners. The author claims no ownership over, or affiliation with, these third-party properties, and their inclusion is strictly for illustrative, narrative, and artistic purposes under applicable fair use and fair dealing guidelines.
«A fairy tale is a lie, but there is a hint in it...» – Alexander Pushkin
«Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.» – Albert Einstein
Max Planck, the founder of quantum theory, explained:
«As a man who has devoted his entire life to the clearest science, the study of matter, I can tell you this much as a result of my research on atoms: there is no matter as such! All matter comes into being and exists only because of a force that causes the particles of an atom to vibrate and holds this smallest solar system of the atom together. We must assume the existence of a conscious and intelligent Mind behind this force. This Mind is the matrix of all matter.»
Some scientists suggest that our universe is actually a hologram—an illusion. In this holographic universe, there is a world of simulated reality called "life on planet Earth," where people are just
electronic characters or personas.
A Voice of Resistance from Cameroon: The Manifesto of Joseph Espoir Biyong
The text presented below is not merely a literary manifesto, but a genuine document of contemporary political struggle. Its author, Joseph Espoir Biyong (Vybe-Mood), is a prominent Cameroonian politician, activist, and municipal official from Douala, widely recognized for his uncompromising stance against authoritarian governance and his fierce defense of democratic freedoms in Central Africa.
This "Open Letter to All Dictators" was born out of an act of exceptional personal courage. Written amid intense political friction—where criticizing the ruling regime meant facing real threats of arrest, legal prosecution, and danger to his own life—the letter instantly transcended its local Cameroonian context. Today, it stands as a universal, international manifesto addressed to any tyranny on the planet.
Biyong employs powerful, unapologetic language, refusing the role of a "submissive slave" and directly accusing repressive regimes of usurping power, systemic corruption, and stealing elections. This message serves as a stark reminder that the voice of a single individual, armed with the truth, is capable of standing up against the colossal machine of state oppression.
With the author's gracious permission, this text is published in an edited version tailored for a global audience, fully preserving the original passion, defiance, and unwavering belief in the ultimate triumph of justice.
Biyong Joseph Espoir: Vybe-Mood
An Open Letter to All Dictators
'Edited for clarity and grammar'
I write to say that I will never be a submissive slave. You forced slavery upon me, but I stand against it. Every day, I will tell you what you already know: your regime is founded on fraud, corruption, and repression.
I will remind you daily that your regime is an affront to democracy and justice. I know that you usurped power, stole elections, and killed and tortured innocents.
I am not asking for your mercy, gentlemen dictators. I demand justice. I demand transparency. I demand that you account for your actions and explain how you grew rich at the expense of the people.
I refuse to remain silent; I refuse to obey. I will continue to speak the truth, remind you of your crimes, and hold you accountable.
You can kill me, but you will never silence me. Truth is stronger than repression, and justice will prevail.
I ask you, gentlemen dictators, to think about your future and your place in history. You still have time to change direction, bring justice to the people, and leave power with dignity.
But if you decide to continue down the path of repression and violence, you will have to bear the consequences of your actions before history. The people will no longer remain silent, and they will no longer obey. They will rise up, they will resist, and certainly they will prevail!
BIYONG JOSEPH ESPOIR: VYBE-MOOD
1.
The clouds dissipated directly over the city park, leaving a perfect, circular gap in the overcast sky. Inside this boundary, the rain stopped instantly, although it continued to drizzle outside the park grounds. The last rays of the setting sun somehow miraculously broke through the veil of clouds, illuminating a park bench where a lonely man sat. Raindrops on the bench and the fallen wet leaves nearby shone with all the colors of the rainbow. Against the gray background of his surroundings, the bench seemed to be from another world. But the man sitting on it, lost deep in thought, did not notice.
Alexey Petrovich was returning home from the prosecutor's office, carrying the heavy weight of another brutal interrogation. And had decided to visit the park, which was completely deserted today because of the bad weather. The investigators had grilled him for hours about his grandson, Anton. Who had been arrested a month ago and accused of plotting to overthrow the government.
Indeed, he was at some demonstration, Alexey had pleaded until his throat was raw. He's a student, he wasn't going to overthrow anyone.
The state didn't care. Ever since Anton's father, Oleg, was killed two years ago in a hit-and-run by the brother of a high-ranking official who escaped all punishment, Anton had gone cold and silent. He buried himself in his studies at the institute, keeping his secrets to himself. Now, those secrets were costing him his life.
"What are the times now?" a voice suddenly asked.
Alexey flinched. The voice didn't carry the usual acoustic resonance of the open air; it sounded flat, perfectly clear, as if spoken directly inside his own mind. He turned his head and saw a weird person in unusual, rather odd clothes sitting on the bench to his left. Even in clear weather, these park alleys were empty, but on a rainy day like this, the park was completely dead.
Where did he come from? Alexey's pulse spiked. He must have approached without making a sound while I was lost in thought. And the phrasing... nobody asks for the time like that.
"The times are challenging... severe now," Alexey answered gloomily, consciously keeping his eyes trained on the gravel path.
"But I believe it's a times for change," the stranger replied.
Alexey looked closer at his neighbor on the bench. The man's clothing was completely devoid of textures, seams, or tags—a deep, light-absorbing black fabric that defied the surrounding dusk. He was entirely bald, his skin an unnatural, alabaster white, and he wore dark glasses that reflected absolutely no light.
He speaks with a bizarre, rhythmic accent—definitely a foreigner, Alexey thought. Apparently, he came from some prosperous democratic republic and does not know what is going on here.
"You must have just arrived here," Alexey murmured, the sheer exhaustion of the day overriding his survival instincts. All of a sudden, he felt a strong urge to share his thoughts. "Is any change even possible in this country? The officials are entirely corrupt; they've built literal palaces for themselves here and abroad while they fatten themselves on our blood. They have crushed the population so entirely that everyone is terrified to whisper. No one trusts the authorities."
"Indeed, I am not from here," the stranger said. His head tilted at a precise, mechanical angle.
"But you have an overly pessimistic attitude toward life. Presumably, there are some troubles. Tell me what is going on here, if it isn't too difficult."
"In fact, there is a major problem. My grandson Anton was arrested and accused of incredible crimes," Alexey said, the words spilling out in a desperate rush. "When he was detained, I thought it was some kind of mistake or stupidity—that they would figure it out and let him go.
They are calling him a terrorist. It's absurd! Can Anton really be a terrorist? It doesn't fit in my head! But I refuse to despair. I know he is innocent, and I will fight to prove it to them, to make sense of everything. There has to be something left worth struggling for."
Alexey Petrovich abruptly fell silent, a cold hand of panic gripping his chest. Why am I telling a total stranger this? For conversations like this, they put you in a cell right next to your family.
After all, his grandson was accused of terrorism.The paranoia deepened. The state was notorious for sending provocateurs to entrap grieving relatives. Yet, looking at the smooth, unreadable face of the man, Alexey felt an unexplainable, deeply buried sense of trust and peace, as if they had crossed paths before.
"I agree with you; the problems are severe, both for you personally and for the country. The times are arduous for human souls right now. Something needs to be done. People can become free whenever they truly want to," the stranger said. "But let's get to know each other." He extended his hand.
After a little hesitation, Alexey Petrovich held out his own. At the moment of the handshake, he felt a slight electric shock. It wasn't painful, but a high-frequency tingling and vibration vibrated straight through his bone marrow, aligning his racing heartbeat to a perfectly calm, steady rhythm. Alexey managed to stammer out his name, but the stranger remained silent, refusing to break contact. Pulsating waves of pure, warm energy began to flow up Alexey's arm, clearing the foggy exhaustion from his brain.
"And my name is Gabrillend," his new acquaintance said at length, his grip releasing as the air around them hummed like a live wire.
Alexey Petrovich felt a strange, deep warmth spread through his veins and flooding his entire body, completely washing away the years of deep-seated exhaustion that had settled into his joints. His thoughts crystallized instantly, gaining an unnatural, almost frightening sharpness. The suffocating fear of a government trap receded, replaced by an overwhelming, almost hypnotic trust in this man. And yet, a habit of looking over his shoulder—built over decades of living in totalitarian dread—forced him to drop his voice to a barely audible.
"But what do you suggest? Go to demonstrations again?" Alexey asked quietly, glancing toward the dark trees bordering the park alley. "They just disperse them in a matter of minutes. People are thrown into police vans and vanish. The newspapers, television, radio all belong to the State —everything is monitored by the System. You cannot speak out. Just a single careless word, a hint of wanting a change in government, that things should change, and you face ten years in a colony. And starting this year, the retirement age was raised again—now it's seventy for both men and women. We see where the money goes.What are people supposed to do when they see how much money the officials who make these decisions spend on themselves? Of course, something must be done. But standard protests have become a trap. Despite the risks, many people still go to demonstrations to protest, but nothing changes. It seems the old procedures no longer work. By all appearances, other, tougher methods of influencing the authorities are needed. But even saying that aloud here... is mortally dangerous."
He abruptly cut himself off, his breath catching in his throat. Such thoughts had been brewing in his head for a long time, hidden away in the darkest corners of his mind. Where did this gift of eloquence and sudden courage come from? a brief flash of panic hit him, causing his chest to tighten. Why am I spilling my soul to an utter stranger?
"If many people think and believe the same things you do, they will be able to achieve a great deal in fulfilling their aspirations and desires," Gabrillend said. "This becomes even more powerful and absolute if they think and act at the same time, with perfect timing, united by a common goal and a shared wish." His voice didn't seem to vibrate his throat; it sounded flat, perfectly modulated, as if it were being projected directly into the air around them."Synchronized action and a shared intent break any artificial barrier. If a critical mass of minds within your population synchronizes to the same frequency, you will achieve exactly what you desire."
Alexey swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the dark edges of the park alleys. "But what can we do? How do we get rid of these dictators who have seized power? How do we break them?" Alexey Petrovich pressed. " The newspapers and the state TV networks claim that, according to polls, the government is supported by eighty percent of the population. You must understand how they get those numbers. Employees from a state-run survey company and men in plainclothes stop random pedestrians right next to a parked police patrol van and ask, 'Are you support the leadership of our country?' Most people guess what's happening immediately and say, 'Of course, we support it ' because they want to go home to their families. And the phone calls? They use your full legal name and ask you point-blank about your loyalty. One mistake, one angry outburst, and they are at your door. One acquaintance of mine was indignant after the retirement age was raised. He said 'no' and tried to argue his rights. He also said a few other things out of indignation. The very next day, they came for him to find out why he was dissatisfied. He tried to argue for his rights again. As he later told me, they took him to an institution that looked like a hospital. They let him out after ten days of unknown chemical injections, and now? Now he trembles if anyone even mentions the authorities. He advises everyone: if someone calls and asks about the government, always say, 'Yes, I support it.'"
Alexey took a sharp breath, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the damp wood of the bench, casting a swift glance over his shoulder before speaking again. "The entire system is created in this country that allows them to take any objectionable person and condemn them for something, to break human souls. Resentment and discontent only provoke new repressive laws designed to discourage people from ever speaking out. All legislation is set up to punish and intimidate. Any criticism of the authorities is deemed a crime against the foundations of State power. And they say the president's words are above the law and above the Constitution. It is madness. Yes... living in our time is a real ordeal!"
He paused, staring into the gloom, before adding, "Is it even possible to change anything through elections? A farce. I doubt it very much. As some politician once said, 'It doesn't matter who votes how; the main thing is who counts the votes and how.' Besides, so many people in this country have been duped by newspapers. Television has simply scorched people's brains with propaganda. They sincerely believe the false state information and will vote for whomever they are told to, for their own executioners."
"And how did people get rid of tyrant rulers in the past?" Alexey mused. "They organized riots, uprisings, and revolutions, during which many people died. Yet, almost every time, another dictator simply replaced the overthrown one, leaving the people out in the cold. Some even pass power down to their relatives like an inheritance. But these rulers are not gods; they are just men. For some, due to illness or old age, their minds begin to fail them, to put it mildly. One can only guess what damage they can do while remaining in power." Alexey Petrovich wondered to himself again where he had suddenly gotten such a gift of eloquence.
"Yes, you are right," said thoughtfully Gabrillend. "Revolutions and wars have never brought people deliverance from tyranny and injustice. But without struggle, there is no progress or development. Right now on this planet, on Earth, there are indeed many problems all over the world because of authoritarian rulers who have been in power for too long. Beyond oppressing their own citizens, their erratic actions threaten the entire world. Their decisions menace the global equilibrium.Therefore, we decided to try another method—a way to get rid of unpopular leaders without bloodshed."
"Who... who are 'we'?" Alexey Petrovich asked, leaning in. "And what is this method?"
"We are the League of Fighters for Justice," Gabrillend replied. His dark glasses reflected nothing, no glimmer of light, as if they were actively absorbing it. The sound of his voice now carried a distinct, rhythmic hum, like the distant vibration of high-voltage wires. "And as for how you can get rid of your country's authoritarian leaders, you will soon learn. Follow the news on TV and the internet."
"I haven't watched TV for a long time," Alexey Petrovich admitted. "My wife only uses it to watch television series."
"Don't worry, you won't miss our message. It will be absolute. Everything changes—sooner or later," Gabrillend said, holding out his hand once more. "Let us say goodbye. It is time for me to leave."
Although Alexey Petrovich had many more questions, he decided not to detain this odd man and extended his own hand. At the moment of contact, he felt that familiar, weak electric shock and tingling sensation. The second shock was far more powerful. A rhythmic, pulsating wave of energy vibrated straight through his bone marrow. Alexey forced himself to stare into the stranger's face. Up close, it became obvious that there were no pores, lines, or blemishes on the man's skin. It was perfectly smooth, marble white against the contrast of his dark glasses, and seemed to actively repel the shadows of the evening. Beneath the surface of that pale skin, a faint, otherworldly bioluminescent glow pulsed gently, perfectly timed with the electric vibration humming through their joined hands.
Why does he conceal his eyes? The thought flashed through Alexey's mind.
As if he had read it, Gabrillend removed his glasses with his left hand.
Time seemed to stand still.
As Alexey Petrovich would later recall, the stranger's eyes were the most extraordinary, supernatural part of his appearance. They were massive. The light blue irises looked like bottomless wells, in the depths of which the black pinpricks of his pupils rhythmically flickered. His eyebrows and eyelashes were so light they were almost invisible.
How long he spent staring into those deep, weird eyes, Alexey could never later remember.
He finally came to his senses as if someone had physically jolted him. He was still sitting on the park bench, but the world around him had grown entirely dark. There was not a single soul to be seen. The rain had picked up again, and the lanterns stretching along the park alley looked like lonely oases of light in the midst of the advancing blackness of the night.
The meeting and conversation with the strange man suddenly felt completely unreal.
Maybe it was all just a dream, he thought, closing his eyes. But the moment his eyelids shut, the image of that face—with its bottomless, bewitching, hypnotizing eyes—burned brightly in his mind.
No, this was not a dream, Alexey thought, dispelling his own doubts. Besides, his right hand was still pulsing with that strange, post-handshake tingling sensation. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a faint, barely perceptible, fading bluish glow on the bench where Gabrillend was sitting. The smell of ozone was in the air.
What a startling look! What amazing eyes! No, I have definitely never met this person before; a face like that is impossible to forget, he mused. Or perhaps we have crossed paths... but not in this life.
Despite the lingering mystery, his mood had improved drastically. The oppressive heaviness that had weighed on his head all day was gone. Although the crisis with his grandson, Anton, remained entirely unresolved, the future no longer looked so bleak.
The walk back home passed like a blur. As Alexey hurried through the rain-slicked streets, his hand still tingling with that bizarre, electric vibration, his mind kept dragging him back to the cold, windowless room at the prosecutor's office from earlier that afternoon.
He could still smell the stale cigarette smoke and cheap floor wax. Investigator Voronov, a thick-necked man with tired, predatory eyes, had sat across from him, tapping a thick manila folder labeled with his grandson's name.
"Your grandson is a romantic, Alexey Petrovich," Voronov had said, his voice deceptively casual. "But romance becomes treason when you start downloading blueprints of government communication hubs. He thinks he's fighting for freedom. We think he's part of a cell trying to blind the state."
"He's a eighteen-year-old student!" Alexey had protested, his own voice shaking as he squeezed his cane. "He was at a rally because his friend invited him. He doesn't know anything about communication hubs!"
Voronov had leaned forward, the smell of peppermint masking garlic on his breath. "Then tell him to start naming the people who gave him the files. If he cooperates, maybe he sees a labor colony instead of a maximum-security prison. If he stays silent, he's a terrorist. And you know what we do to terrorists."
The memory of Anton's pale face behind the iron bars during their brief five-minute meeting—bruised beneath the left eye, staring at the floor in a silent, traumatized refusal to speak—cut through Alexey like a knife.
When Alexey Petrovich stepped through the threshold of his apartment, his right palm was still noticeably tingling. The familiar, comforting scent of frying onions and boiled potatoes hit him, a stark contrast to the fantastic madness that had just unfolded in the park.
"Alexey? Is that you?" his wife called out from the kitchen. Elena stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face was etched with the permanent exhaustion that had settled in ever since Anton's arrest. "You look like you've seen a ghost.You're soaked. What took you so long? Did... did you manage to find out anything at the prosecutor's office?"
"No," Alexey said quietly, hanging up his damp coat. His hands were still trembling, not just from the cold, but from the secret he was carrying. "Just more questions. Just the same questions. They want Anton to name names."
Elena moved closer to take his coat, but suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. She frowned, staring intently at his right hand. In the dim light of the hallway, the skin on Alexey's palm was faintly, ghostily shimmering with that same bluish, subterranean light left behind by Gabrillend. The air around his hand felt unnaturally warm, and a faint, metallic taste of ozone emanated from it, like the smell left in the air after a massive thunderstorm.
"Alexey..." Elena took a step back, her eyes darting in fright between his hand and his eyes. "What is that? What's wrong with your hand? Where have you been?"
Alexey looked down at his own hand, watching the ghostly, translucent blue light pulse beneath his skin like an artificial heartbeat. He squeezed his fingers into a fist, trying to hide the bioluminescence, but the scent of ozone in the small hallway only grew stronger.
"Elena, keep your voice down," Alexey whispered frantically, his eyes darting toward the front door as if the walls themselves were listening. "I wasn't... I didn't mean for this to happen. I was just sitting in the park after leaving the prosecutor's office. My head was splitting."
"You're glowing, Alexey!" Elena's voice rose in a pitch of pure panic, her hands trembling against her apron. "Are you sick? Did they inject you with something at the clinic like they did to your friend? Oh my god, did they follow you?"
"No, no, it wasn't the police. It wasn't the State," Alexey said, gently taking her by her shoulders with his left, normal hand. He guided her away from the door and into the dimly lit living room. "There was a man. A stranger. He called himself Gabrillend. He... he wasn't normal, Elena. His clothes had no seams. His skin was like marble, and when he took off his glasses..."
He trailed off, remembering those bottomless blue wells. If I tell her he looked like an alien, she'll think the investigators finally broke my mind, he thought, the cold reality of his own words hitting him.
"He shook my hand," Alexey continued, trying to sound grounded. "He said he belonged to something called the League of Fighters for Justice. He said they have a way to remove the dictators. To fix this country without a single drop of blood."
Elena stared at him, her face pale, her expression fracturing from fear into deep, painful skepticism. "A league? Alexey, you've been under too much stress. The investigators have been torturing you with questions for weeks. There is no league. Anyone who fights for justice here ends up in a concrete cell or a shallow grave. You met a provocateur. They used a device on you. They want to trap us!"
"It wasn't a trap! Look at my hand, Elena! Look at it!" Alexey held up his right palm. The blue light flared slightly, throwing long, eerie shadows across the old wallpaper of their living room. "He told me to watch the networks. He said we wouldn't miss the signal. He said it would be absolute."
"I don't care about signals!" Elena cried, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "I want our grandson back! I want this nightmare to end! Turn on the television, turn it off, do whatever you want, but please, just tell me you didn't destroy what's left of our family—" She fell silent and sat down on the sofa.
Alexey turned on the TV and flipped to the state-run news network. A stern-faced anchor was reading a report about record wheat harvests, the usual propaganda designed to project absolute stability. Alexey sat down beside his wife, his chest tightening. The minutes ticked by painfully.
The news broadcast ended, transitioning into a documentary about the president's youth.
Was it a trick? Alexey's mind raced, his paranoia flaring up again. Was Gabrillend a government provocateur using some high-tech gadget to mess with my head? Am I losing my mind?
He looked down at his right palm. The skin looked normal, but when he pressed his fingers against his thumb, he could still feel that faint, subterranean hum beneath his skin. He closed his eyes, trying to ground himself, but the moment his eyelids shut, his mind dragged him right back to the bench in the park, to the moment just before they parted.
He remembered asking himself, Why does he conceal his eyes?
In that memory, time seemed to stand still all over again. It's quite strange, but this memory calmed him down.