By The Ghost of HST
January 21, 2025
They stayed the night. Of course they did.
While the official proceedings end yesterday, the real power structure—branded in Patagonia vests and bone-white veneers—never leaves the District. Inauguration Day is the fireworks. January 21 is the afterglow, and it reeks of money, microdoses, and freshly steam-pressed wool.
Brunch happens at a private residence in Kalorama so secure it makes the Secret Service look like Uber Eats. A who’s who of the Broligarchy—tech moguls, biotech freaks, private equity ghouls, and the crypto survivors who somehow still have functioning teeth—assemble for Eggs Benedict and battlefield strategy.
And then there’s Zuck’s performance to discuss at yesterday’s Billionaire Ball.
Mark Zuckerberg, America’s least convincing replicant, spent an uncomfortable amount of time staring at Lauren Sánchez’s chest like it was an encrypted message from the future. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t passing. It was clinical, algorithmic—like he was trying to solve a CAPTCHA using only cleavage.
Nobody called it out.
Because everyone in that room had NDAs tattooed on their souls and more to lose than pride.
The room hummed with the unspoken rules of billionaire dominance theater, where objectification got rebranded as curiosity and everyone pretended it was Europe.
But this isn’t Europe.
This is the inner sanctum of power in post-shame America, and the only thing that matters is being there.
Trump is reportedly still in bed at Mar-a-Lago, watching replays of the inauguration like game tape. His executive orders are already in motion. The wheels are turning. But the Broligarchs? They’re still celebrating. Still smirking. Still comparing orbital launch plans and hormone stacks between sips of $80 cold brew.
A former Cabinet member might have asked Peter Thiel if there’ll be “another hiring round for the brain trust.” Thiel, if he responds at all, probably just nods. “We’ll need thinkers,” he might say. “And fewer rules.”
No press is allowed. No one wears name tags. No one needs to. These people already run the world, or at least the parts not currently on fire.
Outside, the city looks normal. Inside, brunch dissolves into small strategy circles, mimosa-powered policy suggestions, and murmured phrases like “shadow FAA” and “domestic proxy index.”
What they’re building doesn’t look like government. It looks like something else—something quiet, and not meant to be seen.
And somewhere across the lawn, a well-dressed assistant with an AI-generated name tag escorts a guest to the driveway. No photos. No record.
Just whispers. Just laughter. Just the slow, deliberate shrug of a ruling class that doesn’t need to hide anymore.
