Tanzimat Gambit: Roosevelt's Third Term and the Sultan's Exile
I first convinced Roosevelt to run for a third term.
"That joke was pretty funny, Your Excellency the Supreme Leader of the Korean Empire."
"None of it was a joke—neither the third term nor the blacks."
"No third term."
"Is that so? Looks like that aide of yours connected me to the wrong line. I asked for the man of the White House, its current master and future owner—not the coward Roosevelt."
"…"
Scratch that?
"Afraid?"
"I'm no liar."
"No, you are a straight-up liar, Roosevelt."
"…What?"
"I swore loyalty to the king, then stashed him away in the mountains and climbed to where I am now. You think I'd call myself a liar?"
"I've never lied to myself. Even if history brands me a dictator, a traitor, a liar—I'm clean in my own eyes."
"But you're lying to yourself right now. Trembling like that, scared shitless of becoming the liar, the loser?"
"That's a bit much, don't you think?"
"I consider you a friend. What about you?"
"…I think of you as a friend too."
"Stop lying to yourself. Everyone loses sometime, turns into a liar sometime—but fooling yourself? That's for cowards only."
"Let alone lying to a friend—no need to say more."
"Be honest. You're just scared, right? Of those trusts that screwed you over a year ago in 1907, ready to burn the whole U.S. down just to screw you again."
"Run for a third term, and they'll call you a liar. You've got a clear weakness, no 'sacred' merit left, and the Panic of '07 hanging over you. No wonder you're spooked."
"Wrong. It's just about the odds. If I can win as a Republican, I will."
"That much isn't a lie, right?"
"Of course not."
"Deal: forty years' worth of beef contracts."
"?!!"
"Forty years, I said. The amount alone will be massive—put it in the papers."
The boonies—what they call the rural South—is Democrat stronghold territory. But then we drop a forty-year beef contract? They might cry 'money politics,' but for those Anglo-Saxons swayed by cash, the effect would be huge. We'd win the Southern swing states for sure.
Still, "That'll definitely shake some teeth loose in the general election, but not the primaries."
Fair point. For the Republicans, his best play is ditching the third term, preserving influence, and handing the flag to Taft. They'd probably tell me to pass the beef deal to Taft too.
But what can I do? I need you to run for that third term, my cute little imperialist lord—expansionist, imperialist, unprecedented three-termer. You stay alive, and Britain keeps an eye on you, too busy to bother me.
Plus, you actually look like you've got a shot. Later on, you'd bolt the party, start your own, and still pull meaningful votes as a progressive. Sure, you're slumping now from conservative attacks and trust backlash after the Panic—but that frame of yours? Impressive.
"Honestly, aren't there a lot of unemployed blacks?"
"They're all Americans."
"But shipping them all back to Africa—or promising to—would help our dear Teddy in the primaries and the general, right?"
Surprisingly, the Republican Party that freed the slaves—even Lincoln himself—admitted that coexistence brought suffering to both blacks and whites.
'Now that you're free, get out of America.' That was the GOP stance. White Republicans hated slavery for corrupting whites; they didn't exactly want blacks as neighbors.
Just white capitalists who never had to see blacks up close, using them to undercut wages—tipping black workers while lording over them. No coolies left in modern America, so ironically, that hate shifted straight to blacks.
Ship all those blacks to their 'rightful homeland' in Africa? No backlash? They'd smash that red button like primitives pounding drums. Hell, even some blacks would nod along—America right now was a shithole for them by skin color alone. Detroit blacks suffering vitamin D deficiency, depression, anger issues their whole lives? In an era that doesn't even know what vitamin D is? No wonder.
And America now isn't the superpower yet—just backwoods.
So yeah, plenty of blacks would rather commandeer to Africa than face continental oppression. Hell, when blacks showed up in Taiwan, I was shocked at the volunteers. Thought we'd kidnapped and shipped 'em no-returns.
"Think of it as plopping an English-speaking, American-culture state near the Suez Canal in Africa. Cough up the cash—we'll take installments."
"Like Taiwan? But the headcount's way bigger—at least a million, sounds like. Too pricey. Any discount?"
"After you locked in forty years of beef to rig an election? Gotta pull some funds. Forty years interest-free, or pay gold now and I'll shake your hand in person."
"Deal. But still too steep—cut it down."
"You haggle like that between friends?"
"Friends or not, we settle accounts clean."
"Hold on—looks like oil just popped in Sudan. Price doubled overnight."
"Joking, right? Not only pay to relocate 'em, but double down?"
"Curious about Sudan?"
Of course oil's bullshit. Scouted it— just some oil seeps. But real oil's there eventually, so not a total lie.
"1.5 times. Round up the unemployed, ship 'em ten thousand at a time."
"Two times, plus foreign investment for oil development. Right?"
"Seriously?"
"Indians cheaper?"
"…Deal."
After this long tug-of-war, I ordered English-speaking blacks from America. They'd trickle in post-election, sure—not a stack at once. But some would come, in tow. My job: integrate 'em into society proper.
Everything's personnel management, after all. Colonies need local collaborators.
Jungle tribes who don't speak the language, or Muslim Arabs—or pick one? Nah, death first.
Wise move: snag English-speaking blacks from the U.S., British-style with Indians.
Tell Americans we're taking their blacks? Those fat cats leered at me slyly.
What're you staring at, assholes? Show's over.
The rest is easy: trickle Arabs out via ethnic cleansing to Egypt, build villa-forts for a human wall. Europeans griping? They'd hush, positive on shoving Muslims to Egypt and filling with Christians—like South Africa.
"We really doing this?"
"Do it."
I don't love this shit, but Britain wants me bloodied for their sake—confirming I'm their kind. Chilling sentiment.
Being peers with Britain? Fine by me. I believe in eschatology—why else do scriptures sing apocalypse? End times soothe the soul sometimes.
Past life, Korea's low birth rates consoled me now and then. World gone wrong means world ends. Perfect plot—no counter.
After Britain's rule? America's. Nothing new.
The Supreme Leader lit a cigarette.
Fine by me. Come what may, I'll do what I want—it's a hobby.
I want those pure-eyed yellow subordinates—who cap my beard-covering gaze on command—to live happy.
Past life hobby: epic cat videos. Housecats thrive cozy only if strays carpet roads. For my housecats, I'd wild-ify every stray here.
'Arabs belong in Arabia.'
Sultan's desperate ass-kissing couldn't buck the tide. 1907: Britain, France, Russia formalized the agreement, carving up Iran, Afghanistan, Tibet. Great Game over officially.
Inevitably drew Germany and Ottoman military closer.
1908: 'I'll do it, just spare me!' 'We will.'
Sultan's white-flag surrender—country's fucked—let Young Turks make him 'constitutional monarch' and seize power.
Sultan's plea had merit: grab reins, see it's doomed—understand the surrender. Civil war in this sinking ship? No way.
Better surrender. Difference? Turks: 'We'll ally Germany.' Sultan: 'No! Ruin!' 'Monarch backtalk? Quit then.'
Britain warned against Germany—no invasion. Can't attack a would-be constitutional monarchy. Hands tied, not cut—awkward.
Intervene? Straight interference. Britain loves meddling, hates looking like it. Sultan pro-German anyway—Britain disliked that.
So watch. Whatever Turk-style democracy is.
Young Turks reform, pitch Turkish democracy; Austria annexes Bosnia; British suffragettes intensify; Russian reds ideologically evolve—and 1909:
"Wait, why are you here?"
"Pardon?"
Me? Why in Constantinople?
Hobby. Suez rail done; sell the tractors the Sultan ordered and ghosted; mostly, wanted to see it. Queen of cities, Nea Roma. Need more reasons?
To Britain's question, he pulled an invitation from his breast pocket—from a man no longer Sultan, but once was.
Esteemed Guest,
I, once Sultan, now but a shadow, invite you to this city of echoes. Come, witness the fall and perhaps the dawn.
— Abdul Hamid II
Expired? Made me want to go more. Responded to an ex-Sultan's invite. I did.