JD VANCE: GREENLAND STRIKES BACK

PART 1 (satire)

THE DISAPPEARANCE

It wasn’t unusual for Vice President Vance to keep his movements low-profile, especially during tense foreign trips. But this — this was something else. He didn’t notify the Secret Service. He didn’t schedule a security escort. He didn’t inform Usha, his wife, who had already gone to bed after a long day of diplomatic briefings and strained photo ops.

There was no goodbye. No “I’ll be back soon.” Only silence.

The last image of him captured by the base’s security cameras showed JD slipping out a side door of the Pituffik installation at 8:03 PM. The footage is now classified, but those who’ve seen it describe it as “eerie” — a grainy shot of the Vice President dressed in a heavy brown parka, scarf wrapped tightly around his face, and an unmistakable pair of adult-sized Moon Boots from the 1980s.

Moon Boots. The kind kids used to wear in Midwest winters — puffy, synthetic, useless outside of sidewalks and ski resorts. They weren’t military issue. They weren’t appropriate for the conditions. And yet he wore them anyway.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted to disappear — to walk away from the structured, heavily controlled world of base security, public scrutiny, and geopolitical pressure. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be recognized. No one knows. What’s certain is that he walked out into the snow alone, under cover of darkness, and vanished into a landscape that can kill a man in under an hour.

And no one noticed he was gone — not for hours.

THE APP THAT LURED HIM

The app didn’t have a name most people would recognize. It wasn’t available on mainstream platforms in the U.S., and it certainly wasn’t vetted by any government security protocols. It had the quiet look of something meant to slip past scrutiny — a spartan interface, minimalist branding, location-based listings that seemed innocuous unless you knew what to look for.

Technically, it was a furniture marketplace. But the language in the listings was ambiguous, coded, sometimes disturbingly intimate. There were references to “private meetups” and “hands-on inspections.” Some images included furniture, others blurred figures in the background. It operated in a legal gray zone — part collector's hub, part underground rendezvous tool.

JD Vance had installed it earlier in the trip. That much we know from metadata pulled from his confiscated phone. It’s unclear how he found it or whether someone suggested it to him. But the app's GPS was active that night, and logs show he spent nearly 20 minutes scrolling through listings before selecting one: a futon. Brown, worn, listing description written in broken English. “Fold two ways. Strong. Meet now. Bring warm.”

It was marked as “free,” but the coordinates tagged it more than two miles away from the nearest structure — out in the tundra. No road access. No trails. Just ice, wind, and endless, flat, silent snow.

Why did JD click it? Was he under the impression it was a real offer? Was he curious, ashamed, tempted? No one can say for certain. But whatever his reasoning, he left the base just minutes later — parka zipped, scarf up, Moon Boots snug, app still open in his hand.

There were no messages exchanged through the app. No chat logs. No contact from the seller. Just those coordinates — a blinking pin in the middle of nowhere.

And JD followed it.

Straight into the dark.

THE CREVICE

Roughly forty minutes after leaving the base perimeter, JD Vance encountered a natural hazard that should have killed him outright.

The Greenlandic tundra is riddled with invisible death traps: glacial fissures hidden by snowdrift, some narrow enough to escape notice, others wide enough to swallow a person whole. At night, with no guide, no satellite gear, no thermal vision, and only a dim flashlight from his phone — JD was walking blind.

At 8:47 PM, his GPS tracker — later retrieved from his phone — shows a sharp deviation from his intended path. Analysts believe this marks the moment he fell.

He didn’t plummet to his death. He caught himself.

How? No one knows. Perhaps the edge was just shallow enough. Perhaps a buried ledge broke his fall. What’s clear is that he went in, briefly, and climbed out, dragging one leg behind him and losing his right Moon Boot in the process.

When military rescue teams traced the scene hours later, they found deep drag marks leading away from the crevice. One bare footprint. One bootprint. A smear of blood. A single Moon Boot half-buried in a snowbank beside the drop — unreachable without mountaineering gear.

He didn’t try to retrieve it. He didn’t turn back.

He fashioned a crude wrap for his bare foot, likely from the sleeve of his inner jacket. The material was frozen stiff by the time somebody found him. It had fused to his skin. The sock underneath had already iced over, bonding to raw flesh. His foot — blue-gray, half-numb — somehow continued to move.

JD Vance pressed on.

Through the pain. Through the dark. With one boot, one foot exposed, and a rapidly worsening limp that grew more pronounced the closer he got to the futon.

He should have turned around. He should have called for help.

But he didn’t.

Because he was still chasing something.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

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