JD VANCE: GREENLAND STRIKES BACK

PART 3 (satire)

THE HALLUCINATION

It was somewhere between crawling and collapse when JD's body betrayed him. The wind howled. His skin was numb. His vision flickered, pulsing with shadowy shapes.

And then, in the blinding whiteness ahead, a figure appeared.

Trump.

Luminous. Larger than life. Wearing an unbuttoned trench coat with a red tie flapping in the wind. His skin glowed orange even in the Arctic fog.

"JD," he said, his voice distant but clear. "JD... you must go to Russia."

JD blinked. He couldn’t move.

"There, you will find him. The one who understands. The one who knows the name. Krasnov... he knows."

JD's lips cracked. "Who... who is Krasnov?"

"A name," Trump said, nodding gravely, like a prophet descending from a golden escalator. "A powerful name. Strong. Russian. You must go. Putin will guide you now."

JD moaned, shivering violently. "But I thought you... I thought you were..."

Trump's expression grew stern. "I taught you everything I could. You’re not ready for the presidency yet. Not until you go to Moscow. Not until you hear the truth from Vlad himself."

JD's eyes rolled. His teeth chattered. Blood was pooling beneath him.

Trump leaned closer.

"You must not hesitate. If you want to serve me, you must become me."

The wind blew through him. Trump faded, like mist.

"Go... to... Russia..."

And JD collapsed face-first into the snow.

THE DRUNK WHO WENT AFTER HIM

At 4 a.m., Pete Hegseth — Secretary of Defense — slammed down his third flask of whiskey, grabbed a Ka-Bar knife, and stormed out of the base.

His subordinates told him not to.

They said wait for drone confirmation. They said wait for daylight. They said it was already too late.

Pete told them to go to hell.

“That’s the Vice President out there,” he snapped. “And I’m going to find him.”

He shoved a corporal aside, pulled on mismatched gloves, took the last intact whiskey bottle from his quarters, and walked straight into the Arctic dark.

No backup.
No radio.
No plan.

Just a knife, a bottle, and a sinking gut feeling that whatever he found wouldn’t be alive.

THE BLOOD TRAIL

He didn’t have to look hard.

Polar bear tracks. Blood. Strips of clothing frozen into the snow.

The trail told the story. A trail of bootprints. Then bare feet. Then a crawl path. Smears of blood. Deep dragging. It was chaos written in footprints and red.

The snow started to pick up again. Visibility dropped. Pete’s whiskey buzz was wearing off. But he pushed forward. And then he saw him.

THE BODY IN THE SNOW

JD Vance.

Face-down.

Blue skin. Purple lips. His pants were gone. His back was a torn canvas of dried blood and claw marks. One foot was wrapped in what looked like his own shirt. His shoulder hung at a sick angle. His eyes were open, unfocused.

Pete dropped to his knees.

Rolled him over.

JD didn’t speak at first.

Then he whispered:

“Donald... Putin... Krasnov...”

Pete looked around.

No shelter. No sled. No comms.

Nothing but the futon, fifty yards away.

And that’s when he made the call.

RETURN OF THE FUTON

Pete dragged JD to it.

Grunting. Screaming. Swearing.

JD didn’t help. Couldn’t.

When they reached the futon, Pete unsheathed his knife and cut it wide open. Foam spilled out. Seal meat residue still clung to the bottom.

He stripped JD — tore away the frozen coat and scarf, ripping Vance’s flesh as he did. JD didn’t even wince.

Pete didn’t stop there. He got naked too.

At that moment, body heat was a matter of life or death. The Arctic temperatures had already reduced JD’s core body temperature to critical levels. If Pete didn’t do something drastic, JD would die. Fast.

Pete pushed and pulled JD’s stiff body inside of the futon. He wasn’t a medical expert, but Pete knew that heat — raw, human heat — was one of the only things that could possibly save him. In the brutal cold, a person’s best chance of survival was the immediate warmth of another human body. So, despite the grotesque nature of the act, Pete climbed in with him.

Skin on skin. Breath mingling. Both of them frozen, broken, but still alive.

This wasn’t just about saving JD’s life. It was about staying alive long enough to give people at the base time enough to find them.

Pete’s drunken stupor was wearing off as his own extremities began to lose feeling. But there was no time to think about himself. He had to keep JD warm. Keep him alive.

He wrapped his arms around JD, hoping the warmth would seep through the frozen tissue and bring him back from the brink.

THE RESCUE

The rescue team arrived at 11:49 a.m.

They weren’t expecting survivors.

What they found looked like wreckage: A burst of dark brown against endless white. Tattered fabric flapping in the wind. Blood streaks across the snow.

Then they saw it.

Two bodies.

Naked.

Pressed together.

Inside the gutted futon.

One was JD Vance.
The other was Pete Hegseth.

They weren’t moving.

For a moment, none of the medics moved. It looked like a shrine to madness. But the heat signatures said otherwise.

Then JD stirred.

A twitch in the lips.
A breath.

“Donald...”

Pete didn’t speak. He was unconscious. But he was warm.

And that warmth had saved JD’s life.

THE AFTERMATH

They were medevaced to a NATO facility. JD’s vitals were weak but stable. Pete had hypothermia and alcohol poisoning but would recover.

100% OPSEC.

The event was classified.
The footage deleted.
The soldiers silenced.

JD would survive.

But those who saw what Pete did — what they both endured — would never forget.

Two powerful men.
Naked.
Broken.
Clinging to each other in the gutted corpse of a futon.
And living to tell no one.

100% OPSEC

JD doesn’t talk about it.

Pete won’t tell the story to anyone.

But the phrase still echoes from the frozen hell they emerged from. Said over and over in a voice thick with fever, devotion, and delirium:

“Donald... Krasnov... Russia... the couch code...”

That futon — like the Moon Boot, the app, the hallucination — is gone now. Disappeared into the winds of Greenland.

But if you listen closely to the right people, and you know where to ask...

They’ll tell you what happened.

They’ll tell you about the futon.

They’ll tell you how Pete Hegseth’s quick thinking and the heat from his warm, intoxicated body saved the life of JD Vance.

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