Je Suis Moi, as far as he was concerned, was the One of the ones. Indeed, he was blind to ones-in-themselves except as distorted projections of himself accomplished by hermaphroditic discourse with his metaphysical playmate and alter ego, Maya, a dissident We, who was compresent illegally. 

It was with Maya and no other baggage that he reported to San Juan on Trump Island as instructed in his Deportation Order after he had objected to his number, ME-001-69-0088. He had protested not merely because 69 and 88 had an identically obscene implication, that is, a perversely inverted s/he incapable of duplication.  He also resented being numbered at all, as we have previously related, for he feared he would be substantially replaced after the issuance of The Billion Numbers. If new digits were not added to the maximum allowed, his extinction would be inevitable, and that would be the ultimate indignity that any presumably immortal denizen of Melandia could possibly suffer. And, to simply add digits would not do since the numbers were a vestige of the horrors of WE prior to the Great Disintegration, when Every One was Made Great Again. 

Wherefore Je Suis Moi, in disguise as a doorman at Ivanka Beach Casino, had petitioned himself in the form of Moi the Great for the abolition of numbers altogether in order to be his being, Ego, the ultimate reality, without the contradictory existential issues fomented by Maya’s frowns, which caused him to change his mind from day to day.

Worst of all, he had protested in front of the casino, carrying an ambiguous sign that read, “DEATH TO THE SUPEREGO! SUBTRACT THE NUMBERS!” This naturally offended every one that naturally desired to be the One and Only Ego.

Je Suis Moi was naturally depressed as he sat in the Terminal at San Juan Port waiting for the remotely guided ferry to Welandia. After all, he as a Moi would be terminated at his destination. Not a single Moi had ever returned from Welandia. Yet he managed to console himself with the fact that he and only he had caused his deportation. Still the thought that he was leaving Trump Island forever threatened to break his heart. 

Hearts are a thumping nuisance, he thought. Thoughts cause feelings. Think about something else or do not think at all. 

He almost lost control with a sob before he transcended his thoughts by reverting to his a priori Ego. We would not blame him for crying out loud. Trump Island, formerly Puerto Rico, was the perfect place for an ego to be; to wit: Egotopia.

 United States President Donald Trump had made the so-called rich port “really really rich” at the inception of the Great Disintegration and deportation of We’s to Welandia. Two million aboriginal Puerto Ricans were judged to be capable of Civilized Egotism and were relocated to Miami, New York, and Chicago after Hurricane Maria wasted the island. The remainder was deported to Welandia. 

Trump had purchased the beleaguered territory by assuming its debt with the approval of his Congress prior to the Disunion of his United States. The private island was completely made over with the assistance of his Russian partners, to whom he conveyed its title, retaining an undisclosed share of its gross income from all sources in exchange for the permanent use of his brand name.

“Come, Maya,” Je Suis Moi said when the ferry arrived, “it is time to go.”

“I’m so happy we’re going to Welandia, thank you for protesting your number!” Maya exclaimed as she galloped aboard the ferry ahead of him.

xYx