Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

No, citizens, I don't believe that excuse at all! If any scoundrel dares to speak ill of the American people, I'll be the first to object! Tell me, do you object or not?!

"No way!!!" The roar of tens of thousands of people in the stadium swept across America.

"Do you know who owns the factory that fired our dear Bill?"

No one answered, and he didn't want anyone to answer.

"It's a company in Tokyo. I won't say the name, because no one will remember it anyway. There are as many companies like that as rats in the New York sewers, so there's no need to waste everyone's precious memories."

The laughter in the tavern this time was a bit harsh.

"They even changed the sign at the factory gate. Bill—who's worked there for nineteen years—now has to walk up to that sign he can't understand and queue up to ask if they're still hiring! Ridiculous! Absurd!"

He paced back and forth on the stage a couple of times.

"Then those people in Washington tell you, this is called the free market, this is called globalization, this is the historical trend and you have to learn to adapt."

He stopped: "Adapt! I especially love hearing this word. If your house is emptied out, and the police come but don't arrest the thieves, they'll instead advise you to adapt?"

“I’m going to tell you something that those guys in Washington don’t know.”

I know Japanese people. I've done business with them many times, and no one here knows them better than me—they come to my office, bow, smile, and are incredibly polite.

'Trump-san, Trump-san'—"

Trump first squinted his eyes, then bowed deeply on stage, which made the audience burst into laughter.

"—Then they'll eat you alive, skin and bones. I don't blame them! I respect that! Their people won for their country, while our people lost for you! It's not your fault, your enemy is in Washington!"

"Damn it, I'm telling you the truth. Those politicians are lying to you. What kind of people did Washington send to negotiate?"

People who have never signed the front of their payslip in their entire lives. Do you know the difference between the front and back? The one who signs on the back is the one receiving the money; the one who signs on the front is the one distributing it. These people are negotiating for you; sitting across from you are the world's shrewdest businessmen.

"Is there any need to fight this war?"

"Oh, and of course, our dear President Reagan! Let's applaud his brilliance, wisdom, and achievements in combating the threat of communism!"

Boos erupted from below.

“Don’t boo, don’t boo, he’s not a bad guy, Reagan was a very good man, believe me,” Trump waved his hand, looking sincere. “He was just useless.”

"This guy has been talking about Japan, Japan, Japan for ten years, more vehemently than anyone else. He's been president for eight years now, hasn't he? Eight years!"

The Japanese have more American cards in their hands than at any other time in history. Where have our cards gone? Who stole them? Or sold them off?

“Many people ask me, Donald, what are you after? You don’t need this. Yes, I don’t need it. I’m very rich, I’m extremely rich.”

The audience was laughing, while Donald on television was extremely agitated: "Do you know what this means? It means nobody can afford me. The lobbying money won't reach me, the money from Tokyo won't reach me!"

I don't need to call anyone to ask for a single penny!

None of those guys in Washington would dare say that to you standing in front of them.

He walked to the folding table, stopped, and looked down at the radio as if he were looking at an enemy.

Toshiba.

He read the sign aloud and held up the radio to the camera.

"Three years ago, this was the company that sold the machine tool to the Soviets, the very machine tool that made Soviet submarines quiet."

I understand the Soviets. No one understands the Soviet Union better than me. No one understands communism better than me. I know how to deal with them, how to deal with those who want to buy our country.

What did Congress do then? A few members smashed one of these things with hammers in front of the Capitol, took photos, and then went to dinner with Toshiba's lobbyists that evening. Fines? Cancelled. Sanctions? Vanished.

Now—now Washington is asking them to buy your factory!

Tell me, aren't these American traitors, collaborators, national scum, enemies of freedom, wicked?! Tell me, aren't they wicked?! Shouldn't we drive them out of America?!

He placed the radio back in the center of the table, straightened it, and took a half-step back. Someone handed him a large sledgehammer from the side of the station.

No one spoke at the scene, and no one spoke in the tavern either. The two people playing darts in the corner turned around and looked at the TV.

"boom!"

The plastic and metal shattered together, fragments flying into the spotlight beam, and a piece of the outer shell flew a long way, causing the crowd to erupt in cheers.

Trump slung the sledgehammer over his shoulder, glanced down at the mess on the table, then looked up at the audience and grinned:

"Any more? Are there any more in the backstage area? Bring me another one!"

The crowd had truly gone mad this time. Some people started shouting his name, and he raised his hand to try and calm it down, but he couldn't stop the tide of the people. He just stood there with his hand raised, letting them shout.

Only after he had shouted enough did he lean closer to the microphone and utter each word carefully:

"As long as I, Donald Trump, stand here—they won't take a single penny away from me!"

The scene cuts back to the studio. The host adjusts his glasses and gives a wry smile to the guest next to him: "Okay... that was Mr. Trump in Denver. Denver, what do you think of this theatrical style—"

"Fuck you, shut it down!" someone shouted from the bar. "Or let this bastard finish talking!"

The bartender turned the volume down considerably.

Wayne looked down and found his wine bottle hanging in mid-air. His hand was clenched into a fist, and his knuckles were white.

He'd barely voted in his life. He couldn't tell the difference between Gerphart and George H.W. Bush in office, and he never listened to a single word of their speeches for more than a minute. But he understood every single word Trump said.

Because what Trump shouted on stage was the same thing he had been cursing in his heart for the past six months.

The Japanese stole our jobs!

The Japanese stole our money!

The Japanese stole our country!

Someone nudged his arm. It was Lao Lei; this foreman in the forging workshop had lost his job half a month earlier than him.

Old Lei's eyes never left the TV: "When is this guy coming to Ohio?"

Just then, the tavern door was pushed open, and the new Japanese manager from the Mitsubishi factory entered.

He was a Japanese man in his forties, dressed in a clean suit. He was probably looking for someone, or just passing by and wanted a drink. He walked into this smoky bar, packed with unemployed workers, as if he had wandered into the wrong place.

He asked the bartender something in heavily accented English.

The tavern was silent for a second.

The Japanese manager complained as he spoke, saying that the reason he was working so late was because "the American workers were too lazy."

"Fuck you! Get out, you Japanese dog!" "Beat him up!"

This sentence was like a lit match thrown into gasoline. The first to act was a worker who was half-drunk and sitting at the bar. He kicked the Japanese manager in the shin, and the Japanese man lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Then the whole tavern exploded.

It's unclear who threw the first glass. The glass shattered on the floor, splattering amber liquid everywhere. Someone overturned a table, someone grabbed a chair and charged, someone rushed over, grabbed the collar of the Japanese man still lying on the floor, lifted him up, and punched him in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, splattering onto his white shirt.

Wayne stood there.

He was surrounded by a group of people just like him—people who had lost their jobs, lost their families, stood in relief teams, and watched their factories being bought by the Japanese.

They were fighting. Not just the Japanese man—they were fighting each other too. It wasn't a targeted brawl; it was a group of people pushed to their limits, fueled by alcohol and anger, unleashing all the pent-up, pent-up, and insane rage they had been holding back for over a year!

The battle was exhilarating!

Wayne's mind flashed through his wife and his children—his daughter was seven years old, and the last time he called, his daughter called out "Daddy" on the other end, and his mother-in-law hung up.

He thought of the Bolívar Steel Works, of the sweat he had shed there over the past nineteen years, of the English sign that had been removed and replaced with a Japanese one, and of what his father had told him when he was a child—

“Wayne, as long as you are willing to work hard and put in the effort, this country will not treat you unfairly.”

No! To hell with it! This country has wronged him!

A fiery passion began to rise within me.

He rushed out of the pub and saw a white Toyota parked in the parking lot outside. Wayne didn't know whose car it was; maybe it belonged to the Japanese manager, or maybe it belonged to someone else in the pub.

He doesn't care.

He saw a U-lock on the ground outside the tavern, picked it up immediately, and walked toward the white Toyota.

"boom!"

He swung the U-lock and smashed it against the car window; the glass fell down like ice.

"boom!"

The second blow hit the hood, leaving a dent.

The third time, the fourth time, the fifth time.

He smashed it harder and faster, the U-lock in his hand like a flag. With each strike, he shouted something—he himself didn't know what he was shouting. Maybe it was "Get out," maybe it was "This is our country," maybe it was nothing at all, just venting.

The alarm went off, and Wayne continued smashing the car amidst the screams until all the windows shattered, the hood was twisted, and the doors were riddled with dents and scratches. The other drunks in the pub rushed out, vandalizing everything in sight; some stuffed strips of cloth into bottles of liquor and threw them into the street, and fires broke out everywhere.

The fire grew larger and larger, with black smoke and orange flames billowing into the night sky.

Wayne Michko stood panting in front of the fire, unaware of what he had done, unsure of what would happen next, and wondering if his life would be completely consumed in this flame.

He knew only one thing—he had found the savior of America.

...

Meanwhile, in Washington.

Hundreds of miles away from Youngstown's pubs and parking lots, in another world, a different kind of deal is taking place.

The U.S. Congress is negotiating with Japanese capital. Japanese agents are sitting in Washington conference rooms with huge sums of money, and their ambitions extend far beyond a few factories.

They want to inject capital, to raise funds, to deeply embed Japanese capital into the bones of the American economy. Japanese banks and insurance companies have swelled into behemoths during the bubble economy—seven of the world's top ten banks are Japanese! They have so much money they don't know where to put it!

The United States, a superpower currently struggling to recover from its ruins, is desperately short of money, while the Japanese happen to have plenty. The logic of capital transactions is that simple.

But Japan wants more than just financial returns.

They also raised the issue of military defense cooperation—Japan wants the United States to allow Japan to independently develop its next-generation fighter jet.

This would have been unthinkable before. Since the end of the war, the United States has kept a tight grip on Japan's military development—Japan was only allowed to have a Self-Defense Force, not a regular army. Japan was only allowed to buy weapons and equipment from the United States, and was not allowed to manufacture anything too advanced on its own.

The United States does this partly to prevent Japan from emerging as a military power again, and partly to treat Japan as a major long-term customer for American arms.

But the United States is desperately short of money right now.

The Japanese laid out the money on the table. They said, "We can invest a large sum of money to jointly develop the next generation of fighter jets with you. We'll provide the funding, and you'll contribute some of the technology. American defense contractors really need this kind of money, don't they?"

军工企业太懂国会了，70年代格鲁曼收到了700多架F14的订单结果国会毁约，要不是伊朗接了单子格鲁曼差点要倒闭了。后来的C17运输机、F22、B2轰炸机全是这样。

The spokespeople for the defense industry knew how outrageous Congress's budget and promises were, so the members of Congress who had received donations nodded in agreement. They desperately needed the money.

As for the fact that Japan obtained the fighter jet technology it needed and took a step towards military autonomy, they couldn't think about the cost for the time being.

Historically, Japan also considered using this opportunity to develop its own aircraft, but was forced by the United States to purchase F-16s. In this particular timeline, Japan might have been able to be even bolder...

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Following the announcement of the Plaza Accord II, the populist wave in the United States reached its peak.

The phrase "America First" has become the loudest voice in the country.

Dick Gephart won the Democratic primary. Standing on stage, pumping his fist, he declared, "We forced the Japanese to sign this agreement, and they're finally starting to pay back our hard-earned money!"

While Trump's meddling on the Republican side may not have the same momentum as George H.W. Bush, his name is far more well-known among the unemployed workers in the Rust Belt.

The videos of those smashing Japanese goods were repeatedly played on television—the blond man wielding a sledgehammer and standing amidst the debris became a hero in the hearts of countless angry American workers.

Thousands of kilometers away in Tokyo, the Japanese also achieved their goal with satisfaction.

For years, the Japanese have lived within a framework: Japan only has a Self-Defense Force, not a military. Japan's security depends on the protection of the United States; Japan is a member of the American camp, and its most loyal and obedient little brother.

The United States, currently mired in the Great Depression, can barely take care of itself. How long can its protective umbrella last? Nobody knows. The Plaza Accord II further taught the Japanese business community one thing—the United States is not your friend, but your master; it can turn on you at any time and cut you off at any time!

Within this framework, you are a domesticated slave; when you are slaughtered is up to your master.

Meanwhile, the Soviet Union to the north opened a door. Japan had hoped that Bush's administration would ease tensions with Japan, but the Democratic Party's blue flag swept through swing states, and the new president's attitude toward Japan led many Japanese companies to consider withdrawing from the United States.

Since the United States was unwilling to provide Japan with a direction for industrial development, the Soviet Union became the next option.

Japan seemed to have developed a strange illusion between the US and the USSR, that both sides desperately needed it, as if the world couldn't function without it! The Great Japanese Empire had an economy second only to the United States and was favored by the Soviet Union, so why couldn't it try to liberate itself?

The joint development agreement for the next-generation fighter jet secured in Washington provided the final piece of the puzzle for Japan's ambitions.

Perhaps Japan could possess its own military.

Perhaps Japan doesn't have to be the junior member in that framework forever.

Perhaps Japan could tentatively move towards military autonomy.

Maybe--