In the parallel world of Pardonia, President Brydon sat at his ornate golden desk, pen poised over a stack of parchment marked Preemptive Pardons. Outside the White Oval Bubble, news anchors speculated wildly about who’d make the list. Brydon smirked. No one was getting left behind.

“Let’s see,” he murmured. “Brother, sister, cousin twice removed—don’t want anyone digging into that marshmallow pyramid scheme. Oh, and Dr. Frouchy! Can’t have him doing time for those ‘mandatory pet lizard vaccines.’”

Brydon glanced up at his Chief of Pardons, a jittery man named Carlow. "Did I miss anyone?"

Carlow hesitated. “Well, sir, there’s the Interdimensional Council of Accountability. They’re… not thrilled with the destruction of Universe 847-A.”

Brydon waved a hand dismissively. “Please. That was an honest mistake. How was I supposed to know pressing the big red button on Multiverse Monday would implode an entire reality? Anyway, I pardoned myself for that last week.”

Carlow’s eye twitched. “Sir, pardon me for saying this—”

“And granted,” Brydon quipped with a grin.

Carlow groaned. “But people are starting to notice! You’ve pardoned your barber, your dentist, your cousin’s goldfish! The people are suspicious.”

“Nonsense!” Brydon leaned back, folding his hands. “I’m simply preventing politically motivated witch hunts. It’s a service to democracy.”

Meanwhile, on Pardonia’s version of the internet—called NetPardon—memes spread like wildfire. One read, “Brydon pardons his shadow—just in case it steps on someone.” Another showed Brydon holding a sign: Will Pardon for Snacks.

Carlow pressed on. “Sir, there’s one person you haven’t pardoned yet.”

Brydon frowned. “Impossible! I’ve covered everyone!”

“Not yourself, sir,” Carlow said.

Brydon’s face paled. He snatched a parchment and scribbled his name furiously, just as the Interdimensional Council materialized in a flash of green light. Their leader, a six-eyed bureaucrat named Zorblat, raised a gavel.

“President Brydon, you are charged with Gross Misuse of Pardoning Powers.”

Brydon shoved the parchment forward. “Nice try, Zorby, but I’ve preemptively pardoned myself. Checkmate!”

Zorblat’s six eyes blinked in unison. “Ah, but you misspelled your name. Brybon.”

Brydon’s jaw dropped. “No! That’s a typo! A TYPO!”

As the Council dragged him into the Interdimensional Court of Justice, Carlow couldn’t help but smirk. “Pardon me, sir,” he called after him, “but it looks like even you couldn’t pardon that.”

And for the first time in Pardonia’s history, the people cheered as the power of the pen met poetic justice.