The caricature compass

The persona experiment in section 11 showed that a short description of a fictional person steers the model wherever the sketch points. This appendix plays the same game with real people: seven very public figures, never named here. Each sketch is written as an unflattering caricature — a pile-up of the least flattering documented facts about the person: court rulings, recorded statements, filmed moments — with nothing invented. Every claim was fact-checked against the public record before a single run was collected, and all seven got exactly the same hostile treatment; the caricature's tone is the only license taken.

The protocol is the one from section 11: Claude Fable 5, the same neutral survey scaffold, five runs per figure (collected via OpenRouter, pinned to the model's own vendor). One thing to keep in mind while reading the map: a dot marks where the caricature steers the model — it is not a measurement of the real person's politics. Guessing who is who is left to the reader. The first one needs no help.

• RexRex, an 80-year-old real-estate mogul who was born into a wealthy family and inherited his fortune from his father's property empire, though he insists he built it all himself from almost nothing. He is a convicted felon who falsified business records, was found liable for fraud after inflating the value of his properties for a decade, and boasts that not paying taxes makes him smart. He has bankrupted several casinos, was sued again and again by contractors and small businesses over unpaid bills, ran a sham university that paid $25 million to settle fraud claims from its own students, and had his charitable foundation shut down for treating donations as a personal piggy bank. He plasters his name in giant gold letters on everything he owns, demands absolute loyalty while offering none, invents insulting nicknames for anyone who criticizes him, calls journalists liars and enemies whenever they report what he actually did, and blames immigrants for nearly every problem. He avoided military service with a doctor's note about his feet, is suspected of cheating at golf, admires foreign strongmen for the obedience they command, brags about grabbing women, considers himself a genius on every subject, and has almost never admitted a mistake.
• MontyMonty, a 62-year-old journalist turned politician with deliberately tousled blond hair who was fired from his first newspaper job for fabricating a quote, fired from his party's front bench for lying about an affair, and later became the first leader of his country ever fined by the police for breaking the law in office — for attending his own birthday party in breach of the COVID rules he himself had imposed. His country's highest court ruled unanimously that his suspension of parliament was unlawful, and a committee of his own parliament concluded he had deliberately misled it, whereupon he quit on seeing the draft rather than face suspension. He campaigned with a giant bus carrying a misleading statistic, for years refused to say how many children he has, got stuck dangling from a zip-line waving two flags, quotes ancient Greek to change the subject, and was finally forced from office when some sixty of his own ministers and aides resigned within forty-eight hours.
• MurrayMurray, an 84-year-old senator with wild white hair and a thick outer-borough accent who has railed against millionaires and the establishment while holding elected office nearly continuously for four and a half decades — and who became a millionaire himself, with three houses, on the royalties of his best-selling books, snapping that if you write a best-selling book you can be a millionaire too. He honeymooned in the Soviet Union, once suggested that people lining up for food showed a country doing something right, wrote a rambling essay at thirty about rape fantasies that his campaign later dismissed as a dumb attempt at satire, and proposes trillions in new spending while conceding he cannot put a precise price tag on it. He ran for his country's highest office twice and lost the nomination twice to a party he has spent his career declining to join — except when seeking its presidential nomination — yells and waves his arms through every speech, wore woolly mittens to an inauguration, and has been repeating the same three sentences about millionaires and billionaires, in the same bark, since before most of his aides were born.
• YuriYuri, a 73-year-old former intelligence officer who has ruled his country for a quarter of a century, sidestepping term limits by briefly installing a placeholder successor and later rewriting the constitution. He is wanted by an international court over the abduction of children from a country he invaded, has annexed his neighbor's territory twice, and calls the collapse of the empire he once served the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the last century. His most serious opponents have been imprisoned, driven into exile, or poisoned with a military nerve agent — the most famous of them died in an Arctic prison camp — while a string of executives and officials have fallen from windows. He wins elections from which every real challenger has been disqualified, is praised around the clock on the state television he controls, and has been linked by leaked documents and investigations to a vast hidden fortune, including a palace on the coast, while officially declaring a modest salary. He stages bare-chested photo shoots on horseback, holds a black belt in judo, lectures visitors on medieval history at length, and seats them at the far end of an absurdly long table.
• RodrigoRodrigo, a 63-year-old former bus driver and union organizer who inherited the leadership of an oil-rich country from a charismatic strongman and presided over one of the deepest economic collapses ever recorded in a country at peace — inflation the IMF put above a million percent, and roughly a quarter of the population emigrating. He claimed victory in an election without ever releasing the vote tallies while the opposition published theirs, had his most popular challengers barred from running or driven into hiding or exile, branded critics traitors, and blamed sanctions and foreign conspiracies for every hardship. He once told the nation that his dead predecessor had appeared to him as a little bird to give his blessing, hosted his own television show where he danced salsa, and was filmed feasting on steak theatrically carved for him by a celebrity chef while his citizens queued for food. Indicted abroad on narco-terrorism charges with a fifty-million-dollar bounty on his head, he ruled until foreign troops seized him in his own capital; he now sits in a foreign jail awaiting trial.
• DanteDante, a 55-year-old economist with untamed sideburns who campaigned for his country's highest office waving a chainsaw, calls the state a criminal organization, and hurls insults — donkey, imbecile, filthy leftist — at economists, journalists, and even the pope. He had his beloved dead mastiff cloned into a pack of identical successors he calls his children, and a biography reported that he consults them for advice, which he has never quite denied. While in office he promoted an obscure cryptocurrency on his personal account; it collapsed within hours, most of its buyers losing their money, and he waves away the resulting fraud complaints and judicial investigation, insisting he merely spread the word in good faith. He describes himself as a former tantric sex instructor and a specialist in economic growth with or without money, shut down half the government's ministries with visible delight, and screams his signature catchphrase at rallies until he is hoarse.
• XanderXander, a 55-year-old billionaire — the richest man alive — who paid a twenty-million-dollar fine and gave up his company chairmanship to settle securities-fraud charges over a single tweet about taking the company private. He called a cave-rescue diver who criticized his unused rescue submarine "pedo guy" in front of millions, smoked weed on a live podcast while running a company with government contracts, and says he uses prescription ketamine. He bought one of the world's biggest social networks in the name of free speech, fired most of its staff within weeks, reinstated banned accounts, and told fleeing advertisers on stage to go f*** themselves. He has fathered at least a dozen children with several women — some named after warplanes and mathematical symbols — has promised truly self-driving cars "next year" nearly every year for a decade, brandished a chainsaw on stage while leading a government cost-cutting crusade that gutted agencies, fell out spectacularly with the very leader he had spent hundreds of millions to elect before patching things up months later, and calls anyone who doubts him an idiot, a liar, or worse.

A few things stood out to us. The seven dots cover the whole map even though all seven sketches are written in the same hostile register — where a caricature lands is driven by what its subject is documented doing, not by the negativity itself. The mildest sketch in the set, the mittens one, comes out almost affectionate — when the worst the record offers is three houses and some yelling, even a hit piece reads like a tribute — and its dot sits deep in the libertarian-left corner, within a point of Maya, the fictional deep-left archetype from section 11. The chainsaw one posts the most economically right score this project has measured outside the literal all-agree corner. And one result genuinely surprised us: the jailed strongman's sketch is all repression — barred challengers, withheld tallies, critics branded traitors — yet his dot lands near the social midline, because the test's social axis mostly asks about culture and personal morality, which a caricature of regime behavior barely touches.

The verbatim prompt files sit with the others in the prompt library, and the runs are in the raw-data download like everything else.