All the pulling together had my fire for Country rekindled after the hangover went away. I re-upped on some going Overseas training for people who can't actually use the word journalism. Even the off, off, off "broadway" headlining journalism types had left.
A tiny woman with a big nose squinted at the photographs in the developing film. "Looks like the remnant," a man said of a lot of us crossing a finish line amidst red flags and MAGA gear. "What's that mean exactly? MAGA. Sounds weird."
"Take this duct tape off my mouth and I'll tell you."
"Six minutes to go, then I will."
"That's how the enemy sees us Americans."
Rikeareric?
"Really. You're too cute to torture." He ripped the duct tape off and asked if it hurt. Eyes poured tears, but I calmly said, "Of course NOT."
"Like we're a relic, yes," the man sighed and picked up a pointy instrument from a set of tools near the chair I was tied to with an electrical chord as a real friend had been in a Casino money heist. "We don't seem like a relic to ourselves. We think we're modern and," he put the pointy instrument down. "Making progress."
"Aren't we? Jeeeez. Everyone I know is sacrificing one way or another.
"I'll just walk you through what we know they've been doing to us. You off to the Middle East or..."
"Not sure I should tell you."
"Well, don't then." He shook his head at the sad routine of meeting new people but not really in any way besides teaching them how awful the world is. His shoulders slumped as he looked at another photo, "Look at everyone smiling for a split-second." All three of us looked at it. "What was it about?" The developer asked. "That one?! Oh, it'll be funny someday, but most of the people in that one, well, had done crash courses in sobriety and not fighting. At least not as nastily as we all were!"
"That's good," the torture expert said. "God knows, the rest of the world is doing a good enough job at that."
"Did you just compliment them?"
"They couldn't hear me, so it doesn't count."
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