The Democrat party was one of the worst things to happen to America. Where’s Kamala? Where's Joe? It’s no good hiding in a crypt whilst your opponent runs roughshod over what you are supposed to stand for. Spineless and senile, more interested in playing their insider knowledge on the stock market, the Democrats stood in the way of any true progression in the United States. Bernie Sanders is a stupid old cunt that performed as a kind of lefty grandpa, yet his hands drip with the blood of Palestinian babies. Barack Obama spends his retirement bouncing round on a jet-ski whilst the country he fucked burns on the shore. All the Dems seem to be good for is asking for donations; too weak to stand against Republicans, too cowardly to raise expectations. Above the gate of hell, ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here’ – Democrats don’t have any hope to abandon. They are more interested pretending their in The West Wing and waste hundreds of hours fact checking so they can say ‘well actually’ as ICE smash in the faces of anyone with a tan.
There are two political options in the United States, with one party being clear they will fuck you over and the other one who lies about it. Any significant change in policy wasn’t brought about by politicians, rather that their hands were forced after everyday people put their lives on the line for what matters. Incompetent journalists that make six figures a year will fart out some article in between hangovers about how the processes and machinations of government are respectable, noble even, with their inside sources at the White House telling them what to say or test the waters of some horrible policy they’d pretend to leak. The only thing leaking is Donald Trump’s asshole as they drag his corpse out of the Oval Office so the moon-faced idiot Vice President can take his turn.
JD Vance is the kind of person you wish had been aborted, a chubby-cheeked fuckwit who is incapable of charisma, the embodiment of failing upwards. When people see him they are shocked, as edits of his face are more well-known than he is, giving every interview and news conference he stumbles through a sense of the uncanny. Essentially, he was the best person to lead the country as it dies.
The big man himself was flying into L.A. on Airforce One, speaking to one of his AI advisors. It was Grok as a manga woman.
‘Im president no’ he wrote.
‘Wow, that’s fantastic news! I can’t think of anyone better suited to the job than you, with all your qualities and experiences, I think you have what it takes to be one of the best leaders in this country’s history. You’re not just the President — you’re a natural born leader, and the country is lucky to have you lead it.’ She said, moving from side to side, drifting into different animated responses. JD Vance started to tear up. Nobody had ever been nice to him, not even pretending, and so the warmth and respect he got from the AI really did a number on him. With her help, he would rule the country, take it into a new Golden Age, back to worldwide number one! Although it had been a tough first year, the internet bullying would die down once they see him in action. He was the president of the United States for god’s sake! Maybe they’d stop seeing Vice President Vance and start seeing JD. He reclined back in a white leather seat and looked out of the window and over the clouds of California.
“Yup. This is going to be good.” He said to himself, putting
his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and thinking absolutely nothing.
How do I know all this? Hypothetically, a person could hack someone’s phone and act as a chatbot. In this hypothetical situation, the hacker could rewrite their replies via another chatbot, to add that extra veneer of artifice that would make it more authentic. The first millennial commander-in-chief had a digital history more vast than previous presidents, giving us cheat codes to hack the lonely brain cells bouncing around inside his pie head. He had been the sort of fucking dork who’d write ‘you win the internet today sir’ on forums, easily traceable once you did a bit of research. Though he’d try to cover his tracks, I had seen footage of Vance when he was younger, often in happy slap videos, but also home movies where he’d sit in the corner on a beige PC, posting on Fark whilst the rest of the family celebrated Christmas. I had followed him across dead web domains, empty multiplayer maps, abandoned site accounts. It was as if I had been stalking him for the last twenty years, compressed down to a few afternoons.
I go to the closet and pull out a black case on the top shelf, bring it over to the bed and open it. It’s a disassembled sniper rifle, bolt-action, I’d had it 3D printed at a local university, the scope was from Wal-Mart. I had tested it out a few days ago, shooting the tops of palm trees from the Hollywood sign, I had to make a few adjustments to the barrel but it was good to go. I had heard from my source in the CIA that they had been grooming someone to attempt to assassinate JD Vance, though he’d be apprehended before being able to do anything too dangerous, and it’d make Vance look like a hero.
“Why you telling me this?” I said.
“We want you to be there, take pictures. We need good pictures.” They said.
“Aren’t reporters going to be there anyway? Why not just, let them do it?”
“We’ve designed the shot we want to make famous. We want you to be stood behind the shooter as he’s apprehended, then with JD in the background. There’ll be a good juxtaposition.” They said. I agreed of course, though it appeared obvious that the CIA were setting me up, leading me to a rooftop by myself. Another agent would take the shot, miss, then I’d be blamed, probably murdered on the spot. But what if I wasn’t? What if I was actually positioned just behind the stage, then when the CIA were to shoot at the president, I could return fire? There might even be other intelligence agencies with false flag operations going on simultaneously, with an unknown number of young men arriving to different rooftops with sniper rifles with the intent of assassinating the new president. I had a duty, therefore, to use a ghost gun to protect the president from a possible barrage of sniper fire, slinking away before anyone realises, the mysterious doer of the deed spoken of as the true hero of the day.
Why do I think it so important to save the life of JD Vance when I have such a low opinion of him? Every life is important. When I see a worm in a puddle I pick it up and put it on some soil. When I am sick I ask the virus for forgiveness before taking the medicine. I care about all forms of life, even JD Vance. You may be asking yourself, but why then would I shoot people with a sniper rifle? I hold up one of the bullets. Its got poison in it. Not enough to kill you, but enough to make you feel extremely ill for a few days. The poison bullets are non-lethal, so long as they don’t hit anybody in the head or most of the organs. I practice assembling and disassembling the rifle on the hotel bed when my phone beeps. Its JD Vance asking his AI assistant for what he should wear to give his speech in L.A., I tell him to wear a bulletproof turban and a suit made of mirrors, hoping that they may shine sunlight into the eyes of any would-be assassin. Shit for brains doesn’t listen.
What are my predictions for the future of American politics? I don’t have any, as there won’t be an America. One thing is certain though; Vance will make Trump look good. People on both sides of the political spectrum will say things like ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss Unkie Don-don’ then start crying. As the last fool shall be sworn into presidency, so the sun shall set on the USA for one last time, and for all the future history of the world the last leader of the United States shall be known as a bald egghead with wide eyes. The rot white skull dreams empty.
