I wrote this story back in January 2017. Considering this week’s events in the United States, thought now might be the right time to share it. It’s dark, and reflects what’s happening today.

“This country is gonna be great again!” the voice of Jack Duncan blares from the television set in the lobby. The crowd inside the voting center roars its support and adulation. Pushing through the crowd toward the exit, deafened by the noise, I’m carried with the tide of people around me. I snake my way through the crowd, searching for a route to the door, out of the insanity. I set out this day to vote for Jack Duncan. Instead, I try to survive an increasingly agitated mob. The group of friends with whom I arrived are nowhere to be seen.

I’m pushed to the ground. As I try to rise, I hear a crunch. It takes a moment for the pain to register, and I scream. The agony is intense. I raise my arm over my head to cover my face, and it doesn’t move. I stare at it blankly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see motion, and unconsciousness engulfs me.

~~~
John Talbot Duncan watched as the polls showed him beating that pussy, Hovhaness. John (call me ‘Jack’) Duncan was going to be the next President of the United States. He sat back in his oversized leather chair, swirling a glass of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage Cognac Grande Champagne in his right hand; a Royal Denmark cigar burned in his left.

Lifting the glass, Jack silently saluted the wall of television screens as he took a long puff from the fragrant stick.

~~~
I wake slowly, every inch of my body an aching mass. With a hard, unforgiving surface under my side, I can barely breathe without pain. My nose is full, and the coppery taste of blood lingers in the back of my mouth. My eyes stay glued shut as I struggle in vain to lift the lids. A hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch. Agony lances through my body. I whimper.

“Are you OK?” asks an almost familiar voice.

A tearing sound reaches my ears, and I shrink from a soft touch. Ever so gently, a damp cloth dabs at my eyes. After a lifetime of intense pain at the delicate contact, my eyelids flicker. Though swollen almost shut, the silhouette of a young woman, whose bruised face I almost recognize, swims into view. But my eyes don’t focus. I can’t move my arm. When I try to touch my face, nausea floods my insides. I curl around the pain and swallow the bile rising in my throat.

The almost familiar voice asks, “what can I do to help?”

“Let me die,” is my whispered response.

~~~
We should have seen it coming. Yes, yes, some people issued warnings, but most of us ignored those predictions. Or money bought our silence. Or the algorithms choked off the arguments. Or those ringing the alarms slowly disappeared.

At first, we saw Duncan’s latest campaign as a joke, much the same as in elections past. But as the months marched on, so did his followers—in silence and stealth. We missed the danger signs at his rallies, like hate speech and violence, because we thought it was just a joke—Duncan being Duncan. Until it was too late.

By then, the votes were in and the results boded ill for all of us. For on that night, the world as we know it changed—forever.

~~~
I return to consciousness slowly. Fragments of conversation roll through my mind.

“Damned sand nig … kept … own kind,” one voice proclaimed.

“He wants … white. Here, try this,” sneered another. Searing, burning pain swathes my face, my eyes. Laughter.

Darkness again.

~~~
John Talman Duncan, called Jack by his friends and family, was born with the proverbial silver spoon planted firmly between his sparkling white teeth. The youngest great-grandchild of a self-made robber baron, Jack was a scion of wealth and privilege. Born near the end of the last great war, his parents showered him with all the advantages his station offered.

Throughout his early life, his great-grandfather regaled him with tales of the “good ol’ days” at the beginning of the last century when unbridled capitalism ruled the land.

“Those were the days,” his great-grandfather expounded, “when a man with vision could accomplish anything. They didn’t stomp on a man’s freedom to make money. And women!” the old man huffed. “Don’t even get me started on those vile creatures.”

Jack took it all in.

The only living son amidst all the sisters and girl-cousins of his generation, he was a prince. He got the first and best of everything. He lacked nothing.

~~~
“Georgie, wake up. Oh, gods, Georgie.”

The almost familiar voice again. I try to open my eyes. A gentle stroke to my cheek. My face feels wrong, but I can’t move my arms up to touch the wrongness. I am beyond pain now. I just want it over.

“Wha…” I begin, and my head erupts in fiery pain.

Darkness.

~~~
Jack grew up to be a wealthier man than his father. Despite his less than stellar business ventures, he sold himself as a successful entrepreneur. He based his assessment solely on his moderately successful shipping empire. Despite all the wealth he touted, his true worth fell far short of the mark.

A big, muscular man, Jack used his size and force of personality to “convince” others to agree with his opinions. He hired tough men. Men who never offered unsolicited advice. Men loyal to him and his vision of the world.

The only women in his orbit were prostitutes and servants. After all, women were only good for two things—sex and making his life more comfortable. He hadn’t met a woman yet who held any worth. Including his mother—especially his mother. From a very young age, his great-grandfather never had a good word to say about his mother, and his father stood by, saying not a word to defend the woman. His great-grandfather hated his mother. He felt that Jack’s father had married far below his station. And Jack believed every word of the man he idolized—Duke Talman Duncan, his great-grandfather.

~~~
The almost-familiar voice screams in terror, and I try to move as agony rips through my body. The screams continue. I move past the agony toward the screams to help, to do… something, anything. Then suddenly, the sound stops mid-scream. Silence. Crunch. Darkness.

~~~
Years pass. Jack Duncan observed the tides of society. He made a bigger name for himself, diversified his interests until the Duncan brand was ubiquitous. It mattered not that most of his ventures failed. His name was all that mattered. Then, he made his move. His media holdings had done their job, and the time was ripe. John Talman Duncan threw his hat into the political arena.

~~~
My world shrinks to pain and blackness and sound. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this place. My arm healed, but it’s crooked. And my fingers don’t do what I want them to. Mostly though, it doesn’t work. I never hear that almost familiar voice again.

Time flows, and I lose track of the days. The men come into the small space that is now my home. They grab my arms and carry me to that room. No questions. No statements. Just pain. Until I pass out. Then they haul me back to the small space and dump my unconscious form onto the pallet in the corner. Before they lock the door, they leave a bottle of stale water and a bowl of tasteless watery gruel by the door.

When I regain what senses remain to me, I feel my way around the room to the door and dip my fingers into the bowl. A cold, watery mixture of some unspecified—and decidedly rotting if my nose is any indicator—something lingers near the bottom of the bowl. My fingers probe the contents of the bowl and feel squirming… things… in the liquid. Maggots. My stomach heaves and I crawl to the hole in the corner of the cell.

~~~
Duncan’s political platform was built on lies, just like his public persona. Pure lies. His speeches rallied the uneducated, the bigoted, the bullies. He played on the grievances of those who felt left behind. The “other” was the enemy. Anyone who didn’t look like him, worship like him, follow his orders. He invoked the law of the land—but only as it benefited him and his cronies. All “others” were exempt. His followers rallied around him, ready to eliminate anyone different, not realizing he saw them as “other”.

~~~
I look “other.” You see, my name is Georgio Caletti, and my family roots go back to Italy—Sicily, to be exact. My family emigrated to this country after the First Great war; after being persecuted for backing the wrong side. We hail from dark Italian stock—dark hair, dark eyes, dark Mediterranean skin. And much to the chagrin of the rest of my family, I inherited the darker complexion of our only Moorish ancestor. The thick goatee I sport—well, I guess it just accentuates that impression.

That wasn’t something that occurred to me when I left to vote that morning.

I guess it should have.

~~~
Duncan’s campaign swept the land. He managed to “win” the election—mostly by intimidation, scare tactics, and outright cheating, but the numbers showed him the clear winner. His “security” branch soon took over the military. And in a carefully delivered speech on the day he was sworn into the highest office, his calculated words torched off manufactured crises all over the country. It provided just the excuse he needed to seize absolute power.

On his second day in office, John Talman Duncan, called Jack by his friends, suspended the laws, turning the last great democracy into a dictatorship.

On his third day in office, John Talman Duncan, called Jack by his friends, entered the nuclear codes. Armageddon began.