I smashed a nail into the Resolute Desk. My desk! Hit it with a hammer. Antique hammer. Historic. Force.
I became President before the dead rose up.
Reality is always stranger than fiction. Always. Sometimes, anyway.
Why would I care about killing a million civilians?
They asked me that this morning. COS boi. All serious. All somber.
“Mr. President.”
Shaking.
Gulping.
“Mr. President.”
Fuck off. What exactly am I the President of anymore?
America?
Sure. What is America now?