“What the?” I said. He was as close to the shape of a famous “hate-television” personality as you could get, complete with half-glasses and floppy cheeks that shook each time he spoke. Some drool was dripping toward his chin. I looked at him and shook my head. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing?”
“Traitors,” he said into the laptop, ignoring me completely. “Takers. They probably want her to die.”
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to damage my computer.”
“Liberal press,” said, punching again. He finally acknowledged my presence with a scowl. “They all ought to be hauled out for Second Amendment justice.” He typed again with a greater vengeance.
“Would you calm down,” I said, “and tell be what is going on”
He read over what he had written on the screen and jabbed at the keyboard once more. I assumed it was a “send” command as he then turned to me and smiled. “Good morning,” he said, closing the laptop. He motioned toward the couch. “Sit.”
“I don’t suppose,” I said, “that there is any possibility you might tell me what’s up?”
“Sermon on the Mount good deed work,” he said. I just stared, and he continued. “You know the young daughter of that poor family down the highway,” he said, “the one scheduled to start college in the fall?
“That sweet child, Brittany?”
“What about her?”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“No,” I said. “What happened?”
“Car hit her while she was jogging. Broke her leg.”
“Oh no. Will she be okay?”
“Eventually,” he said. “If we can round up enough money to pay her bills.” He smiled. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“I’m posting with your contacts, getting them to donate money to one of those fund-donating sites, to help Brittany get well and head off to college on time.”
“It was Mrs. Big Dope’s idea.”
“Don’t you remember when she told me to get out her sight and do something for the good of society, like drowning myself?”
I thought, “Which time are you talking about?”
“The most recent,” he said. “But I decided not to do that.”
“Obviously,” I said. I began to see where this was going. “So you decided to …?”
“Help the poor in spirit, the needy, the righteous even. Brittany sure fits that description, right?”
“So you’re telling me,” I said, “that’s what you were doing when I came in?”
“Of course,” he said.
“But you were muttering and screaming and even drooling in anger?”
“Silly boy,” he said. “What do you think sells in America today?” Before I could speak, he answered for me. “Anger,” he said. “Anger and fear. Oh, and don’t forget … greed.”
“You’re … you’re … you’re … uh crazy,” I said, sputtering as I did.
“I’m not a member of the species from which fifty million of its members have voted for someone who has been described as “… a pathological liar, peddler of vile racist, misogynist, xenophobic ravings and [a] sneering trampler of our most fundamental American values.”
|Our hero and the founder of our style|
of spreading love and goodness. - C.W.
That rendered me speechless. He continued, “And those are considered good points by his supporters.”
Taking a deep breath, I said. “So you decided to do good by doing evil yourself?”
“Hate sells,” he said, “and Brittany needs help. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “Had an idea.” He picked up a notepad and pencil. Then, reverting back to his “hate purveyor” form, he wrote, muttering as he jabbed his pencil into the paper, “Hate that chocolate-brown president of ours as much as I do? Then let’s ruin his day by helping a little white girl.” He looked up and started to say something, but then had a thought. “Oh,” he said, writing, “and a Christian one at that.” He looked at me and smiled. “See how easy it is?”
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