he stood and lunged forward with
the others Mr. President! Mr. President! the reporter cried through his mask at
the top of his lungs thinking the while Why why the hell was he cryingbegging
to be acknowledgedcalled upon for a question the man wasnt worth his exertion or his notice Christ
Yes, you, you there. the
president was pointing at him
Sir, thank you very much, Mr.
President. Thank you. end
of fake adulation kowtowing Sir, can you tell me how many
Americans are dead now from the novel coronavirus? Thank you.
Oh my God, such a rude question,
such a ru . .
.
. Sir. A legitimate question.
You’re a rude person, who . .
.
. Ninetysixthousand threehundredseventy
Who do you work for?
Sir. Who do you work for?
Ninetysixthousand
threehundredseventy dead Americans. Details, sir? Unnecessary details?
Sit down.
You called on me, sir. Ninetysixthousand
threehundredseventy dead Americans on your watch; tomorrow there will be more.
the president sneered in disdainlooked
to his extreme right and pointed at another reporter You. Go ahead, your question.
the reporter didnt remain
standinghe didnt glare he sat and heard his colleague murmur a question he wished
rather his colleagueall his colleagues in attendance supported one another stayed
on point fought for answers and if the morbidly obese farce fled the dais let him walk away in disgust
why not the man disgusted him
he sat not dejected sat nodding
to himself Yes Ninetysixthousand threehundredseventy Americans
were worth his exertion to ask his question
Fuckin
crime
0929, Saturday,
23 5. 20
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