No matter how bad you think things are, they get worse when you talk politics with your friends
AT THE JAIL, Sheriff Broncomeister grilled Karen and Georgia about their connection to the vagrant. Georgia leaned forward, wishing her nails were long enough (and hard enough) to gouge the surface of the cheap laminated table. “Jesus Christ, there is no connection. We flew in today from LA. How would we know a f**g* homeless man in B**t F**k, Texas?”
Karen covered her mouth. Broncomeister shook a fist into Georgia’s face. “Jew girl’s and women’s libbers don’t get to say the Lord’s namein vain. Or at all.”
Karen leaned her head over the back of the chair. “How do you know she’s Jewish? Or feminist? Unless you listen to the podcast.”
The sheriff’s face turned blue, then red, then purple. His neck bulged over his collar. (Even more than it bulged in his natural state.) “Just cause you’re Catholic, probably one of them lapsed Catholic girls the preacher warned us to stay away from in school, that don’t mean Jesus’ gonna let you off the hook either, little girl.”
Georgia rapped the table. “Your wife’s a fan.”
The sheriff’s face turned blue, then red, then purple. His neck bulged over his collar. (Even more than it bulged in his natural state.)
The sheriff squeezed his fists until the blood drained from his face. “See, the way I see it, you girls planned this murder for publicity.”
Karen rose from her chair, but the sheriff had chained her wrists to the table. “For Christ’s…” she stopped and rephrased, “…goodness’ sake. We sold out every show. Standing room only. We had every moron in town protesting women doing a murder show. How much more publicity do we need?”
The sheriff let another gob of tobacco juice fly. This time, at least, he found the waste can. “You Hollywood types always want more publicity. You’re all about whatever’s bad for America.” He opened the door and told the guard, who doubled as the deputy, to escort them to their cell. As the deputy led them into the hall, the sheriff leaned against the doorpost and spit another wad. “Hell, I bet neither one of you voted for Trump.”
”We sold out every show. Standing room only. We had every moron in town protesting women doing a murder show. How much more publicity do we need?”
Karen said, “Damn straight.”
Georgia blushed.
Karen put her hand against a wall to steady herself from the surprise. “You’re kidding.”
“Only the first election. I couldn’t get past the 30 thousand emails. And Benghazi. Who would have guessed Trump could make 30 million documents, not to mention democracy, disappear?”
*Transcript edited to protect any women in the jury pool from excessive obscenity.
The characters in this story are fictional and not to be confused with real persons named Karen and Georgia, alive or dead. This especially applies to fictional Georgia’s political leanings and voting record.
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