The Victim

Chapter Four: Victory

Monkeys with AK-47s

Eight months have passed since she died. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. I would trade all of this, all this power to have her back. I can’t do that, though. The only thing I can do is make prisoners. Slowly but surely, the people in my lists, as well as million others, are now part of the Whitelist. Those who avoid prison will have an impossible time getting a job now.

Businesses start firing staff preemptively to avoid a future scandal. It becomes standard business practice to employ white males, even schooled ones, in menial positions and ban them from using social networks. During the next months I publicly endorse fantastic new bills. The “Empower women” act requires companies to have at least half (rounded up) of the staff in management be women, including the CEO position. The “Women hygiene” subsidizes women hygiene products completely while imposing a 32% tax on male hygiene products to “pay for it,” but taxes don’t work that way and I know the revenue will have to come from somewhere else.

My daughter technically lives with me in the presidential house, but she spends most of her time out of my sight. She doesn’t talk to me and refuses to participate in politics. She hates me for putting her under the spotlight without asking her. Some foreign powers don’t like me that much either. A potency that was an enemy during a past war is now poking with its hacking finger at us, stealing credit card information and private users data.

Reporters and exiles in other nations accuse me personally of being a “tyrannical despot with no respect for freedom in any form,” to quote one of them. They can’t get the picture. It’s not me, I’m not pushing these reckless laws through congress. Of course I could veto them and look out for the future, but I don’t like the future. What interest does the future have? Should I hope that the world somehow restores what, some past golden age?

I’ll let you in on a little secret. There’s nothing good ahead and nothing good behind. Increasingly, men get off with cartoon girls instead of actual, flesh-and-blood women. Though to be fair, women are increasingly more dangerous. Thanks to my wonderful “Sex act,” if a woman claims that a man has talked to her in an “inappropriate sexual manner,” he will enter a public pervert database. It’s ironic. I’ve used that or helped using that trick in the past to advance myself, plain playing to win. But now it’s law. Now every girl with some ambition can do it lawfully.

Ugghh… Do you wanna know why there are no more dialogues in what I tell you? Why the pauses are so long, of weeks and months? Because I don’t have meaningful conversations anymore. The only person I can stand is my rock. She still treats me like a close friend. But the rest… All of them are either bloodsucking sycophants or rabid radicals. If I listen to them for more than four minutes, the voices in my head start screaming.

Then there’s the crippling depression for losing her. I mean, I thought I would get a chance to move on at some point, enjoy success a little. But I-I can’t. She died and I couldn’t even say goodbye. I couldn’t tell her how much she meant to me. I don’t know why I should keep telling you stuff, to be honest. Maybe so somebody will understand who I was, but who cares.

The thing is, right now I prefer to just finish my wine in peace and reminisce.