Dictator, Interrupted

With a final cursory glance at the matted canary yellow and blood red mess prone on the stage, I turned away and negotiated my way through the crowd. Frozen sneers on fury filled red faces, several hundred salutes paused in time, eerily similar to grainy black and white pictures from 1939.

Someone hadn’t acted quickly enough back then. This time they had. I had.

I had tried clown faces. Stripped him bare and left him tiny in the breeze. Planted drugs and animal porn on his premises. Forwarded emails clearly outlining his Orwellian plans for the future of America. Leaked the pictures I took of the Nazi memorabilia collection I didn’t have to deposit.

No. Still the baying crowds dumbly followed and fawned. I only stopped short of murdering someone in his name because the outcome would be exactly as he had predicted; and I’d be left with the guilt.

I had had no choice. For the future of the country and for the rest of the world, this had to be done. I would have acted similarly back in the late 1930s, so it was a no-brainer now. Content with my choice, I undressed as many of the xenophobes and bigots as I could and calmly walked out of the arena.

Abuse is a subjective term, especially when it comes to superpowers I mused; and with a well-practiced nod, I started time back up again. A heartbeat later the screams began to frame my smile.