Playing the Trump Card

            Richard woke to a jackhammer striking the inside of his skull. And his mouth, it felt like it was filled with cotton. Or was it cat shit? It didn’t matter. He needed water. But that meant getting up. And getting up meant moving. And he was in no condition to move.

            He tried to fall back to sleep, but the pounding in his head screamed “NO!” Weed would help, he thought. So he rolled over and grabbed a joint off his nightstand, lit it, and took a long drag. He coughed out a cloud of smoke and took another hit. And that’s when he heard the moan. He turned around to find a motionless body resting on the far side of his bed. Who was this? He thought, I don’t recall bringing anyone to bed last night.

            He quickly scanned his memory as if it was a rolodex of blurry Polaroids: shots, lines of cocaine, more shots, bongs, the bar, after party at the frat house, more shots, keg stand…and that was all he could remember. He took another hit from the joint and that’s when the paranoia slithered into his consciousness.

            He sprung to his feet and began pacing back and forth across his room. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Did he rape this girl? What if he did? She was in his bed. He must have. And even if he didn’t, what if she thinks he did. That’s all it took these days—just one girl to accuse you. Just one stupid girl to ruin your life. But whatever happened already happened. Didn’t it? Why should two lives be ruined?

He could figure his way out of this. Couldn’t he? Let’s see. He could say he was never there. His frat brothers would give him an alibi, wouldn’t they? But that wouldn’t work—too many people saw him last night. Plus, the DNA. Fuck! The DNA! Okay, so he needed an excuse. Not an excuse—a reason. A psychological reason. He was a psychology major after all. But who was he kidding? He never went to class.

That’s when he saw the newspaper laying on his desk. Yes! That’s it! That’s his way out. The election! We elected a president who was clearly a sexual predator. And he received the majority of the women’s vote, so, if they voted for him, then that meant it must be okay to sexually assault a woman. Yes! That was the answer! The new president would get him off! He knew there was a reason he voted for him.

             But would he really? Richard began to panic. There’s no way that would actually work, would it? I’m so fucked, he thought, just like that swimmer from Stanford.

But wait, what was this? He noticed a tattoo on the woman’s back. He recognized the ink. He rolled the woman over. Thank God! It was only his sister! He didn’t rape anyone!

A sense of relief immediately filled Richard, until he looked down to find a condom hanging from his flaccid penis…