He hacks your servers, you close two of his compounds. He sends one of your deplorables to the White House, you send 35 of his intelligence officials packing. That’s the Chicago way!

Or, if you are a Trump supporter, you look the other way and turn the defilement of American democracy into a partisan issue as Napoleon Trumbonopart does in today’s (long awaited, I’m sure) DWP:

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Miranda jerked the wheel hard to the right, pulling her car up to the curb and nearly slamming it into the bumper of the car parked in front of her. “No, I don’t care anymore. I guess. Fine. I have to go. Damn it all, Paul.” She disconnected and threw the phone into the backseat. She put her head in her hands but did not cry. She imitated Paul’s pitched, whiney voice through her palms. “’Directionless, you just don’t know what you want or where you should go, Miranda.’” She lifted her head up, eyes squinted, and blew a raspberry.

She signed then, shoulders slumping, and looked out the driver-side window. She was downtown but uncertain exactly where. She stepped out of the car onto the curb of the sidewalk and stomped her heel once. This was not, all things considered, an emotionally great time to be lost. And running late.

On the other hand, take that, Paul. Did directionless people often find themselves lost and running late for a thing which was on the tip of Miranda’s tongue and would come to her, just give her a minute? No. They did not.

Still, lost and late was a despairing state to be in and tears finally budded at the corner of eyes. Miranda looked up as a flock of birds flew in sharp zig-zags all over the sky. For whatever reason the sight of it made her think of that scene from 1984 where everyone is celebrating their two minute hate against East Asia or whoever and then Big Brother announces that they are, and always have been, at war with Oceania or, again, whoever. And the proles just roll with it.

And that was kind of enough. Miranda’s knees went weak and for an instant and a half she bought it. She believed herself to be purposeless, adrift, strewn about casually by the wind. And she wished, so desperately, that she were something else. Something driven. Like a shark, always moving, always focused, laser-like, on its hunger.

And as she wished her body shimmered and sloughed its skin and cracked open its bones revealing the fins and slippers and teeth of a mako shark and Miranda flopped on the pavement wild for oxygen.

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