Obama Care

by Jason Scimitar

32

  James stopped at Starbucks where he ordered his latte and eyeballed the Starbucks girl whose beautifully articulated hands massaged groups of neatly branded cups and pushed them at her dollar squandering customers, always giving them her best Starbucks smile.

  “Thank you for your decision to drink the best coffee in the world,” she said with a smile as she handed each perfectly prepared cup to her customers.

  James sat by the window, watching the people outside drift by. He thought about them as they slithered past his gaze. In James’s mind, they resembled like dry snakes dressed in suits. Most of them were government workers. They were tied by their wallets and their consultations to America’s constantly waged wars. James figured most of these government employees were inextricably joined to the deaths and dying of thousands of American soldiers overseas who were fighting for nothing. Most of them had become blood dripping government chumps. They had merely sold their worthless souls for the money needed to feed their wives and children. James tasted the scum atop his latte. It was filled with cream, the taste of which was far stronger and fattier than any breast milk James had ever sampled from his pregnant girl friends.

  An hour later, he was stabbing a consultant of some sort in an alley in downtown Washington. As his knife sliced across the man’s throat, neither James’s face nor body betrayed his act, for he walked right past his victim’s flailing appendages as though the death dance were of no possible interest and only the sounds of his own calming feet were part and parcel of his being. James never internalized any of the deaths. It was as if he had been born a perfect sociopath when in actuality he had merely been trained as such at military facilities where he learned that killing was actually an honorable profession in which millions of his fellow Americans were gainfully employed in one way or another.

  Next, he walked into the capitol building where tourists were being victimized by the youthful propagandists who paraded as tagged docents through the halls. The guides explicated on various intricacies of the architecture, art, and historical happenings of the ongoing American empire. James noted how everything seemed squeaky clean and how no one mentioned the wars that abounded worldwide where soldiers were being shredded into little pieces for the rich whose profits soared from the blood letting and mayhem.

  James believed it was his job to spread the joy, making everyone else give a bit of their own blood to the cause of making his dead son whole again. They were paying for wars on both fronts now, domestic and foreign, and the veiled statistics that were always kept from the public languished in minds far greater than his own which placed Brandon’s death in forgotten reports that had been placed upon the president’s blood soaked desk. It was here that the stench of morbidity resided, for the corrupting of his government by the rich permeated everything Barak Obama, the commander and serial murderer in chief, ever touched.

  The presidential dictator marched seamlessly side-by-side with his henchmen. He and the congress bowed before the wealthy who ordered up war after war and rapidly passed every law the insurance industry ever asked of them. After each long day of selling out and legislating the vast and overly expensive overseas wars they walked down to the senate bar for drinks and endless chatter.

  He went several blocks toward downtown until he entered the private storefront office of one Senator Delwood Clay and sliced the throat of his four minimum wage secretaries along with fifteen student volunteers working in his constituent response lab. “That should piss him off,” Stone thought. It was the least he could do after the prick had voted for Obama Care and later voted to limit its funding.

  He saw the handsome students lying dead upon the floor. They were innocent as lambs. He watched their collective blood flowing into a pool surrounding their lifeless bodies.

  He saw in his heart of hearts that it was all good.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he said out loud to no one in particular. Using his fingers, he painted in blood the words Obama Care across the walls. He wanted their deaths to count for something. Now they did. Then, he turned around and left.

  All-in-all, it was a good day’s work. Now, it was off to the baseball stadium to kill some fans.