Will to survive
Donna was a woman of easy virtue who lived in the quiet Mid-West town of Spitsville. She made no attempt to hide her source of income; far from it, she advertised on television, sponsored local events and handed out leaflets outside church after Sunday services. Donna loved the limelight. And for the most part, folks around Spitsville just shrugged their shoulders, accepting that every town needed a Donna like it needed a sheriff: and Donna provided an ‘education service’ of sorts.
No one, including the IRS, knew how much Donna earned. But as she grew older, what did become clear that she was using hard-earned dollars to buff up her image. The hair was always blonde, her face botoxed and there were even rumours that she wore a wig. She continued to earn, but with age and experience came power: town officials and politicians discovered Donna was not a woman to cross. If Donna thought Spitsville needed a new shopping mall, it was as good as built.
Things changed completely the year Spitsville decided to elect its town prostitute. Forced to seek Republican Party nomination, Donna found herself up against a Joanie-come-lately in Lolita Leybrand, a young Democrat brunette. The campaign was dirty. In the event, Lolita was the clear winner, but Donna was having none of it. On the very day Lolita was due to be sworn in, a party of Donna’s most loyal clients stormed the town hall. Four people died, including a police officer.
A furious Spitsville split in two. The Democrats wanted to charge Donna for insurrection; Donna’s supporters insisted that no such assault on the town hall had ever happened, it was all “fake news”. What was needed was hard evidence of serious lawbreaking.
But this, of course, was Spitsville, and even if folk weren’t that bothered about an attempted revolution, financial cheating was another matter. Daniel Storm, an old client of Donna’s from way back, came forward to testify he’d paid her $500,000 in service fees, but she hadn’t paid anything in local taxes. Locals had starved because of Donna’s greed. Clearly Donna was therefore a witch. And Donna agreed: it was a witch-hunt, she said.
Donna was therefore put on trial in the one way that would establish if she were indeeed a witch. Tied to a stool, she was ducked in the town pond. Innocent, she’d drown; guilty, she’d survive.
Fully five minutes later, the stool re-surfaced. A triumphant Donna had not only survived, she’d emerged triumphant, waving and promising to “make Spitsville great again”. For half of those watching, it was proof that Donna was guilty as charged; to the other half, Donna was a god, the new Messiah. The two groups started to argue, then they came to blows, then the guns came out. Until then, folk in Spitsville had always wondered why the US needed a Second Amendment, but now their no-longer-quiet town had finally found a use for their weapons.
Meanwhile, Donna just stood and watched. And grinned.
No one, including the IRS, knew how much Donna earned. But as she grew older, what did become clear that she was using hard-earned dollars to buff up her image. The hair was always blonde, her face botoxed and there were even rumours that she wore a wig. She continued to earn, but with age and experience came power: town officials and politicians discovered Donna was not a woman to cross. If Donna thought Spitsville needed a new shopping mall, it was as good as built.
Things changed completely the year Spitsville decided to elect its town prostitute. Forced to seek Republican Party nomination, Donna found herself up against a Joanie-come-lately in Lolita Leybrand, a young Democrat brunette. The campaign was dirty. In the event, Lolita was the clear winner, but Donna was having none of it. On the very day Lolita was due to be sworn in, a party of Donna’s most loyal clients stormed the town hall. Four people died, including a police officer.
A furious Spitsville split in two. The Democrats wanted to charge Donna for insurrection; Donna’s supporters insisted that no such assault on the town hall had ever happened, it was all “fake news”. What was needed was hard evidence of serious lawbreaking.
But this, of course, was Spitsville, and even if folk weren’t that bothered about an attempted revolution, financial cheating was another matter. Daniel Storm, an old client of Donna’s from way back, came forward to testify he’d paid her $500,000 in service fees, but she hadn’t paid anything in local taxes. Locals had starved because of Donna’s greed. Clearly Donna was therefore a witch. And Donna agreed: it was a witch-hunt, she said.
Donna was therefore put on trial in the one way that would establish if she were indeeed a witch. Tied to a stool, she was ducked in the town pond. Innocent, she’d drown; guilty, she’d survive.
Fully five minutes later, the stool re-surfaced. A triumphant Donna had not only survived, she’d emerged triumphant, waving and promising to “make Spitsville great again”. For half of those watching, it was proof that Donna was guilty as charged; to the other half, Donna was a god, the new Messiah. The two groups started to argue, then they came to blows, then the guns came out. Until then, folk in Spitsville had always wondered why the US needed a Second Amendment, but now their no-longer-quiet town had finally found a use for their weapons.
Meanwhile, Donna just stood and watched. And grinned.
(Another ineligible contribution.)
