The computer screen glowed in the dark room like coals from a dying fire.
He groggily wiped his face, feeling the day’s stubble as it took control of his weathered face. The clock on the screen read 9:30, but it seemed much later than that. The nearly empty house made time go slower. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. But it really didn’t matter to him. Time had stopped when his wife had left. A pain hit him in the chest. “It was her damn fault anyway,” he mumbled for no one to hear. His eyes focused on the screen.
He was a social media warrior. And warriors are never at fault.
His hand guided the mouse as he scrolled through his Twitter feed. He had done a search on his favorite politician and now was on the front lines of justice. He was a warrior for justice. He would defend his favorite politician to the death. His fingers pounded the keys as 45 years of anger flowed. Anger from the fact he didn’t do well in school. Anger from the fact that he had lost his job. Anger from the fact that his no-good wife had gotten frustrated with his drinking and left him. But even the drinking wasn’t his fault. It was OK to have a drink — or ten every once in a while.
It wasn’t his fault.
The first time he had heard his favorite politician was on the radio. The smooth talking man had said everything he wanted to hear. All the problems in the state were other people’s fault. His favorite politician believed in his values — he believed in personal responsibility! And anyone who disagreed with him was evil. He had seen his favorite politician at the Montanta State Fair, too. Such charisma. Such caring. His favorite politician was the only person in the world who cared for him. And he knew it. How? His favorite politician said so.
The defense must continue.
His fingers jabbed at the keys again. Venom flowed from this fingertips. How dare that person make a joke about his favorite politician? He switched over to Facebook and wrote a long post about people who disagreed with him should just move. Montana didn’t need “their kind.” Anger continued to flow as he spewed talking points back out onto the page. His favorite politican cared for him. His favorite politican was going to change his life.
He looked around at his empty house. At the empty bottles on the floor. The overdue bills. It wasn’t his fault. His favorite politician knew that. His favorite politican cared for him. His favorite politican was going to change his life.
Then a second pain struck his chest. “It’s not my fault!” he cried! But not one answered. He passed out, fell from the chair and hit the floor. The screen on the computer went black.
And his favorite politician didn’t come save him.