Illustration by Corey BrightImagined by Sarah Faulkner -Creative Director of Student Media sfaulkn2@uab.edu
Donald John Trump was inaugurated president on Jan. 20, 2017. His platform included revised immigration policies, increased authority for law enforcement and revisions on gun control laws. These were among other promises that would make America great again.
I was working for my father’s multi-million dollar pharmaceuticals business, which he passed on to me after using the money he saved on taxes to retire. Of course I voted for Trump. He always seemed to say what was on my mind. He was straight to the point with his words. So was I. It was something we businessmen had in common. There wasn’t enough time to mince words when there was work to be done.
So, in the same vein, Trump didn’t take time to fight the corrupt Congress when he deported the illegals. That was the first executive order he issued. For this reason, the dissenters– the liberals, socialists, democrats and illegals – they all called him a dictator. But he wasn’t. He was just doing what had to be done. “President” was a much more fitting title for him than it had been for anyone else who had preceded him.
The last thing the liberal media reported on was the instability of Wall Street and the housing market, especially after Trump monopolized the real estate business. It was shut down for slander and rabble rousing. Let’s be honest: the people signaled that they did not want to deal with liars when they voted against Crooked Hillary.
Many of us – the upper crust, the one percent, whatever you’d like to call us (I prefer the hard-working and business-savvy) – moved into units behind our offices. It was safer to not commute, anyway, after the rioters took the street. Police forces could arrest anyone who appeared to be up to no good.
Our businesses were flourishing. We could afford fancy penthouses. Everyone else who hadn’t put in as much work as us moved into smaller compounds on the outskirts of cities.
That was seven years ago. Trump won a second term, despite the liberals cried about the election being “rigged,” or blaming the media shutdown for lack of exposure to other candidates. The other options weren’t right for the U.S. like Trump was. I had never seen as much success as I have enjoyed under his presidency.
Each morning when I awoke, I was greeted by perfect lighting from the self-adjusting tinted windows in my unit on the top floor of the Manhattan Business Tower.
But this morning seemed a bit off. When my alarm sounded to wake me up at 8 a.m., my secretary had not yet been in with my coffee and breakfast, and my curtains were still drawn. I huffed, got out of bed and pulled them open myself, wincing at the brightness of the morning view.
I put on an expensive suit, something I ordered from overseas. Trade with other countries was limited because of the tariffs that Trump had imposed.
The sky was a bright, clear blue – no clouds or smog. I could see a river in the distance through all of the trees a family of bunnies. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually went outside, and, for a moment it bothered me. There was something so confining about this place. In my youth, I had enjoyed visits to my family’s cabin during the summertime, during which I was not attending school.
But, as my father would say, there was no business to do outside, so as far as I was concerned, the view would suffice. The view, after all, was all part of his unit’s location atop the Manhattan Business Towers.
Putting that momentary lapse of common sense behind me, I left my loft and went straight into my office. One of Trump’s best pieces of advice had been to merge the home and office. If any emergencies arose, I would be right there.
I entered my office to find that it had not yet been cleaned this morning. The lights were out, but the curtains hung open. My secretary was not at her desk in the room adjacent to mine, either.
Maybe it was time to find a new secretary, especially in light of the fact that there were several alerts for missed calls and two voice messages on my business phone. Besides, there are plenty of attractive women that would die to work for my company.
I sauntered lazily to the voicemail machine and hit play before sitting down at my desk. The machine recited its usual monologue before telling me that the message was recorded at 6:45 that morning. A nervous voice started stuttering: “Hi, Mr. Vines – I mean, good morning. This is urgent. We need you at the factory right now!”
It was a low level manager. I could tell by the caller ID. I clicked the ‘next’ button, annoyed. I didn’t understand why they couldn’t manage their own problems. I had a business to run.
The next message was recorded only an hour later, just minutes before I had woken.
“I know it’s early Mr. Vines, but there’s been a strike and we don’t know what to do,” the same manager said. “The workers are demanding higher wages. They’re saying it’s nationwide. They’re destroying the factory! Supply will be lost!”
So maybe eliminating the federal minimum wage wasn’t our best idea. But why do workers want any more than $5 an hour? Besides, destroying stock will not help their paychecks. I would have to fire them anyway.
I stepped back into my loft to grab my coat when I heard a series of electrical surges. The image I had admired in my window earlier began to glitch, before cutting off. Narrowing my brow, I strode into my office.
Immediately afterward, the power shut down entirely, and the lights I had turned on moments earlier turned off. I supposed the power companies joined the strike.
The window, a once quaint projection of the woodlands, was now a smog-filled sky with dead trees and a dark green river. Discarded plastic objects bobbed in the polluted water. There were no bunnies, but there was one of my factories being destroyed in the distance by a mob of thugs.
“Democrats,” I hissed. “They can’t let anyone have anything nice if they can’t.”
I hurried out the door and made my way to the elevator. Other CEOs and presidents of companies peaked their heads out from their offices. Many were rubbing the sleep from their eyes, while others screamed into the receivers of their phones.
I crowded in with several other men who lived on the same hall as me. While the elevator made its way down the 50 floors to the ground level, I watched from out of the glass surrounding the lift.
The screens over the buildings outside, appropriated for broadcast, lit up to the blaring sounds of
a chorus of trumpets as Trump appeared on them, looking stern.
“There will be law and order,” he announced, wagging his finger fruitlessly as they threw their signs at his televised face. It was a pre-recorded message that had been played many times in the past, especially around the last election day. “There will be law and order.”
