Dear Dirty America

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE
Los Angeles

Plenty of news headlines pumped up a minor occurrence about Hillary Clinton being attacked by killer bees in Malawi. Rumor has it, she swatted at them with such viciousness that they had no choice but to tuck their stingers and zip away. It was a striking win over nature for the Capricorn, even though her spokesperson denied the account of a bee ambush and said there was really no panic or fleeing at all.

We can learn a lesson from Hillary: whether you’re facing certain death at the multitudes of tiny, poisonous barbed stingers, or Mossad agents opening fire on your caravan in Israel, and mysteriously your overhead Apache helicopter air-cover isn’t there, you deal with it.

Most of us wouldn’t handle those types of situations with grace, but would break down in paralyzing despair. That prepubescent girl trapped in most men’s and some women’s bodies would come squealing to the surface with unintelligible pleas for mercy. Ugly selfish questions like, Why me, God? Why now, why these bees, why these covert Israeli agents trying to assassinate me?

But Hillary Clinton doesn’t succumb to the ego. She’s got the heart of a reptile, and it’s with that cool core she makes rational decisions. She’s no fool. The truth of the situation is at once apparent to her. She thinks: I’m getting fired upon by Israeli agents. This is strange. My air-cover is oddly nowhere to be seen. I might die tonight. But not if I can help it. Why is Israel trying to knock me off? Does this have something to do with Iran? Are they going to blame this on Iranian terrorists? Will this be the final straw for the American people to give the overwhelming nod to invade Iran?

Surely she pictured the funeral processions lagging behind her shiny casket, ceremoniously covered in an over-sized American flag with an almost undetectable flaw in the stitching in the very bottom left side. Major news networks would roll old footage of her making important speeches. Don Lemon from behind his big polished desk, would say in his most serious tone that he somehow mixes with strains of hope for the future, that Hillary Clinton has left us at the age sixty-four. In silence, he’d shuffle his papers. Then, they’d cut to a commercial break.

Well fuck this, I’m not going to die, she must have thought. When you’re a Clinton, you bust through vivid and damning mental scenarios. You throw off depression at once. You focus on the moment. That’s always Hillary’s final solution for every moment. She’s a controller. She regulates the environment around her. She slows down time and human interaction to a dreadful crawl, and it is within that space she rationally thinks and acts.

Like in Israel that night she barely averted disaster. She rolled down the bulletproof window of her SUV and fired her Desert Eagle .44 Magnum at the white Citroen DS car. She nearly knocked off the driver’s head. Her tight blue blazer must have shifted uncomfortably against the strain of her lifted, stiffened arms as they steadied the big gun. The pursuers drove off, escaped. The American media ignored the assassination attempt of our Secretary of State, but they speculated on if she might have been attacked by bees.

The heavy pounding sounds of the pistol must have deafened the driver. The banging reports did not bother Hillary, because she’s been deaf for years. She hides it well, and reads lips as good as any expert. She’s retained suitable speech, despite her difficulty. No doubt she enjoyed the tongues of fire lashing out at the night from the barrel of the gun.

Firing her emergency weapon was not an irrational set of actions taken by Clinton. Her rationale rests on that eerie lack of overhead helicopter air coverage. She was being set up by her own bosses, colleagues, and handlers. She’s not stupid. No one fires upon a US official and escapes, unless that’s the plan. At that point, when all the data clicks, people like Hillary think in five dimensions. They suddenly trust no one. They suspect the driver and the body guards. The president and his men.

Most of us would have been too sheepish to pull a gun, or recognize the ominous signs of a coordinated hit on us by our own people.

Not Hillary. She knows there is no respite for those living within the highest ranks of global officials. She’ll win, or she’ll lose, but she won’t look like an idiot. She lives on her toes.