The Grace of a Deep Fake election
A Dystopian Revenge story
“Ma. Can you give me a hand?”
It was the last week of September when nature reluctantly concedes that Summer must turn to Autumn.
Priti glanced at her son through the rearview mirror. He was leaning against the open hatchback of her Dodge Voyager, and his brown eyes met hers. Eliot was nearly 20 years old, but she still saw a boy not much more than seven. His elbows jutted out in that helpless sort of way, with his bony shoulders buried inside his hoodie. She sighed and unbuckled her seatbelt, then helped him drag the filing boxes, all of them too heavy for just one person, onto the top stair. He wedged the boxes inside the street door.
Priti said, “Don’t forget we have counseling today.”
“Yeah.” He mumbled.
“Bye hon,” She got back in the car and then lowered the window. “I’ll be back at 4.30!”
Elliott watched her make the left on Lenox. He turned and pushed the buzzer then took a step back and peered up at the building. “Shit,” he muttered. It looked like there wasn’t an elevator.
A window opened above him. It was Brad, golden haired and smiling. “Yo, loser! Get your ass in here.”
