Yardwork
by Ben Ehrenreich
Holy shit, President Whatsisname is tearing up the White House lawn. He’s out there with a rototiller, a gang of Secret Service agents muttering into their lapels a couple of yards behind him. He’s got a shovel now. He’s digging weird holes. He’s panting hard and his face paint is dripping down his neck. It’s staining his collar a deep orange a shade lighter than the patient, red earth beneath the lawn. Elon’s toddler is right beside him. The kid is trolling him again, calling him naughty names, fartface, poopoo pants, nyah nyah nyah. His dad is nowhere to be seen but the entire cabinet and a five-ninths majority of the Supreme Court are out there in the shade of the rotten magnolia that Andrew Jackson planted with his own bloodstained hands.
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