Wrong Move

I sneak into the dark alleyway, looking furtively behind me, peering over the high collar of my trenchcoat. Out of precaution, I pull it higher and let the shadows cast by my baseball cap enshroud my face.

It would not do for a presidential candidate to be caught dealing with these things.

Headlights flood the alleyway as a red cadillac screeches into the alley. I jump, suppressing the urge to flee. I’d heard this dealer liked to make an entrance but his shit was legit.

He gets out of the car and walks briskly over to me.

“Sure is weird to get Pumpkin Spice this early in September,” he growled.

“Must be all them White Girls and their Lattes,” I countersigned.

He grunted in return and handed me a manila folder. I open it and flip through the contents in the light of the caddie. A smile flashes across my face; he was legit, he lived up to his name.

A slammed door, a squeal of tyres and the sudden retreat of the lights shook me out of my reverie. I shoved the pictures back into the folder and turned on my heel, hurrying to get back home to enjoy the goods.

Suddenly, lights once again flood the alley.



I started running for the mouth of the alley, panicking out of my mind. Just as I got there, a burly body tackles me to the ground and my folder goes flying.

“Well?!” the agent bellows as he handcuffs me, “Was it worth it, sir?”

I start crying as I stare at my scattered pictures, illuminated by the orange streetlights. A lifetime of campaigning all for naught.

The question rebounds in my skull as the faces of Harambe, Dat Boi and other assorted memes stare back.


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