Short Story: Trump Veinte Veinte

Breen and his friends strutted into that pizza restaurant on a real high. The music festival had just fizzled to a close and they had sung and danced their way through the streets of downtown Sanford on a search for their next adventure. And something to eat.

As they burst into the pizzeria with a raucous cloud of laughter and butt-slaps, Breen sheepishly looked around the restaurant to make sure nobody was offended enough to drop a pepperoni. He met the eye of a really pretty Hispanic woman who simply smirked and nodded as if to let him know that everything was cool, and he should just shut up and get some food.

The posse sat down, inhaled their pizzas, and then proceeded to discuss the just-released results of the Nevada primary, which pointed to a clear lead for Bernie Sanders. One friend immediately cited a recent report that Putin wanted Bernie to win so he could lose when faced with President Trump.

Another bellowed that she’d seen enough old white men in the office and that she’d never vote for Sanders.

Another friend passionately declared his allegiance to Buttigieg, citing his military service which elicited cries of racism and anti-blackness.

What started as friendly discourse, quickly turned into bruised egos and frantic hand gestures when all of a sudden, Breen realized that the friendly Hispanic woman’s husband had exited the restaurant in a huff. He met her eyes as she leaned in and declared to the table with calm confidence, “Trump Veinte Veinte" before slowly and proudly standing up and walking out of the restaurant.

Breen’s friend quickly clapped her hands and, without thinking shouted after her, “Yeah, fuck that guy!” before shoving the rest of her pizza crust into her mouth.