things on the kitchen counter - with alittle too much force, rattling the cups in their respective saucers. The yelling was coming from, none other than, the flatscreen. The russian premier was back home...hopefully, for good, June pursed her lips. Somewhere, not too far from washington, a human trafficking ring had been discovered. Okay, she asked herself, how is the us justice system's dealing with the criminals, any of moscow's business? Hhhmmph, the knob-nosed self-righteous old b*tard... Like there were no crooks under his watch? Really...!
As if things couldn't get any worse.
Trade agreements between the two nations would probably come to a screeching halt. No probably about that. Boy, he was mad, and his crew didn't look happy either. Mental pictures of want-ads being taken off-line, of buildings...of americans - and russians - suddenly finding themselves out of work, repos of newly acquired vehicles, evictions on the horizon...
A reporter, standing outside Liberty Hospital, somewhere in Pennsylvania, was interviewing a newly released patient, a young russian immigrant, who had responded to an ad for computer programmers. Nope, the ad was misleading. Very misleading. The young man had ended up "working" in some sleazy...as a... ugh!
Things were becoming very worse. A related story flashed onscreen. This one, showed footage of three young women, one with a blanket wrapped around her, being liberated from another sleazy place. The girls - another who appeared to be, maybe 18 - had also responded to a very misleading want ad.
The premier's "Treat her right, or I'll kill you!" remark, was no longer funny.
The screen then showed a map of eurasia. Russia's states and territories extended beyond her 1950s days. The nation was officially capitalist; its central government encouraged its young citizens to acquire marketable skills, buy homes, be financially solvent, get married, have babies. But communism wasn't letting go - not without a fight; its tactics, over the decades, having changed from that of mere economics to...
Our overly tasked housewife hadn't time to reflect upon the things she'd just heard the political economist say. The screen switched to someone else.
Ah, news, designed, specifically, to confuse. Hmmph!
Somewhere, in Colorado, outside some high-end looking office park, some suit, was speaking to a female reporter. His tone toward her was courteous enough, but condenscending - is the psych exam hard? June couldn't help but to be noticing more of such. Then another interview, outside a hardware center. A barrel-chested man, with a flat-top hair-cut, had just parked a few sacks of portland in the back of his pickup - like they were dollar store camp chairs. "No s*it, they're hollerin!" Hhmm, June wondered, was "They," knob-nose and crew, or was "They," this particular man - and his flunkies, studying to pass terrorist-cell 101? She didn't know what "incel" stood for, but it brought to mind, wirey 20-somethings, running around in camo khakis, totting ak47s, collecting copper tubing, paraffin, powder - while jamming to siege-metal.
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