It had been an unenjoyable evening with my parents. The long walk back from the restaurant did not help. The visiting city didn't turn out to be near as interesting as I hoped. There was just nowhere for me to go. Defeated, I prayed I'd find safe haven back in my hotel room. Instead, I was dropped directly into the fires of Hell.
I was still collecting my thoughts when my Mom, my stepfather, and a hotel employee burst through the door. My Mom started in right away.
"How could you do such a thing?"
My stepfather was red-faced and livid, smoke coming from the large ears of his narrow head. He lived for these moments. "What's wrong with you!" He never meant that as a question, only an accusation; the only words he knew.
The hotel guy, the designated observer, scared me the most. He had that Official Hotel Look with his burgundy vest, trimmed hair, and square face. In one hand he had handcuffs and the other an electric chair. What the fuck is going on here? They can't mean to fucking kill me - can they?
"What are you even talking about??"
"I saw you take that cowboy hat with the Yankee logo from that woman. You just walked right out of there!"
"What's wrong with you!" chimed in my stepfather, ever more smoke rising.
In my head I tried to imagine what possible scenario could have caused this misunderstanding. I'd met and seen no one since I left the meal with my parents. There's no way my mother could have "seen" anything to even be confused by. Worst part was, this didn't feel like a misunderstanding. It felt like a courtroom conviction from a trial that had already been held.
"What woman? What are you talking about? Is this like something from the hotel gift shop? Only thing Yankee tonight was on the Fact App I showed you on your iPhone, for your theme."
"This kind of behavior cannot be tolerated. No more, ever again." She gave the nod to the hotel guy to strap me in.
"Wait, goddamit, wait!"
"Do you hear this? Do hear the kind of language I have to put up with?"
"What's wrong with you!"
"I didn't do anything. Who are you? Are you some type of imposters!"
When I said that my mother's face turned different shades of colors. He hair too, going from blonde to orange, like an orangutan. It was the only logical explanation I could think of. Only one thing felt for certain: a desire to kill me.
"We know you're guilty. We talked to Emily. We know what you did."
They played the trump card. I crouched down and cowered behind the bed as my mother went off.
"Why did you do that to her? What kind of person are you! What would the neighbors say if they found out?"
"I was afraid! I was afraid of her - afraid of me. I knew it was wrong..."
"Are you telling us you don't feel guilty?"
"What's wrong with you!"
Guilt? I'm a billionaire in guilt, a global leader. I can't possibly deny guilt - even though I had nothing to do with this whole supposedly stolen cowboy hat fiction they concocted as a ruse for the hotel executioner. In what I thought would be a stroke of luck I remembered the Fact App.
"Look, see here on the Fact App. It shows everywhere I've been tonight. There's no woman, no nothing. Just me walking back here."
That really set off my Mom who was screaming at this point. "This isn't about facts! We're not here for facts!"
"What's wrong with you!"
I couldn't believe my crestfallen ears. This can't be who my parents are. Irrational, fact-hating, out-of-control blaming homicidal maniacs. My head was spinning as I stayed crouched behind the fig leaf of protection provided by the bed. Then in an instant, things became crystal clear.
"My God! You're Trump supporters!"
All three started yelling at me at the top of their lungs, exposing the conspiracy. "Who are you to say anything!" "What's wrong with you!" "We know you're guilty! We know all about Emily, you sick bastard!" "This has gone on long enough! Can you say to us you're not guilty!"
The room drew quiet, like a hurricane had passed through and one is viewing the devastation in stark disbelief. I knew my time was up and I had to pay for their sins. Each of their chests heaved in unison, bloodthirsty, ready for the kill. I realized during that miserable dinner tonight I'd done a much reviled Innocent Thing in showing the Fact App, thinking they'd appreciate it and be delighted with its use. But my Emily betrayal can not be denied.
"Yes, I'm guilty."
Like hellhounds released from a cage I was strapped in to the electric chair and fried to death before their wide open eyes absorbing every moment as if they knew they were witnessing their own fatal future to come. As my spirit left my body I saw my Mom sip a celebratory cocktail.
"Thank God we got the son-of-a-bitch before anyone found out I can't operate an iPhone."
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