Election night is rapidly approaching. Each time I look at the calendar, I shiver with fear. I’ve become reclusive, irritable, and I can feel strange sharp spines growing out of my back. Halloween, the holiday of fear? Laughable. This Halloween all I did was sit and stare at Twitter. No, no—the real Halloween is Election Day this year.

I’ve heard rumors of people planning election night parties. Drinking wine, talking politics, watching the news. I can’t help but roll my eyes. They are so naive, so unprepared. Election night will be different this year. As will the week following it, and probably the rest of the year. 2020 is not over yet, and I have no desire to see how it ends in this country.

I’ve built a bunker, under my home. It is stocked with all the essentials: food, water, extra-soft toilet paper. The only thing it doesn’t have? Internet. The election results don’t matter to me. All that matters is that I escape. The bunker is just a precaution, for if the escape plan doesn’t work. No, you cannot “borrow” my bunker if I escape successfully. Stop asking. Only I know the passcode. I will go in the dead of night, when every other American is glued to their televisions, watching the results roll in. I will take my motorbike and ride to the train station. It’s past operating time for the trains. That doesn’t matter—I know a guy. His name is Jeff, and he operates the secret train that runs in the dead hours of the night. I take the secret train, obviously. It gets me out of Boston, and then I hop on a secret bus. I know the driver: he’s a good friend. The drive (his name is Steve) will not take me far, but that is alright. This is when the motorbike from earlier comes in handy. I ride it to the border between Canada and the United States. The border is blocked off. They don’t want their citizens running away because of the election. It doesn’t matter. I’ve prepared for this. I distract the guards when a well-thrown firecracker. They take the bait, running in the opposite direction of me. I slip through the cracks, with no time to spare. I’ve made it. But, oh no—I left my food bag on the other side of the border. I can’t go on without it. I decide to utilize my greatest weapon: my toad. His name is Andrew, and I’m sorry to see him go. However, sacrifices must be made. I chuck a small pebble at the back of the guard’s head, and he turns around, startled—putting himself in the perfect position for me to chuck Andrew into his wide open mouth. He staggers back, and a general toad-in-the-mouth commotion ensues. It’s more than enough distraction for me to be able to slip back over the border, grab my food bag, and re-enter Canada.

Seven short days later, mouth stuffed full-to-bursting with donuts, I hear the election results. I buy more donuts. I live in Canada now, and the United States seems a distant, bizarre fever dream. I don’t have a job yet, but that doesn’t matter. My existence has been simplified, and all I eat are delicious white powdered donuts.


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