FIRED

There was a cornfield in front of the white house. Protesters with placards, angry and yelling, marched unwittingly trampling the cornfield in their frenzy. I ran into the house to warn the president and then saw the smoke – the house was on fire! I called 911 for the fire department. We ran out the door, the president tucking in his shirt. There were murmurings that he must had been having an affair! When the fire engines came people stood in front of them not allowing a close enough range to douse the flames as the people cheered. The president, their employer, watched as his field was now only wood, hay, and stubble and in burning down the house, the mob had destroyed all the records. “Don’t you have a backup somewhere?” He did, some, in a locked, sealed safe somewhere else. His eyes were sad. “They don’t know what they are doing. I have other fields. They are fired. They have fired themselves.”