James Whittaker

The Capital of Country A

It's an early day in December—cold and windy. Yellow and brown leaves tumble hard through the streets, creating a messy carpet across the roads. The sun refuses to shine, casting a gloomy shadow over everything.

Yet, the city square is packed.

A huge crowd of people has gathered—adults, children, young, old, men, women, transgender, white, brown, black, yellow, red… even rainbow. Everyone is here, united by excitement. Many kids—and even some adults—wave little flags in their hands.

Today is a historic day for the country.

After securing a decisive victory in last month's election, James Whittaker is being sworn in as the new president. He won in a landslide—31 out of 50 states chose him. This crowd is clearly filled with his supporters, eager to hear his first speech as president.

Rumor has it he'll be announcing not only his cabinet but also several bold new policies—on immigration, gun ownership, and lifting embargoes with certain countries. All part of his ambitious first 100-day plan, just as he promised during his campaign. Swift. Bold. No wonder he's so beloved by the majority.

A tall blonde woman walks toward the crowd. Beside her, a small boy—maybe four or five—holds one of her hands. In the other, he grips a red balloon.

As they pass an ice cream truck, the boy stops abruptly. When the woman tries to pull him along, he refuses to budge. She turns, crouching to coax him along. But instead of moving, the boy begins to cry… then launches into full-blown tantrum.

The woman's tone sharpens. She tells him to behave. But his wails grow louder.

Their dispute starts drawing attention from nearby spectators.

The woman sighs in frustration, stomps her foot, and begins to walk away—leaving the boy behind.

Seeing her go, the boy shrieks, "Noo!!!" and bolts after her, still clutching his balloon.

Suddenly—

BANG!!

A loud explosion.

Screams erupt from the crowd. People drop to the ground in panic. Within seconds, both uniformed and plainclothes officers swarm the area, rushing toward the woman and child.

"Get down!! Get DOWN!!" a cop yells, aiming a rifle directly at her.

Pale and shaking, the woman raises her hands. "Please! Don't shoot! Please… please…"

"On the ground! NOW!!"

She grabs the boy, still crying, and lowers herself to the pavement, trembling. As soon as she's down, the cops move in and arrest her.

"His balloon popped! That's all—that's it! I swear, I swear! I'm no terrorist!" she sobs, but the officers ignore her and drag her away.

"Mommy!! Mommy!! MOMMYYYY!!" the boy screams in panic as a cop hoists him roughly over their shoulder.

"Please don't hurt him… please… he's just a boy…" the woman begs—but again, the officers offer no response.

Both are removed from the area, while the remaining cops maintain formation and coordinate with one another through radios. Alert. Tense. Watching everything.

More than ten minutes pass before the shaken crowd begins to settle again.

But then—fifteen minutes later—the cops snap back into action.

Officers sprint across the square. Radios buzz. Formations tighten around the capital building's front entrance and the stage at the podium. Plainclothes agents reposition themselves strategically, eyes scanning every angle.

I lower my binoculars with a long, silent exhale.

Just a few steps away, a rifle sits mounted on a tripod—steady, patient. I take my seat behind it, adjust the scope, and rest my finger gently on the trigger.

Less than five minutes pass before the crowd erupts in cheers.

A group emerges from the capital building—led by the president himself.

James Whittaker.

He waves to the crowd with a wide, confident smile.

They roar louder in response.

Once the applause quiets, a man steps up to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen… the president of Country A… Mr. James Whittaker!"

Another wave of cheers.

Whittaker walks to the podium, still smiling. He places both hands on the stand, waiting patiently for the crowd to settle once again.

He reaches into his suit's inner pocket and pulls out a few folded sheets of paper.

"Thank… thank you," he says, a little nervous, clearing his throat with a soft cough.

I take a slow breath… then another… emptying my lungs.

At the end of my exhale, I squeeze the trigger.

Two seconds later—miles away—chaos returns to the square.

Screams pierce the air as James Whittaker collapses at the podium, a bullet hole in his chest.

@@@@@ AUTHOR'S NOTE @@@@@

I'm sorry I skipped publishing last week—I was on vacation!I had a great time, and now I'm back!! ^^