When America first woke up, she didn’t know where she was.
She wobbled upright on the couch, her head spinning, the stink of Old Crow and cheap beer hanging in the air. “I’ve got to stop having these crazy blackouts,” she thought.
There was the sound of incoherent mumbling nearby. She gingerly turned her head to look. Oh, God. Richard Spencer was passed out next to her, his head back and his mouth open. Was it possible? Did she make out with a Nazi last night?
America rubbed her face and tried to remember what the hell happened. Nightmarish images floated back to her. The fascist embracing her waist, whispering in her ear. “I will make you feel like a real woman… you’re not a woman until you’ve been taken by a strong man…” And she had let him take her, she suspected.
Her living room was torn to pieces. Trash…
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