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Her life is perfect. She is living the life of a rich girl, popular in her private school and spoiled by her loving parents. What else could she ask for?
  She has no troubles. She is a lovely girl, and her friends adore her. Everybody adores her.

But the world is not perfect. Her parents worry about the future and her school worries about what could happen the next day.
  Thus, the school imparts the Active Shooter class, Run-Hide-Fight training and as with all her classes she takes it seriously.

Her only worry is to have a boyfriend. Her classmates do not stir any feelings, and she wonders who would.
  Still, she is a happy popular girl.
Then the inconceivable happens. Her school is the target of a school shooting. Her friends are running and falling, pierced by high-power bullets.
  In a panic, she and her friends try to run away from the shooters.

In minutes, her idyllic life has been shattered. Her life has been ruined. Her friends are dead. What happened?
  Dead. Her friends are dead, and she cannot cry. The only emotion she feels is hate. Incommensurable hate.

“In her hate, she believes that the end justifies the means.
And she is dangerously rich and resourceful.”

The videos are incredible. Not because of my words, which don’t make sense. But because of the reactions of the crowd. Their enthusiasm, their adoration.
  The gestures of my eyes and face greatly reinforce my arguments and my expressions of contempt, hatred, and jubilation liven my execution.
  Notwithstanding the lack of a message, the videos of my theatrical performance are viral. I know part of it is because I am so sexy. But the other part is because America is gone. What’s left is garbage.

I glumly sit on the airplane’s seat. Chloe sits across the aisle.
  The plane lifts. I close my eyes. I hear, “I would have done the same thing. Do not fret about it. It is part of the job.”
  I look at Chloe. “What job?” I do not think condemning people to death is the job of an assistant.
  Her eyes sweep me. Up and down. She smiles. “Something like her majesty the queen of Africa.”
  I look at her in disbelief. “What makes you think I would like to be a queen?” I ask.
  “You have Zulu’s royal blood. You are already famous for being my extremely beautiful assistant and now you have done your part to ingratiate yourself with the African people,” I hear, while the video of the scene that kept me awake all night appears on the screen of the plane. I see myself. Secure, calm, and decisive, declaring the death penalty to I do not know how many families. I cry.   Chloe moves to the seat near me. “I am sorry to lose my assistant. We will keep in touch,” she says.
  I have not said yes. I stop crying. But she is right, what happened was part of my new job. I smile, look at Chloe, and she has her eyes closed.
  She planned this. She knew who I was from the start and used me. I laugh. She is the uSathane.

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