The Big Dump

By Dan Mulhollen

It was always a carefully guarded secret. In the 1980s, President Wilson R. Jellybean agreed to fund what would become the internet. He insisted certain "safety precautions" be at his disposal. Chief of these being that every bit of the 'net -- every email sent, every line of chat, every website clicked on -- including the user's choice in pictorial or informational data -- was all stored in a massive database accessible by only the President and one that could be released to the general public in what President Jellybean called "The Big Dump."

Every President since knew about these. Some were horrified, some morbidly curious, but none of them ever thought of actually using it until ...

President Darryl J. Rumpelstiltskin sat at his desk in his well-padded office chair talking to his fifth Chief of Staff, Ivan Lapdogovich. Ivan listened to the President's tirade, a stupid smile on his face, his coccyx almost wagging.

"Fake polling by the fake media," the President said, as if giving one of his interminable stump speeches, "is suggesting I am losing in my reelection bid. My base is with me regardless of how polluted things get. And swing states, my ass. What has Ohio given us besides Orville and Wilbur Whatever, a couple astronauts, and an overrated basketball player? The rest of them, losers! But just in case, I texted you about the only solution I see to this improbable possibility. The Big Dump!"

"Putting everyone's Internet history in the public domain is risky," Lapdogovich said, his head lowered. "How many people will lose their jobs? How many marriages will be destroyed? I've compiled some very alarming statistics."

"Statistics," the President said, rolling his eyes. "But I suppose you think I should hear them. But make it fast."

"Some surveys suggest one in ten college students has done porn -- increased tuition and high textbook prices ..."

"The so-called Texas textbook monopoly. Only one of the two good things to come out of Dallas involving schoolbooks."

"Reasonable money for little, if degrading, work."

"An honest day's work is never degrading," the President remarked, seeming proud of his statement. "Besides, these are elite, artsy types. It's in their nature. Go on."

"One in twenty men have sent a ... er ... dick pic. One in fifteen women and one in five men has had a textural sexual encounter -- often with a partner one half, or even one third their own age, and not infrequently with a member of their own sex. One fifth are members of a proscribed religion -- Pagans, Satanists, Unitarians, Asian beliefs, and the like."

"All grounds for termination." Pride in the President's voice. The Supreme Court had recently upheld an employers' right to fire an employee for any reason. The majority opinions were rambling, incoherent regurgitation of President Rumpelstiltskin's own statements when signing that Executive Order. The dissenting opinions were lucid, grounded in centuries of precedent, but ignored by the President's hand-picked Justices.

"Some examples," the Chief-of-Staff continued, in his high-pitched but somber whine. "A short order cook in Kentucky was fired for being in a Pagan group. A college receptionist in Wyoming, now married -- to a man -- and with kids, was fired when an email from her to a past same-sex lover was revealed. A nun in Chicago was ... er ... defrocked when a nude picture of her, taken years before she took her vows, was posted on an artistic nude site."

"Pornographic?"

"Uh, not by most definitions of the word,," the Chief of Staff said, growing increasingly uncomfortable, "But done out of doors and showing she was particularly well-groomed."

The President grunted his disapproval, "Two of my wives and four of my mistresses started off that way, I made them throw away their razors and depillory, or whatever that stuff is called, or risk losing the affections of 'the Rumpster.' That got 'em in line."

"Cloudy Davis?"

The President slammed his fist down. "I told you," he shouted, "never mention that bitch's name in my presence!"

"Apologies," Lapdogovich whimpered, again his head lowered, a submissive look on his face.

"And no," he scoffed. "She liked looking like an unnaturally busty ten-year-old. Give me an unnaturally busty but, as God intended, naturally hairy twenty-five-year-old any day."

"Uhh ... forty ... um," the Lapdogovich said, calculating the difference in age between a twenty-five-year-old and the President.

"So how do I work this bastard?" Mr. Rumpelstiltskin asked.

"The computer? It's all on a two-page quick reference card."

"As if I have the time to read two pages," the President scoffed. "Reading is for elite globalists. What do you take me for, some East Coast faggot who can sprout intellectual bullshit at the drop of a hat?"

"I think your predecessor, Barry O'Balmy left an instructional video. Should I access it?"

The President nodded.

"Ah, Mister Rumpelstiltskin," the former President said, as the video began. "So you've decided on the big dump. My predecessor Mr. Walker left me a similar video. Mind you, I had sufficient computer literacy not to need it."

"A Kenyan sitting on his bed at 3am," the President joked. His Chief-of-Staff just sighed and shook his head.

"I never considered this option," the former President stated, "considering the potential damage too great."

"Coward!" Rumpelstiltskin shouted.

"It's quite simple," the video continued. "Click on the folder labeled "TBD." Inside you'll find the item "Dump." Click on that and it's done. I should advise you to consider your actions carefully. Nearly everyone has said some dumb thing on the internet or associated with some group or site. Some political, some as benign as an arts or literature website. You are ..."

"Enough!" the President shouted, losing his temper. "Now Chief," he said to Lapdogovich, "I'd rather be left alone for this."

"I quite understand," his Chief-of-Staff said, leaving the Oval Office.

At first the President's utterances seemed pained, but then a bit giddy, and ultimately relieved.

"How was it?" Lapdogovich asked, the President calling him back.

"Let me tell you, there is nothing," the President said, wiping his brow, "there's nothing like a big dump to make one feel so much better."

"So I've heard," his Chief-of-Staff said, suppressing a giggle.

The President underestimated the consequences of everyone's Internet history becoming accessible to everyone. Attorney General Beauregard Jeffries' son Otis was arrested for growing tons of cannabis in his rural Tennessee greenhouses. Staff of the President's favorite news channel were found to be running a gambling den and brothel in their basement. Lapdogovich lost his job when his still-valid Russian citizenship and State Secret Intelligence membership card was made known. And First Lady Venicia Rumpelstiltskin's old -- pre-enhanced breasts -- Hungarian pornographic videos resurfaced, some showing her with white men, black men, threesomes, orgies often including a thin blonde. (The two of them seemed particularly close.)

The televised divorce trial featured Rumpelstiltskin's many temper tantrums; once charging the opposing lawyer's table, sucker punching the attorney, and coming within five feet of striking his wife, was, as he put it, "Probably a bad decision, but that slut had it coming, let me tell you!"

As his base evaporated and realizing his reelection bid would be in vain, the President resigned, his resignation tweet being, "Screw you guys I'm going home!!!"

Two months later, a taxi pulled up to a house in suburban Budapest. A tall, attractive, well-dressed woman exited, paid the driver, and rang the doorbell. Her recently de-enhanced breasts proudly showed defiance to the chilly Hungarian winter.

"Venicia!" a tall, slender blonde squealed, hugging the other woman.

"Oh Sophia, it's been so long. I have missed you."

"It's like my prayers have been answered," the blonde said, tears in her eyes.

"A lot of people's prayers have been answered."

"You've read my letters?"

"Yes," she said, smiling. "And you didn't say 'I told you so'. I don't mind it, everyone does and everyone was right." She walked to the kitchen. "Do you mind?" she said, pointing to the coffee maker. "And everyone was right."

"But to leave your parents. To give up your son..."

"It hurts," the former Mrs. Rumpelstiltskin admitted, setting her coffee cup down on a coaster. "But they wanted to be Americans -- even before I met him, something to do with my father's allergy to paprika. And like everything else the President touches, the child was his property. I am no longer that, but a billionaire and watching his empire crumbling. Almost enough to make you believe in karma."

Sophia chuckled. "A billionaire? Do you remember that video where you played a wealthy socialite, I kidnapped you and held you for ransom?"

The former First Lady of the United States smiled and nodded her head. "Being your on-camera slave was much better than the voluntary slave I've been far too long," They looked at each other, remembering, sly smiles on their faces.

"Remember the one where you were a female version of Sherlock Holmes," Sophia asked, grinning, "and I was Watson?"

"Soph!" Venicia shouted, laughing, heading for the stairway, "upstairs, and bring the wax!"