The third Democratic debate was a sellout—thanks to Inzamam Guevara. The person formerly known as Martin Guest had only revealed his new identity the previous day, yet he was already a superstar. His Twitter handle, @hotsauceguevara, had attracted seventy-three million followers overnight. He had also been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.
Aside from its political significance, the debate was a thrilling spectacle, full of extravagant promises, fiery accusations, spiteful threats, and at one stage a fistfight. Layla Jackson once again came out firing, only this time she failed to hit her target. With her opponent now a member of more minority groups than she was, Jackson’s chief weapon—criticism—was disarmed. When it came to policy Guevara had an answer for everything—taxes, climate change, immigration, education, healthcare—on every issue he matched and even outdid Jackson’s promises. Then she played her strongest card: abortion, up until birth, for any reason.
She received mild applause.
Debate moderator, Deborah Vice (the hard-hitting television journalist known for spitting in the face of interviewees whose opinions differed from her own), then asked Inzamam Guevara to share his stance on abortion:
Vice: “Mr/Ms Guevara, are you in favour of abortion up until the point of birth?
Guevara: “I cannot agree with Ms Jackson on this issue. I believe up until the point of birth just isn’t a reasonable timeframe for a person to weigh up all the evils of parenthood. Studies have shown motherhood can be tiring, and even inconvenient. Therefore, if elected president, I will institute a policy of government-funded abortion on demand—including post-term abortions.”
Guevara: “That’s right. Up until the fifteenth trimester.”
Vice: “So… until the foetus is a three-year-old.”
Guevara: “Exactly. We will have a come-to-you abortion service able to terminate any toddler, and at a time that suits the mother—I cannot stress that enough. What greater act of compassion is there than to spare a child a life of difficulty?”
Vice: “By aborting them.”
Vice: “Makes sense.”
Guevara: “And this will all be funded by taxing churches.”
Vice: “I love you.”
Guevara received his fourth of six standing ovations for the night.
Jackson then hurled her last desperate accusation. “This man has continually claimed African American heritage,” she shrieked, “yet he is clearly white. The American people will not tolerate such lies. Mr Guevara, take a DNA test and prove yourself, if you can!”
Guevara smiled. Jackson had played right into his hands. Curtains at the back of the stage parted to reveal a large screen. On the screen was a prepared slide presentation showing Guevara’s DNA test results: he was eight per cent African. It was enough to validate his claims, but nowhere near enough to challenge Jackson ethnicity-wise. But the presentation wasn’t over. It continued, tracing Guevara’s family tree back six generations, and, oddly, listing all manner of relatives on his mother’s side. For a while it seemed Guevara had produced a big fat nothingburger, but then his family tree zoomed in on a certain Winfrey family. The final slide showed the highlighted, capitalised name of a distant cousin. Her name: Oprah.
Things could not get any worse for Layla Jackson (politically worse, that is—a bus struck her as she left the auditorium that night), while Inzamam Guevara, sharing a bloodline with Oprah, had become an unstoppable force.
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