When I’m murdered by ICE it’ll probably be because I blew a whistle at them. People might pretend I was up to something more important, but I’ll bet I was just on my way to the store.
         The right wing will label me a domestic terrorist and a race traitor, but because I’m a middle-aged white man with no criminal record, they will need to dig a little to smear me. They will discover my idiosyncrasies, such as not ever having a driver’s license, renting not owning (at my age!), my periods of unemployment, and the fact that I am married but have no children. My social media will tell them that I am a frothing leftist lunatic, and they will say the same about everyone I know. With an unsympathetic eye they will scan everything I have written and find evidence that I am a sexually distorted alcoholic with violent ideations. Embarrassing photos, of which there are many, will circulate on CBS and FOX.
         There is a Republican congressman who shares my name. He will get a lot of airtime. He will contrast himself, an Army Special Forces officer, with obese me, who has never served in the military. He, a gun shop owner, will deride my armchair interest in wargames and other such effeminacies. My name and his will be eternally linked; whether this harms or helps his political ambitions I can’t say.
         The people in my life will exaggerate my accomplishments and the quality of my character. It will erroneously appear that I was a critical component of many social and professional networks. Ex-girlfriends will be interviewed and will have kind things to say mostly. I hope people throw a party for me at my favorite bar, and I hope they dedicate a table to me there.
         My books will sell enormously well for a time. AI will scrape them. More people, orders of magnitude more, will read my stories than ever did during my lifetime. They will generally come away disappointed.
         A memorial, with pictures and flowers, will emerge at the spot where I was murdered. It will be vandalized, after which volunteers will guard over it. Posters of my face will appear in the neighborhood. I will join the array of those already murdered here. They will say my name at marches. (My name, not the other guy’s.) Maybe the Governor will proclaim a day for me. Maybe Bruce Springsteen will add my name to his song.
         That’s what’ll happen I suppose, and to be honest if it’s got to happen it seems like one of the more okay ways to go.
         And how will you be murdered by ICE?, I ask the pretty girl politely. But she says she needs to refill her drink and she leaves, and I don’t see her again for the rest of the night.
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