Who is kneeling next to the now almost completely dissolved corpse of his stepmother. Outside, in front of the villa, the boxwoods are being dusted, the private police ride through the park. It’s calm. Since the people became so satisfied. Even more satisfied and peaceful; basic income and now jobs and direct democracy, could a person want anything more?

Outside mechanical birds sing. Speaking of which—

There hasn’t been any fucking in the neighborhood for a good long time. Thome goes only sporadically into his surveillance room, that relic of his childhood, which Thome associates primarily with humiliation—when he did have a look at what was going on with the neighbors again one time, while his stepmother blew bubbles as she decomposed, he looked into all the neighbors’ torture cellars and sling rooms—boredom. Doughy patricians sat around helplessly in Italian silk underwear looking at their own legs. There’s more going on outside.

Little leaf removal machines drive up the street, the first ladies make their way toward their organic bakeshops with adjoining yoga and Pilates studios. Today they’re learning how to make their own espadrilles.

A dull sound in the house. What’s making that noise? Thome climbs the stairs to the library, opens the door, and sees—

THOME’S FATHER

Who has fallen over in his chair. After ceaselessly hitting the back of his head much too hard against the solid oak chair back. There he lies on the ground, with the chair, his legs in the air, crying. Thome stands in front of the beetle-like remnants of his father, and in seconds his life implodes. He’d been afraid of this, his entire life long. This little old lump on the floor had the power to fill his brain, to influence his feelings. He’d been so afraid of—that heap there. To see his weeping, suddenly geriatric father on the floor is the most embarrassing thing Thome has ever experienced. Not even seeing his father in latex gear on all fours in front of his stepmother was as bad. Speaking of which—

“She’s dead, Father,” says Thome. For a second he has the old man’s attention.

“Who’s dead?” he asks.

“Your spouse.” Says Thome. “She’s in the basement.”

“Dead?” Thome’s father asks. At least he’s stopped crying.

“Well, there might still be a bit of life in the crowns of her teeth.”

Thome’s father rights himself. “So, dead. Speaking of which.” He says. “I can’t go out on the street anymore after this disgrace.”

“Father,” says Thome, helping the old man up. “Get yourself together; you can try again in the next election, after the people are frustrated with the Online Party, which by the way was programmed by my boys. You know how these things work. First this one and then another.”

Thome’s father is too dazed to properly process the information.

Good cue.

THE NEW ADMINISTRATION