Merlot hunched over his manuscript, buried under a landslide of student papers. Deadlines gnawed at him, but the real wolves prowled outside: student loans, late rent, and an internet bill blinking red with warnings.
His teaching assistant gig barely covered coffee, much less the gender reassignment surgery that remained a distant dream under Dr. Graydon's mounting demands. Another all-nighter had birthed Osa Dada—a figure who slithered onto the page like Idi Amin reborn: all charm in public, venom in private.
The Sangria War was meant to spill blood and betrayal, not frostbitten ceasefires scented with syrup from the frigid neighbour. His Vietnam scars—etched in '69, dodging bullets in jungles—still burned beneath his skin. Thanks for riding for free, eh.
When Merlot saw homeless people freezing on the streets of Motor's city, he couldn't help but think: at least in Saigon, they'd be warm. Tents, rations, and structure—however grim—were more than what the city offered its forgotten. War wasn't necessarily the worst fate. Sometimes peace, paired with neglect, was colder.
Merlot didn't always call a country by its real name—not when the writing became tense, when his mother's voice echoed in the margins, when the guilt curled around his ribs. Switched to nicknames: Borealia. America's Hat. Each one a mask, a way to talk about her homeland without saying its name. Badmouthing it in print was apparently a crime punishable by margin notes in red ink and eternal guilt. For celebrities, he invented nicknames on the spot. Using their real names was risky—after all, you can't exactly sue someone for calling you 'that guy,' can you?
Aliases helped him survive the truth: the real world was far more unsettling than the fiction he could control.
Uncle Sam nudged Borealia to pony up for the privilege of tagging along in his military jet. Free-riding in the sky, asking for protection while clutching rainbow bills and offering warm words. Merlot snorted. You don't get to sip sangria at altitude and call it diplomacy. His fictional character, Osa, laughed, spilling imaginary wine over real-world tragedies.
The Americans' Hat—tight-fisted, frostbitten—held its coins close while Merlot was chained to that jungle slaughterhouse. Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan—patterns in blood while the neighbour stayed cozy. The president's bone spur was his golden parachute, his Purple Heart for paperwork. Merlot got foxholes, mud, and body bags. He would have killed for a doctor's note. Perhaps that's why the president called fallen U.S. soldiers suckers—his feet had quit on him, and he wasn't about to volunteer for the same fate.
Merlot admired the president's swagger, charming crowds like a bulldozer in a suit, scandals be damned. But Merlot craved that get-out-of-war card. He'd been terrified of Vietnam's jungles, of rotting in a swamp, of never seeing the States again if he fled to Borealia's snow, munching pastries, dodging duty. Bolt north. Lose his lucky star—his American soul. That star was worth the fight, worth earning through blood.
Merlot had skimmed the cover of The Art of the Deal once—just enough to know it wasn't art. His face stared out like a wax figure halfway through melting, all squint and swagger, as if charisma could be photoshopped. Satire was survival for Merlot and the president; it was treason with punchlines.
Merlot smirked, envisioning the president's review of The Sangria War: "Total flop, folks. One star for trying, a crumb for Vietnam—while I was out building empires, making history, winning so much it was exhausting. Zero for 'favourite' with that extra 'u,' like you're saluting some dusty king. Think my face is melting? Get your eyes checked- they're terrible. Tremendous face! Dorkiness distorts your vision of greatness. Very sad! Art of the Deal? Blockbuster wins, pure gold. Clearly, you've got no taste if you prefer Sangria—sugary stuff—over real American literature. I don't sugarcoat the truth, especially when it's dressed up as patriotic. Sangria War is a recipe for sad veterans: trauma, whimpering, sangria—shaken, lukewarm. Just a broke vet crying into a Kindle screen. Almost as sad as voting for crooked Hilary instead of the father of IVF."
Merlot imagined his rebuttal cold and precise: You market your book the way you strong-arm nations into swallowing your tactics. The Sangria War tastes bitter because the truth burns like ice. You played the election like Monopoly: grab properties, corner the market, and hang eviction notices over those who resisted. No surprise votes rolled in—you'd purchased them pre-ballot. Bad-mouthing me only gives you bad breath.
The president fired back, face red-glossy like Mar-a-Lago had overcooked him: You said I play unfairly. Wrong! I buy properties for fun—not for votes. Art of the Deal kicked your book off the shelves. That's winning. Hard to argue with someone this good‑looking.
Merlot sighed: Can't buy shelf space. You mourn failed investments, not excluded players. Monopoly isn't a game when one player starts bankrupt. You conquered Manhattan; in Asia, your book conquered only shelf dust. The Sangria War doesn't need celebrity applause to matter—just as Canada never needed the U.S. to exist. Your ghostwriter regrets the whole thing—he'd relabelled it as fiction if he could.
The president bellowed: FAKE NEWS! Forbes says Art of the Deal flopped in Asia. When it wins—BIGGIE. My only regret? Hiring Schwartz. Talented, yes, but he forgot who the real genius was. He said the book should be renamed "The Sociopath." Insulting! So, I told him—half of your royalties back! He whined that he put lipstick on a pig. You can't put lipstick on a pig—they're busy. They're at vooting booth, voting for a winner, making history. If you played Monopoly with Nixon, Merlot, you'd roll the dice, land in jail like a draft evader, then complain the game is unfair. Back in the '80s, Forbes tried to lowball my riches—I sued their pants off. Your book? Not worth a lawsuit… or a glance.
Merlot responded icily: Forbes fact-checked you. The Atlantic and Washingtonian say the audience left. Ivana did too. Hardly fake news. Perhaps your books don't sell well because we are in a new era, mine.
His response was uncanny: I don't let people talk for me—makes me sound unpresidential. But you? You can call me Donny. After the divorce, Ivana tried to milk me for everything I had. The media? Call me stingy. Stingy! Even after she got a mansion from me. The press ignored what I gave —only focusing on what she wanted. I didn't want Hillary to win. Maybe I mistook her for my ex-wife in a pantsuit. Men get squeezed by the system after divorce. Feared she'd make that imbalance worse. I love women — lived with them, married them—but I've seen how the rules change once the papers are signed. I hired a ghostwriter to help him financially by allowing him to follow my shadow—and he painted me as the villain. That's not art—that's betrayal. The press took his side over mine—the very definition of fake news. I took the media to court for misportraying me, and what do I get? Ridicule. Instead of being taken seriously, I'm dismissed—because my feelings are hurt.
Merlot glanced at his wristwatch. Time for the evening news. Left his desk for the worn brown armchair. Turned on the television using the remote control on the glass, wooden-framed table.
The blue-and-red striped hat—like a prime minister wearing a toque instead of a helmet—wanted to slash military spending while begging Uncle Sam to stand guard. The president demanded tariffs for American veterans' graves. Too many graves. Jaw clenched.
The hat retaliated—heavier than a snowplow—crushing Harley-Davidson for Arlington's dead, slapping whiskey while smirking over rye. Twenty-five percent on steel? What were they supposed to build—tariffs out of drywall?
Numbers on a screen—but to Merlot, it was raw. One country bled in jungles, another hid behind paperwork. His scars screamed: Paid by me, not you.
America was a melting pot — boil or be boiled. Anyone who didn't conform got tossed back in like an undercooked noodle. Uncle Sam wasn't the one having an identity crisis; that was Borealia, forever judging so many cultures that she'd misplaced her own. Some days, she had to call Sam to remind herself which accent came with which moral compass, especially after the bombing of Nippon. Really, it wasn't her fault the heavy water slipped through customs.
Uncle Sam didn't want pillow talk about shared values; he wanted profit. A fifty-first state. Pfft. Borealia thought she could charm her way into the family without paying the blood price. Sam doesn't do bad sex or bad business. The president was a businessman. He knew how to cut a deal. How to walk away when the margins get sentimental.
Uncle Sam had laced up size-12 liberty boots—stars on the soles, stripes on the laces—and started kicking out guests who forgot the apple pie. The welcome wagon's axles groaned under the weight of the Cossack Bride's overflowing guest list; Sam argued he couldn't take in another guest without the wheels falling off. Rescue had a budget. Borealia had failed to save half the Golden State from wildfires, her meagre water offering no more than a drop in the ocean. Sam slammed the wagon door shut. No cash, no ride—the wagon had seen better days.
Merlot's boots, scuffed in '69, had trudged through mud, not golf courses. Borealia's absence stung worse than the jungle rot. Offered sympathy, not soldiers—just warm words, cold hands, and a smug, "We don't do that."
Yeah, you don't do many things, like show up.
Merlot wanted to say more about the neighbour. The syrup. The snow. The silence. He had lines ready—acidic, precise, unforgiving. Revealing them would've made him a criminal in polite society. His mother would read the manuscript. She'd call it bitterness. Say he was being too harsh. Reminded him of the care packages. Scribble in the margins: "Don't make it too American."
How could he not make it American? It was like asking an alligator to sunbathe in Lake Erie. Caught between two worlds: the country he was born into and the country that had given him life. Growing up, his mother insisted 'favourite' was misspelled without a 'u.' Did he have to spell like the monarch was watching?" He'd ached English if he'd dropped the "u," but she'd never let him be fully American.
To him, she was like his father, never allowing him to be trans. Had she forgotten that the scars from the draft were etched on him like stripes on a flag? He had fought because he knew safety always came at a cost. Yet her country—orderly, polite, always smiling—often relied on diplomacy and small contributions while leaving others to shoulder the heaviest burdens.
Did she forget her people cheered when the White House burned, crowing about 1812 like a campfire tale? That online song, gloating over American "losers," set his jaw tight. How do you claim victory when you sat out Vietnam?
The president was branded a coward for dodging the draft; his medical excuse—a bone spur in his heel—wasn't good enough for his haters. Claimed he bribed the doctor, bought a diagnosis like he bought buildings: overvalued and underexamined. Their relentless attacks ignored the agony of his condition, dismissing it as a convenient lie. What more did they want—X-rays posted on Instagram with the hashtag #BoneSpurHero? Since when did having a fat wallet guarantee a clean bill of health? Maybe he should gift-wrap a broken leg and call it a "luxury injury." Proposed a National Bone Spur Day to honour those enduring similar silent struggles. Critics sneered, labelling it a dodge, not a tribute. Refused to see the courage in facing daily pain.
Critics dismissed the idea, calling it a symbol of avoidance rather than bravery. Argued it was a celebration of dodging military service, not a recognition of genuine sacrifice. When he literally dodged a bullet from a crowd, no one called it bravery. Apparently, bullets only count if they're flying through Saigon—not across Uncle Sam's front lawn. Maybe it's time to recognize the battles fought outside the battlefield. Pain and courage don't come with a single uniform.
Merlot, a keen observer, noted a grim pattern in the presidency: the first president's horse felled by two bullets, the sixteenth shot dead in a theatre, the 35th, gunned down in a car, and the forty-fifth grazing past a bullet's path. The office seemed a magnet for lead, raising the question: was the only promotion here straight into the ground?
Borealia dodged tariffs with more finesse than the president ever dodged the draft. Waving rainbow-coloured bills, she welcomed thousands of draft dodgers—serving pastries and snow cones while Uncle Sam's sons came home in coffins. Her moral high ground was a snowbank: sparkling under praise, but melting fast under the heat of scrutiny.
Merlot needed an editor who got his rage—someone American, someone who knew the cost of staying, not running. His mother worked for free. Surgery costs loomed. The TRICARE envelope lay crumpled on the table. Coverage terminated. Nonpayment. Another missed deadline. Serving was supposed to mean security—bleeding in a jungle should've bought care for life. The system cared about premiums, not scars. Hormones? Gone. Therapy? Out of network. Surgery? Never covered—not for someone who transitioned after the medals.
Back then, honesty meant exile. His father was alive. Coming out would've torched the inheritance. Merlot wore the uniform, swallowed the pronouns, and waited for the old man to die. Freedom came late, at a price.
Turned back to his manuscript, pushing the timeline ahead by eight years, desperate to keep readers from dropping like flies. His contract hung by a thread—one bad semester. Dr. Graydon would cut him loose.
Clara, the gossiping TA, had already tattled on his disastrous date with Lemony; she had seen him at the restaurant, alone with his glass of sangria. His reputation, his love life, and his sense of self wobbled like a badly plotted arc.
Merlot shuffled to the kitchen, hands trembling as he poured coffee. The pot clattered, echoing his frantic pulse. Returned to the manuscript sprawled across the table.
The line stared back: Osa grinned, and empires burned.
It felt alien. Menacing. His stomach lurched.
Did I write you—or did you crawl out of me?
No. Fear talking. Voice inside played dirty—whispering he was fiction, not flesh.