“YOU SHOT THE WRONG PRESIDENT” (SHORT STORY)

Thomas faces the consequences of his failed assassination attempt.

He sits with a mysterious figure who speaks of presidents and politics, of sin and salvation. A robed figure with the perfect manicure and casual wisdom.

Will Thomas learn a hard truth about the path to change?

Or will he surrender to his fate?

1,000 words / 4 minutes of provocative reading pleasure

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‘We're all sinners. Everybody you meet all over the world is a sinner.’ Billy Graham

STEFANO BOSCUTTI

YOU SHOT THE WRONG PRESIDENT

Copyright 2025 Stefano Boscutti
All Rights Reserved

‘Dude, seriously, Trump?’

THOMAS MATTHEW CROOKS, 20, is holding his head in his hands,

Holding what’s left of it after a Secret Service counter-sniper scoped and blasted his brains out with a single shot from the rooftop of a building behind the crowds at Trump’s open-air rally in Pennsylvania.

Thomas looks frightened, confused. He remembers the rally, the crowds, the shots, the screams. But he’s not entirely sure where he is. There’s a faint smell of rotting trash, burnt flesh.

Everything is bathed in hot light. Maybe he’s in an operating theatre. But he can’t see any surgeons or anaesthesiologists. No nurses.

A YOUNG MAN leans over him, light splintering and radiating behind him. He snaps his fingers.

‘Dude, can you hear me?’

Young Man is slender, draped in a fine white robe, light brown hair down over his shoulders. A light beard and eyes as blue as the sky. He’s smiling, kind.

He could be twenty years old, Or thirty. Or even forty. He seems oddly ageless. He casually slips his hair behind one ear.

Thomas coughs, tries to answer him. Young Man cups the side of his splattered face and the wound begins to instantly close over and heal. Thomas blinks, asks a question.

‘Where am I?’

Young Man looks around.

‘Think of it as home.’

‘Did I kill him?’

Young Man softly shakes his head. Thomas’ eyes widen.

‘I didn’t kill him?’

Young Man tightens the corner of his mouth.

‘You nicked his ear.’

‘A flesh wound?’

‘More like a scratch.’

Thomas looks disappointed. Young Man bites his lips.

‘Dude, you shot the wrong President.’

‘What?’

‘If you wanted to end Trump, you should have shot Biden. Seriously, put him out of his misery. A mercy killing.’

Thomas looks confused. Young Man explains.

‘Whole country would have been in mourning, a good man who gave his life to the nation, a modern political tragedy, taken from us too soon, thoughts and prayers, blah, blah, blah.’

Thomas still doesn’t understand. Young Man spells it out.

‘Everyone would have blamed Trump for the violent rhetoric, made him out to be the bad guy. He would have been run out of town. Now thanks to you, he got the sympathy vote and everyone thinks God’s on his side. Blessed by angels and all that shit. Won the popular vote and everything.’

Young Man tucks a slip of hair behind his ear.

‘Even worse, Trump now thinks he can walk on water, imagines he can do no wrong. Believes he’s on a mission to save America. His second inauguration? This time it’s actually going to be the biggest ever.’

Young Man cracks a smile.

‘For your everyday American, your average American, it’s going to be four years of hell.’

Young Man points straight at Thomas.

‘All thanks to you.’

Thomas looks like he’s going to cry. Young Man shrugs.

‘Maybe your brains are a little scrambled after the shot to the head. Single shot from a Mk 13 Sniper Rifle fitted with a Nightforce ATACR 7-35x56 scope and a RAPTAR range finder. Single 220 grain Sierra MatchKing Hollow Point Boat Tail (HPBT) bullet.’

Young Man taps Thomas’ temple with his index finger.

‘Slams into the side of your head, fragments and explodes, pulverising bone, tearing blood vessels and liquefying brain matter.’

Young Man holds up his index finger, smiles.

‘Just one shot.’

Young Man points at Thomas.

‘Whereas you fired off eight shots in under six seconds from your father’s AR-15 and all you managed to do was nick the top of Trump’s right ear and give him the photo opportunity of a lifetime.’

Young Man thinks, frowns.

‘Although you did hit three audience members sitting behind him. Killed some poor firefighter, which didn’t do you any favours at all.’

Thomas looks parched.

‘May I have a glass of water?’

‘No, I’m afraid you may not. We’re a little short-staffed in the catering department.  Normally we serve fruit. But, dude, it’s been crazy busy around here lately.’

Thomas looks at Young Man’s fingernails. They look perfectly manicured. Like he’s never done a day’s work in his life.

‘Are you saying I should have shot Biden?’

‘Dude, I don’t know if I can say it any louder without the walls of heaven caving in.’

Young Man looks straight into Thomas’ eyes, straight into his soul.

‘Biden’s an old guy. Pretty lethargic onstage, doesn’t move around as much as Trump. It would have been easy. Even for you. One kill shot to the forehead.

Young Man taps Thomas’ forehead hard with his index finger, jerking his head back.

‘Ka-pow!!’

Young Man explodes explodes his fingers in the air.

‘No more Biden, no more Trump, no more problem.’

Thomas looks overwhelmed. Young Man sighs, explains.

‘Trump is the problem, right? You can’t eliminate a problem like Trump by simply taking him out of the equation. You need to eliminate the desire for a problem like Trump. You need to eliminate the belief for the need for someone like Trump.’

Young Man smiles, nods.

‘You need to flood the zone with guilt.’

Thomas has a splitting headache, feels like he’s burning up.

‘Everyone calms down, comes back to their senses and we have a little sanity for a while. Instead of all the madness of the last few years.

Thomas can taste gunpowder in the back of his throat, feels like he’s drowning in warm blood.

‘Dude, people aren’t coping very well. It’s been trying times. Floods, fires, plagues, pestilence. It’s been, you know -- biblical.’

Young Man presses the palms of his hands together, as if in prayer.

‘People have had enough. They want to get on with their little lives, their small jobs, their tiny ambitions. They don’t want to be righteous. They want to lead small lives of quiet desperation, an occasional folly, an insignificant vice. Nothing too dramatic, nothing too crazy.’

Thomas looks nauseous, bewildered.

‘You could have set the world on another path. You could have saved people from themselves.’

Young Man smiles wide.

‘Dude, all you had to do was shoot the right president.’

Thomas’s voice is barely a whisper.

‘But, Jesus, isn’t killing a sin?’

Young Man leans back, tilts his head, perplexed. His smile curdles.

‘Jesus? Dude, what makes you think I’m Jesus?’

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Copyright 2025 Stefano Boscutti

All Rights Reserved

The moral rights of the author are asserted.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or copying and pasting, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing.

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Stefano Boscutti acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this work. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorised or sponsored by the trademark owner.

This is a work of fiction. While many of the characters portrayed here have counterparts in the life and times of various American presidents and assassins, the characterisations and incidents presented are totally the products of the author’s trigger-happy imagination. This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It should not be resold or given away. Thank you for your support. (Couldn’t do it without you.)

Discover novels, screenplays, short stories and more by Stefano Boscutti at boscutti.com