The morning started the way it always did: half a joint and a bowl of Frosted Flakes. The cereal was stale and the joint was half-shake, but Benny didn’t care. Benny never cared. That was his whole philosophy.
Until the tariffs.
He first noticed it at the bodega. A simple pack of American Spirits — ten damn bucks. “Used to be seven,” Benny mumbled as he dug in his pockets.
“Blame the tariffs,” said Julio from behind the counter, arms crossed, leaning back like he was sitting on an invisible chair.
“Tariffs?” Benny blinked. “Ain’t that some kind of European dance move?”
“Nah, man,” Julio said, handing over the smokes. “Government slapped taxes on imports and exports. Everything’s going up. Cigarettes, beer, even freakin’ bananas.”
Benny stood there blinking. The room felt like it tilted a little. “Bananas too?”
“Bananas too, bro.”
That was the day Benny felt his heart start to curdle. Like milk left on a radiator.
By the time he made it to the liquor store, he was fully pissed. Beer prices — up. Chips — up. Rolling papers — UP.
“It’s a conspiracy,” he growled to Ed, the liquor store guy.
“Yeah, and I’m the goddamn Queen of England,” Ed said without looking up from his Sudoku book.
That night Benny sat on his broken couch, glaring at the mold spot on his wall, smoking cheap weed that now cost twenty bucks a gram.
“You know what?” Benny said aloud to the room. “I’m gonna fix this shit.”
Marley the cat meowed from under the coffee table.
“I’m serious, dude,” Benny said. “I’m gonna find that goddamn tariff man and make him feel the pain he’s put on all us poor bastards.”
He started sketching a plan on the back of a Domino’s menu. He had:
- duct tape
- a rusty crowbar
- a ’96 Dodge Neon that barely started
“It’s enough,” he muttered. “Revolution don’t wait for perfect conditions.”
____________________________________
Benny drove halfway across town to the Senator’s office building. The Dodge made sad, whimpering noises every time he hit a pothole.
He parked behind a dumpster and lit another joint. “Gotta be relaxed for this kinda work,” he said to Marley, who had insisted on coming along. Or maybe Benny had just imagined that.
When he got to the door, it was locked. Of course. Benny hadn’t thought about that.
“Think, think,” he whispered, tapping his forehead with the joint.
“Hey, man,” said a homeless guy from a nearby bench. “You breaking in?”
“Trying to,” Benny said. “Gotta kidnap a senator.”
The homeless guy nodded like Benny had said he was going to the store for a six-pack.
“Use the crowbar,” the guy said helpfully.
“Smart,” Benny said. “You wanna come?”
“Nah, man. I’m on probation.”
Benny jimmy-jammed the door until it shrieked and popped open. Inside, the office was dark and smelled like sadness and coffee.
“Where’s the bastard…” Benny muttered, creeping down the hallway. Marley padded behind him, his tail sticking straight up.
In a back office, there he was. Senator Morrison. The father of all tariffs. Passed out on a couch, tie loose, shoes off, TV blaring some late-night infomercial about miracle knives.
“Gotcha now, you sonofabitch,” Benny whispered.
He tiptoed over and duct-taped the guy’s hands and feet.
Senator Morrison snorted awake mid-snore. “Whuh—whazzat?”
“Justice, motherfucker,” Benny said, feeling proud.
“Who the hell are you?”
“A patriot.”
“You’re high!”
“You’re goddamn right!”
Benny dragged the senator out to the Neon. It took twenty minutes because Morrison was fat and kept calling Benny “Randy.”
“Name’s Benny,” he kept muttering.
In the car, Marley climbed onto the senator’s stomach and settled in for a nap.
“Where we going?” the senator asked, flopping around like a hooked fish.
“Somewhere you’ll learn,” Benny said.
________________________
Three hours later, Benny stood in front of a rundown bowling alley with Senator Morrison duct-taped to a chair, a bottle of Tabasco sauce in one hand, and a karaoke machine blasting “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
“Sing,” Benny barked.
“I don’t—I don’t know the words!”
“THAT’S PART OF THE PUNISHMENT.”
“You’re insane!”
Benny squirted a line of Tabasco into the senator’s open mouth. The senator made sounds like a kicked accordion.
“TARIIIFFS, BITCH!” Benny yelled.
Marley batted at the microphone cord, looking mildly entertained.
The scene dragged on. Benny made him sing “Like a Virgin” next, then “Bohemian Rhapsody” — horribly off-key. After a while, even Benny started getting bored.
“Maybe I didn’t think this through,” he admitted to Marley.
Outside, Benny hadn’t noticed the blinking silent alarms when they broke into the senator’s office. Hadn’t noticed the senator’s ankle monitor either, courtesy of a pending ethics investigation.
By the time Benny leaned back in a plastic bowling chair to admire his handiwork, flashing blue and red lights lit up the windows.
“Ah, shit,” Benny said.
He turned to the senator. “Look, no hard feelings. It was the principle of the thing.”
The senator’s face was redder than a stop sign, but he gave a tiny, respectful nod.
“Bananas too?” he croaked.
“Bananas too, man,” Benny said, shaking his head.
When the cops dragged him away, Benny shouted, “I REGRET NOTHING!”
Marley just yawned.
_________________________________
In jail later that night, Benny shared a cell with the homeless guy.
“What you in for?” the guy asked.
“Tariffs,” Benny said.
“Right on,” the guy said, handing him half a Snickers bar.
Benny chewed thoughtfully.
“Revolution needs snacks,” he said.
“Amen, brother,” the guy said.
And they both nodded off, dreaming of cheaper cigarettes, bananas, and a world without goddamn tariffs.
