I took in shaky breath. The clock had, undoubtedly, been ticking this whole time: but the sound had suddenly crescendoed. The end was approaching. I could’ve touched it. Beads of sweat formed at my neck first, then my forehead, my cheeks. I’d taken dangerous missions before, but this was by far the riskiest.

I put myself to the busy task of arming myself first. An ink black jacket. Shades. Pepper spray. Bug spray. Cleaning spray, just in case things got messy. Tight rubber gloves. Would I need a helmet? A stapler? I took the two anyway. There was no way I could be over prepared for an endeavor like this. My chest heaving, I stole away.

I had worked many years in this corporation, trapped in it by my own signature. I realized, as the years went by, what a monster we had created. We had restricted all the world’s politics to a single platform. If more than two sentences were said, the people were kept from speaking. And worst of all, no one could leave. Once they had entered, they’d never leave.

And they had to enter. We owned everything, everyone.

I took it upon myself, you see, to obliterate the mess I had taken part in creating. I, a man of morals. I, a man of strength. I entered the darkened room, sat at a computer, and slipped another stapler into my bag.

“Dot, dot, dot, dot, dot.” I whispered the password to myself as a typed it in, probably a bad move if anybody had been standing in the peripheral vision blocked by my helmet. But it didn’t matter. I was almost there. The screen grew bright — I was in. Just one more button to push. My fingers shook. My body shook. I heard the staplers rattling in my bags. You have to do this. I had to. He’s going to kill you. I had to.

And in one fell swoop of the finger, I did it.

I deleted Donald Trump’s Twitter account.