“I’m glad this boy is dead.” 

Bella Higanti recounted the night she was robbed by scums even younger than that Bo dominating the news. They didn’t care that she just got fired. They still pointed their knives at her, still ripped her bag away, still called her a bitch. 

To her worst terrors, they had even started reaching for her blouse, scampering only when someone else mercifully walked by. 

Bella never passed that alley again. Not even in broad daylight. 

She scrolled down. Countless others were sharing their own tragedies of being accosted on the road with a knife, a gun, or a scam, their excitement that there were those who were finally being righted in the name of justice with the corpses of Bo and his kind.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” she typed, “for bringing change to our country.”

She spent the next hour fanning everyone’s hopes and bloodlust. 

Then she logged out and signed back in as Petrie Irita.

Right at the top of his feed was another article about Bo Santos, the 16-year-old who was gunned down by police last week. It sparked a huge uproar online, which only doused when they found packets of meth, a homemade pistol, school textbooks, and thousands in cash in his backpack.

“Thank you for your service, our national police!” Petrie commented, just one of a thankful multitude.

And yet, sticking out of that sea of congratulations was a highly voted treachery calling them monsters. Claims of Bo being an ordinary tenth grader in the wrong place at the wrong time, that the drugs found on his body—just like the fatal wounds—had come from the cops. 

Petrie responded with blog links exposing Bo as a notorious drug courier in the impoverished area. Gangs often recruited kids like him knowing their age cushioned them against the law.

Well, thanks to Grandpa, not anymore. 

Petrie urged the hater to do their country a favor and kill himself.

Four comments down, a woman was bemoaning how the new policies have only made the streets worse. Police operations rarely turned bloody in the past, yet morgues have started overflowing with both criminals and civilians in Grandpa’s first two months in power. 

“And why do these shootouts only happen in the slums? How come when wealthier places get raided, it’s just with fines and lawsuits?”

Petrie replied that if she really cared about drug addicts so much, she should volunteer to get raped by them. 

A couple of thumbs up and laughing emojis immediately adorned his comment.

Petrie spent the next hour arguing with all the communists swarming the thread before opening a new browser. There, Tito Ampanuan found himself greeted by a thousand notifications. 

His post yesterday had gone viral—the heartfelt letter he’d written for his son.

In it, Tito confessed that he didn’t really want to be a father; it would be irresponsible to bring a child into this life swamped in poverty and violence. Yet he was blessed with one, so he tried his best to provide the love and guidance every son deserved.

“If only we’d let Grandpa guide us even earlier, I’m sure you wouldn’t have fallen into those pits dug by vermin like Bo and his kin.”

“I still love you, son, wherever you are,” he ended the post.

Underneath was a mass of commenters moved to tears by his words.

Unfortunately, there were misguided ones as well. They called him shortsighted and selfish; no amount of deaths would bring his son back, but every orphan they left behind could turn out even worse.

Tito took the high road. He wished each of them well in the lives they’d chosen as trolls and dissenters. He urged them to turn over a new leaf, because he was sure the government—and karma—would come for them soon.

“Heed Bo’s fate,” he reminded them.

Satisfied, Tito took screenshots of everything he, Petrie, and Bella had written and emailed them to his moderator. Then, after confirming the bank deposit that followed, he logged out. Finally herself, Ruthie Makaawa headed to the hospital.

Several hours later, she logged back into her home feed and uploaded the photo she took of her father this afternoon. He’s still covered in bandages, but he’s doing much better now, she typed. They couldn’t salvage one of his kidneys, but otherwise, he’d recovered enough to be discharged — as soon as they settled their bills. 

Her inbox was brimming with well wishes for her father, as well as apologies from those who couldn’t afford to donate. She sent back heart emojis.

Finally, she posted another link to the crowdfunding page for her father’s treatment, still at barely a third of what they need. She clicked “Post” and hoped.

There were four comments after ten minutes, all promising to pray for him.

Ruthie bit her lips but hearted them.

Heavy with hesitation, she proceeded to Grandpa’s page, the digital temple of millions. She voluntarily liked its newest entries—jobs, projects, deaths, reforms—none of them lies. Then she clicked the message icon. 

She thanked him for keeping his promise, ridding the country of the ills even she had succumbed to in the past. She looked forward to walking the streets without looking over her shoulders anymore. 

Then she asked Grandpa for assistance. Her father didn’t know the police were raiding the street he was passing by. She’d made mistakes of her own, but he was truly a good man, and they both voted for him; he deserved to be more than collateral damage of the trash Grandpa was cleaning up. 

The response arrived almost at once: “Grandpa thanks you for reaching out. He will respond as soon as he can. Let us clean our home together.” 

The same reply she received yesterday. And the day before that. And before that.

Ruthie bit her lips, her eyes stinging.

She sent back a heart emoji and replied, “Thank you, Grandpa.”