Joe stared at the draft letter like it was a parking ticket from hell.
“War with Iran,” he muttered. “Of course. Just my luck.”
On the television, Donald Trump was at a rally, pumping his fist like a wrestling promoter.
“America needs strong men!” Trump shouted. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The crowd roared.
Joe pointed at the TV.
“Easy for you to say! I’m the one getting drafted!”
Across the room, Nelly Furtado sat quietly on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
Joe looked at her desperately.
“Nelly, say something. Tell them this is insane.”
Nelly froze like someone had asked her to comment on a Twitter war.
“Uh… well…” she said carefully.
Joe waited.
Silence.
Finally she leaned in and whispered:
“Joe… I’m not getting cancelled today.”
“What?”
“You question a war in the Middle East and suddenly the internet calls you anti-semitic. I’m staying neutral.”
Joe slumped into the chair.
“So Trump says fight… and you say nothing?”
Nelly nodded.
“My official position is… no comment.”
Joe sighed and turned back to the television.
Suddenly the camera cut backstage.
Standing beside Trump was his tall son, Barron Trump, calmly playing a game of chess on a small travel board.
Trump looked down at him.
“Barron, they’re saying people like Joe should go fight.”
Barron moved a piece without even looking up.
“Check.”
Trump blinked.
“What?”
Barron leaned back, speaking like a young strategist running a global empire.
“Someone has to lead, Dad.”
Trump nodded proudly.
“That’s right!”
Barron tapped the chessboard again.
“…from Washington.”
Trump pointed at the crowd.
“Exactly! Leadership! That’s what we do!”
Back in Joe’s living room, Joe stared at the screen in disbelief.
“So let me get this straight,” Joe said. “I go to the desert… while the generals play chess in Washington?”
Nelly shrugged.
“Sounds like 4-D chess to me.”
From the television Trump’s voice boomed again:
“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”
Joe folded the draft letter slowly.
“Great,” he sighed. “I’m a pawn.” ♟️
