November 3rd, Rehoboth Beach, Delaware The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting a dull orange glow over the rippling waves of the Atlantic. The chill of early November bit gently at their skin, but Joe didn’t seem to notice. His hands, stuffed into the pockets of his windbreaker, tightened into fists as he walked beside his son. The waves washed in and out, a rhythm that had become oddly soothing over the years, like the slow ticking of a clock counting down to an inevitable end. Hunter walked a step behind his father, his expression unreadable, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. It had been a while since they had taken a walk together like this, alone, with nothing but the ocean to eavesdrop. Joe cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You know,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “I was thinking about that joke you made a while back.” Hunter glanced sideways, brow furrowing. “Which one?” “The one about the Supreme Court ruling. About how a sitting president could—what was it?—legally assassinate his political opponents.” A flicker of a smile, hollow and fleeting, passed over Hunter’s face. “Yeah. Dark humor.” Joe’s lips tightened. Dark humor. They were steeped in it now, their lives a tangled knot of public scandals and private battles, both constantly bleeding into one another. He kicked a stone from the path as they walked, watching it tumble aimlessly into the sand. “Thing is,” Joe continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “sometimes the darkest jokes hold a grain of truth.” Hunter stopped. The rhythmic crunch of his father’s footsteps slowed before stopping too. Joe didn’t turn around. “What do you mean by that?” Hunter asked, suspicion tinged with exhaustion. The wind whistled between them. Joe exhaled, his breath visible in the cooling air. “It’s happening. Right now.” Hunter blinked. “What is?” “I’ve ordered the Navy SEALs to breach Mar-a-Lago.” The words left Joe’s mouth with a heavy finality. “Trump’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.” For a long moment, there was nothing but the rush of the waves crashing onto the shore. Hunter stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat, staring at his father’s back as if waiting for some kind of punchline. But Joe didn’t move, didn’t even turn to face him. “Dad… what are you talking about?” Hunter’s voice was taut, his disbelief unraveling into something sharper. “You’re joking, right?” “I’m not,” Joe said, his voice calm but hollow. He turned then, the lines of his face etched deeper by the weight of what he had just confessed. “It had to be done. There wasn’t a choice.” Hunter shook his head, his voice rising. “You can’t be serious! You—you can’t do that! What the hell are you thinking?” Joe took a step toward him, his eyes dark with resolve, but beneath it, something else—fear, love, desperation. “Listen to me, son. The militias, the pro-Trump ones, they’ve taken over voting booths in battleground states. It’s chaos out there. Violence is spreading, and it’s not going to stop. Not unless I put an end to it.” “And you think this will stop it?” Hunter’s voice trembled, a mixture of disbelief and anger. “You think killing him will make things better?” Joe shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe not. But it’s not just about stopping the violence. It’s about you.” Hunter’s eyes widened. “Me?” Joe’s voice softened, breaking under the strain. “If he gets re-elected… they’ll come for you. They already are. The lawsuits, the investigations—they’ll bury you. You won’t get a fair trial, Hunter. Not with him in power.” Hunter stood there, breathing hard, trying to process the weight of what his father was telling him. The ocean roared behind them, but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. Joe stepped closer, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stand by and watch that happen. Not to my own son.” Hunter’s throat tightened, the anger and confusion warring within him. “So, what? You’re willing to destroy democracy? To kill a man—just to save me?” Joe looked down at the sand, his face crumpling under the weight of it all. “I’ve spent my life fighting for this country. For decency. For democracy. But the truth is… the truth is, none of it mattered in the end. The lobbyists, the corporations, the military—there are forces so much bigger than me, than any president. I thought I could make a difference, but every win, every achievement… it’s been swallowed by the system.” He paused, his eyes growing distant, as though he could see all the decades of his career playing out before him in a parade of broken promises and hollow victories. He sighed. "I was so young when I was first elected to the Senate. Thirty years old. Full of energy, ambition, thinking I could actually change things. I thought being young meant I’d have the power to outlast the corruption, that I’d be the exception.” His voice cracked with the weight of time. "But they told me, ‘Come back when you're forty, son.’ I was ready to do anything, to get the money I needed… I was ready to prostitute myself to them.” Joe’s face tightened, his voice filled with bitter laughter. “And I did. I came back, and now here we are. The system got to me, too.” He looked up at Hunter, his eyes hollowed by decades of compromise. “I may be remembered as the gravedigger of American democracy,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “Maybe that’s what I deserve. But at least… at least I’ll have saved you.” Hunter’s eyes stung, not from the wind but from the unbearable weight of it all. He felt a burning pressure in his chest, something that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite sorrow, but a twisted amalgamation of both. “I didn’t ask for this,” Hunter whispered, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t ask you to do this for me.” Joe’s hand fell away from his shoulder, and for the first time, Hunter saw his father not as the President, not as the politician, but as a man standing on the edge of his own moral abyss. A man who had made his choice. And maybe, Hunter thought, they would both fall together.
===
第一幕，掘墓者。
11月3日，德拉瓦州，里霍博斯海滩
太阳开始缓缓下沉，橙色的余晖洒在大西洋翻腾的波浪上。十一月初的寒意轻轻刺在他们的皮肤上，但乔似乎没有注意到。他的手插在风衣的口袋里，攥成拳头，和儿子并肩走着。海浪一阵阵拍打着岸边，那节奏像一只缓慢走动的时钟，多年来，这种节奏反而成了某种奇怪的安慰，仿佛在倒数着一个无法避免的终点。
亨特走在他父亲的后面一步，表情难以捉摸，肩膀微微蜷缩在寒风中。他们已经很久没有这样单独散步了，除了海浪，没有任何人能够偷听。乔清了清嗓子，打破了沉默。
“你知道，”他开口了，声音低沉，“我一直在想你之前讲的那个笑话。”
亨特侧头看了看，眉头微皱。“哪个笑话？”
“关于最高法院的裁决。说现任总统可以——怎么说来着？——合法刺杀他的政治对手。”
亨特脸上闪过一丝微笑，短暂而空洞。“是啊。黑色幽默。”
乔的嘴角紧绷。黑色幽默。他们现在就陷在其中，生活成了一团纠缠不清的公共丑闻与私人斗争，彼此不断渗透。他一边走，一边踢开一块石头，目送它无方向地滚进沙里。
“关键是，”乔继续说道，声音压低成耳语，“有时最黑暗的笑话里也有一丝真相。”
亨特停下了脚步。乔的脚步声也随着节奏缓慢下来，最终停住了。乔没有回头。
“你这是什么意思？”亨特问，语气中带着疲惫的怀疑。
风在他们之间呼啸。乔呼出一口气，冷空气中他的呼吸清晰可见。“事情正在发生。现在。”
亨特眨了眨眼。“什么事情？”
“我已经下令海豹突击队突袭海湖庄园。”乔的声音中带着一种沉重的决断。“再过十五分钟，特朗普将不存于世。”
一时间，只有海浪拍打岸边的声音。亨特僵在那里，呼吸卡在喉咙里，盯着他父亲的背影，仿佛在等一个笑话的结尾。但乔没有动，甚至没有转身面对他。
“爸……你在说什么？”亨特的声音紧绷，质疑开始变得尖锐。“你在开玩笑吧？”
“我没有开玩笑。”乔平静地说，但声音空洞。他转过身来，脸上的线条因他刚才的告白变得更加深邃。“这是不得不做的。没有选择。”
亨特摇了摇头，声音提高了。“你不能是认真的！你——你不能这样！你到底在想什么？”
乔向他走近了一步，眼中满是坚定，但在那之下，还有别的东西——恐惧，爱，绝望。“听我说，儿子。那些支持特朗普的民兵，他们已经控制了摇摆州的投票站。外面一片混乱。暴力正在蔓延，而且不会停止。除非我结束这一切。”
“你认为这样就能结束吗？”亨特的声音颤抖着，夹杂着不信与愤怒。“你觉得杀了他就能让事情变好？”
乔慢慢摇了摇头。“我不知道。也许不会。但这不仅仅是为了结束暴力。这是为了你。”
亨特的眼睛瞪大了。“为了我？”
乔的声音变得柔和，几乎因压力而破裂。“如果他连任了……他们会来抓你。他们已经在这么做了。那些诉讼、调查——他们会把你埋掉。亨特，在他掌权时，你不会得到公平的审判。”
亨特站在那里，呼吸急促，试图消化他父亲所说的一切。海浪在他们身后咆哮，但他只能听到自己耳边血液的奔腾声。
乔走近了，手放在儿子的肩膀上。“我不能站在一旁，看着这些发生在你身上。不能对我的儿子见死不救。”
亨特的喉咙紧绷，愤怒和困惑在他体内交战。“所以呢？你为了救我，愿意毁掉民主？愿意杀一个人？”
乔低下头，凝视着沙地，脸上的表情因一切的重负而皱缩。“我一生都在为这个国家奋斗。为了体面。为了民主。但事实是……事实上，最终这些都不重要了。游说者，企业，军队——有些力量远远大过我，超过任何一个总统。我曾以为自己能改变什么，但每一次胜利，每一次成就……都被这个系统吞噬了。”
他停顿了一下，眼神变得空洞，仿佛他能看见自己几十年的职业生涯在眼前一一浮现，如同破碎承诺和空洞胜利的游行。他叹了口气。“我当选参议员时还很年轻。30岁。充满了精力，野心，想着我可以真正改变一些事情。我以为年轻意味着我有力量可以超越腐败，我会是个例外。”他的声音因岁月的沉重而裂开。“但他们告诉我，‘等你到了40岁再来吧，小鬼。’我准备为了拿到所需的钱做任何事情……我甚至准备好向他们出卖自己。”
乔的脸紧绷，声音里带着苦涩的笑。“我真的这样做了。我回来了，现在我们在这里。这个系统也吞噬了我。”
他抬头看着亨特，眼神被数十年的妥协掏空。“我或许会被记住为埋葬美国民主的掘墓人，”他说，声音里充满了绝望的重量。“也许这是我应得的。但至少……至少我救了你。”
亨特的眼睛酸涩，不是因为风，而是因为这一切无法承受的重压。他感到胸口有一种灼烧的压力，那既不是愤怒，也不是悲伤，而是两者混合的扭曲情感。
“我没让你这么做，”亨特低声说，声音沙哑。“我没有让你为我做这些。”
乔的手从他的肩膀上放了下来。亨特第一次看到他的父亲，不再是总统，不再是政客，而是一个站在自己道德深渊边缘的男人。一个已经做出了选择的男人。
或许，亨特想，他们终将一起坠落。
The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting a dull orange glow over the rippling waves of the Atlantic. The chill of early November bit gently at their skin, but Joe didn’t seem to notice. His hands, stuffed into the pockets of his windbreaker, tightened into fists as he walked beside his son. The waves washed in and out, a rhythm that had become oddly soothing over the years, like the slow ticking of a clock counting down to an inevitable end.
Hunter walked a step behind his father, his expression unreadable, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. It had been a while since they had taken a walk together like this, alone, with nothing but the ocean to eavesdrop. Joe cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“You know,” he began, his voice a low rumble, “I was thinking about that joke you made a while back.”
Hunter glanced sideways, brow furrowing. “Which one?”
“The one about the Supreme Court ruling. About how a sitting president could—what was it?—legally assassinate his political opponents.”
A flicker of a smile, hollow and fleeting, passed over Hunter’s face. “Yeah. Dark humor.”
Joe’s lips tightened. Dark humor. They were steeped in it now, their lives a tangled knot of public scandals and private battles, both constantly bleeding into one another. He kicked a stone from the path as they walked, watching it tumble aimlessly into the sand.
“Thing is,” Joe continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “sometimes the darkest jokes hold a grain of truth.”
Hunter stopped. The rhythmic crunch of his father’s footsteps slowed before stopping too. Joe didn’t turn around.
“What do you mean by that?” Hunter asked, suspicion tinged with exhaustion.
The wind whistled between them. Joe exhaled, his breath visible in the cooling air. “It’s happening. Right now.”
Hunter blinked. “What is?”
“I’ve ordered the Navy SEALs to breach Mar-a-Lago.” The words left Joe’s mouth with a heavy finality. “Trump’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but the rush of the waves crashing onto the shore. Hunter stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat, staring at his father’s back as if waiting for some kind of punchline. But Joe didn’t move, didn’t even turn to face him.
“Dad… what are you talking about?” Hunter’s voice was taut, his disbelief unraveling into something sharper. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m not,” Joe said, his voice calm but hollow. He turned then, the lines of his face etched deeper by the weight of what he had just confessed. “It had to be done. There wasn’t a choice.”
Hunter shook his head, his voice rising. “You can’t be serious! You—you can’t do that! What the hell are you thinking?”
Joe took a step toward him, his eyes dark with resolve, but beneath it, something else—fear, love, desperation. “Listen to me, son. The militias, the pro-Trump ones, they’ve taken over voting booths in battleground states. It’s chaos out there. Violence is spreading, and it’s not going to stop. Not unless I put an end to it.”
“And you think this will stop it?” Hunter’s voice trembled, a mixture of disbelief and anger. “You think killing him will make things better?”
Joe shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe not. But it’s not just about stopping the violence. It’s about you.”
Hunter’s eyes widened. “Me?” Joe’s voice softened, breaking under the strain. “If he gets re-elected… they’ll come for you. They already are. The lawsuits, the investigations—they’ll bury you. You won’t get a fair trial, Hunter. Not with him in power.”
Hunter stood there, breathing hard, trying to process the weight of what his father was telling him. The ocean roared behind them, but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.
Joe stepped closer, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stand by and watch that happen. Not to my own son.”
Hunter’s throat tightened, the anger and confusion warring within him. “So, what? You’re willing to destroy democracy? To kill a man—just to save me?”
Joe looked down at the sand, his face crumpling under the weight of it all. “I’ve spent my life fighting for this country. For decency. For democracy. But the truth is… the truth is, none of it mattered in the end. The lobbyists, the corporations, the military—there are forces so much bigger than me, than any president. I thought I could make a difference, but every win, every achievement… it’s been swallowed by the system.”
He paused, his eyes growing distant, as though he could see all the decades of his career playing out before him in a parade of broken promises and hollow victories. He sighed. "I was so young when I was first elected to the Senate. Thirty years old. Full of energy, ambition, thinking I could actually change things. I thought being young meant I’d have the power to outlast the corruption, that I’d be the exception.” His voice cracked with the weight of time. "But they told me, ‘Come back when you're forty, son.’ I was ready to do anything, to get the money I needed… I was ready to prostitute myself to them.”
Joe’s face tightened, his voice filled with bitter laughter. “And I did. I came back, and now here we are. The system got to me, too.”
He looked up at Hunter, his eyes hollowed by decades of compromise. “I may be remembered as the gravedigger of American democracy,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “Maybe that’s what I deserve. But at least… at least I’ll have saved you.”
Hunter’s eyes stung, not from the wind but from the unbearable weight of it all. He felt a burning pressure in his chest, something that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite sorrow, but a twisted amalgamation of both. “I didn’t ask for this,” Hunter whispered, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t ask you to do this for me.”
Joe’s hand fell away from his shoulder, and for the first time, Hunter saw his father not as the President, not as the politician, but as a man standing on the edge of his own moral abyss. A man who had made his choice.
And maybe, Hunter thought, they would both fall together.
我都准备好被骂dem shill结果被当成川粉;)