The after party of democracy is over. Just as the atmosphere was starting to get grim, the party ran out of booze. This allowed the partygoers to go home at a decent time, leaving behind a fucking mess: the curtains are sticky with an undefinable liquid and the revelers unscrupulously trampled ruffled chips and olives with white cheese into the carpet.
Everybody has left the house. Everybody? No, the light in the living room is still on. Inside, a figure is scuffing around. Her name: Angela Merkel. Dutifully she collects empty pizza boxes and flattened beer cans and throws them into a grey garbage bag. “I would prefer to go to bed myself as well, but what options do I have? Somebody’s got to do this.” She peers into an emtpy flask, originally containing GHB. The German chancellor sighs. “After all, these things won’t clean up themselves.” She throws it into the bag, now almost completely full.
“I don’t even like this kind of party. Everybody behaves like an animal, because Frau Merkel will clean the mess anyway.” Merkel closes the bag with a blue ribbon and starts putting back empty beer bottles into their crate. “Do these things still have a returnable deposit these days? That’s a few tenners; easy money. I don’t understand why anybody would be so indifferent to not even claim this.”
The sight of the toilet does not exactly improve Merkel’s mood: somebody has thrown up outside of the bowl. The chancellor is pretty sure who is the culprit but decides to clean it herself anyway. Afterwards she wipes the floor one more time with a mop and decides to call it a day. Some peanuts are still stuck underneath the sofa but those will have to wait until tomorrow.
A few hours later than the rest of the city the center-right politician can finally switch off the lights and enjoy a well deserved night’s rest. A new workday will be awaiting her in the morning. Good night, Angela Merkel.
