Michel Temer is sitting in the front row, and you walk right up to the railing. He doesn’t see you until you’re right in front of him.
“Dilma,” he gasps. “How did you get in here?”
“Never mind that,” you say, even though part of you wants to tell him all about it because it’s really been quite an adventure. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Well, OK, why don’t we step outside—”
“No,” you say. “Here.”
“What…what do you want?”
You pause, not sure what to say. You’ve been so focused on tracking down Michel Temer, and you probably should have planned out more specifically what you were going to say when you found him.
The stadium has grown quiet. People are expecting you to speak. So you do the only thing that you can think to do. You start reciting lines from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” you say. “I want a chance to talk to people who will believe me. The people of Brazil, they know me. And they know you, Mr. Temer, and when they hear my story they’ll rise up and they’ll kick your machine to kingdom come.”
There is silence for a moment, and then the stadium breaks into wild applause. By now the media have rushed over, and you are surrounded by cameras and microphones. Michel Temer is staring at you, dumbstruck.
“The people of Brazil need permanent relief from crooked men riding their backs!” you cry.
“Wait!” cries Michel Temer. “Don’t listen to her. She’s just reciting lines from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington!” But he is drowned out by the sound of the audience chanting “Dilma! Dilma! Dilma!”
You smile, enjoying the sweetness of this moment. You have the people back on your side, and there is no stopping you now. (Well, except that you will probably still be impeached.)
THE END