The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Saunders told her husband. When she got to the door, there was a police officer waiting.
“Good morning, Mrs. Saunders,” he began. “Is your husband home?”
“Do you mind telling me what this is about?” she asked.
“Just purely routine,” the officer replied. “Ah, there he is!” as Mr. Saunders came up behind his wife.
“Mr. Saunders, may I come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?” Saunders countered.
“As a matter of fact, I do, but it’s a sealed warrant. In any case, I am coming in.” He more or less herded the Saunders from the door into the living room. The officer sat in the overstuffed chair across from the couch, making it obvious as to where he expected the Saunders to sit.
“I’m Inspector Hodges from the Supreme Court,” he explained.
“The Supreme Court has police?” Mrs. Saunders asked, causing the inspector to frown.
“The Supreme Court Police were created in 1935,” he explained, “until recently it included about 200 sworn officers, but we’ve had to ramp that up a bit in light of current issues.”
The Saunders looked at one another, puzzled.
“You see,” the Inspector continued, “Setting aside the prior decision of Roe v Wade has made abortions difficult—if not impossible-for many people, especially those who are financially challenged. They have no way to provide for the children that otherwise would have . . . let’s just say not be born.
“In cases of rape, especially incest, the trauma is just too great for the mothers, so . . . .” the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” the inspector said, “I’m expecting another officer.” He opened the door and another uniformed officer entered, this one carrying a small baby.
“You see,” the Inspector continued, “Congress has addressed this issue in a most effective manner. If you remember back to the mid-twentieth century, people were conscripted into the military. The draft was an attempt to randomly pick those who were to be inducted. We use a similar system.
“All citizens who filed their income tax as ‘married’ who meet certain criteria are deemed eligible.”
“What criteria?” Mr. Saunders asked.
“Income at least twice the current poverty line with no criminal history. It’s quite simple, you see. Therefore, you two were selected to parent this beautiful little . . . .” he glanced back at the officer holding the baby who silently mouthed girl. “beautiful little girl.”
“Wait a minute,” Mr. Saunders injected. “First off, I’m 65 years old and getting ready to retire.”
“Isn’t it funny how life always interferes with the best plans of mice and men?”
“Everybody with two times the income as the poverty level? What about Trump, Bill Gates, Elon Musk?”
“Oh,” explained the Inspector, “they don’t make any income. Everything they have is retained wealth or capital gains.” He motioned to the other officer, who carried the baby over to Mrs. Saunders and set her on Mrs. Saunders’s lap. Another officer walked in with a cardboard box.
“Some disposable diapers, formula, handiwipes—you know. The rest you’ll need to buy tomorrow.” The inspector stood up, but before he and his coworkers headed to the door he turned around.
“A word to the wise,” he said. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you might as well adjust to everything all at once. The Justices are looking for a case so they can rule that wives are subservient to their husbands, so you just might want to adjust your behavior,” he said looking directly at Mrs. Saunders. Mrs. Saunders opened her mouth to speak, but the Inspector interrupted. “You should let your husband do the talking. In good Christian families, he’s the boss.”