Mr. Colin Sakach clicked on the long-awaited email with hands trembling with excitement. The family tree he had pieced together through MyDNA Heritage was finally going to settle — one way or another — a debate that had dragged on for years. Sakach hoped for irrefutable proof that he descended from noble, native-born American Indians — not from some random bunch of European immigrants.. (Secretly, he could have lived with a fifty-fifty split — as long as the other fifty didn’t contain even a drop of Black or Chinese blood — and absolutely no Puerto Rican Latino either.) The whole point was to shut up, once and for all, the wife who’d been mocking him nonstop.

In Sakach’s otherwise uneventful life this would have been the ultimate peak, because nothing ever happens in New Hampshire. In Concord, the forty-thousand-soul state capital, rush hour sometimes means two cars per minute crossing Main Street — but in Wilmot, the sleepy little village where he lived, you wouldn’t even notice. It was as if the Good Lord had not only forgotten Wilmot but the whole wide state of New Hampshire. There was absolutely no sign of the doom quietly drawing near.

The DNA Revelation

— So, did the results come in yet?
— None of your business.
— Only that I’m the mother of your kids, and if one day they ask me what kind of man their father was, what am I supposed to tell them?
— Tell them they’re true Americans!
— With a Jewish mother and a genetic smoothie of a father?
— I am NOT cocktail-mixed!
— Then let’s see that spit test!
— Get out of the room!
— Not a chance. Anyway, you paid for that spit test with my credit card. Should I call the sheriff and report you for stealing it?
— Hmmm… all right, let’s see…

…

— Son of a bitch!
— Told you, honey, that Sakach was probably Szakács — a common Hungarian name!
— Indian!
— There’s not a single drop of Indian blood in you!
— Look here! Eleven percent!
— Yeah, but that’s Indian, as in from India — so along with the Hungarian, you also picked up a bit of Roma blood. Plus Jewish, Romanian, and Turkish. Seems a lot of charming soldiers passed through your great-great-grandmother’s village!
— You can never tell the kids this!
— That they’re mostly Jewish? Relax, honey, they couldn’t care less.
— At least my kids aren’t Black and not Puerto Rican.
— Sweetheart, calm down. This is New Hampshire. Nothing ever happens here… no Puerto Ricans are coming here!

And right then, the TV broadcast cut out

Breaking news! Trump gets Greenland!

Every TV channel cut to the White House, broadcasting President Trump’s press conference live.

— Good morning, America! The tremendous deal is done. Greenland is now ours. That’s it. Questions?

Stunned silence — then the room exploded, everyone shouting at once.

— Wait… what do you mean ours?
— I mean we raised the American flag in Nuuk. The Danes packed up and left. We’re renaming Nuuk to Trump City before the day’s over.
— Were there any fights?
— Nah… though one Eskimo woman put up a token resistance — just for the optics.
— How much did this cost taxpayers?
— Nothing. In fact…
— Mr. President, what do you mean ‘in fact’?
— The transaction actually ended with a positive balance for U.S. taxpayers.
— Mr. President, let me rephrase: what exactly did the United States offer in exchange for Greenland?
— Well, since you insist… we gave them a smaller territory. A much smaller territory — one without any resources, no strategic importance, very low population, and its residents don’t even pay VAT or personal income tax. Those taxes literally don’t exist there. So — no revenue lost.

— Mr. President, did you just sell the Danes an Indian reservation?

— Negative. I gave them New Hampshire. Let them have it! If the people of New Hampshire couldn’t be bothered to negotiate with me about taxes, maybe the Danes will teach them what Scandinavian tax discipline really means.
— But… those people don’t even speak Danish!
— If Afghan migrants could learn Danish, so can they. The Danes offered a three-year integration period. I graciously accepted it on their behalf. Anyone who doesn’t use the opportunity will lose their citizenship and kiss their pension goodbye.
— Mr. President… is that even constitutional?
— I tweeted it. So yes — constitutional. And I’m sick and tired of Democrats snatching seats by half a percent. Democrats aren’t real Americans anyway. And now, just casting half an eye on New York here… our Chinese friends have been trying for a while…

Colin Sakach stumbled to the window, stunned.. Soldiers in Danish uniforms were swapping out the Bunker Hill Road sign for one that read Hendes Majestæt Dronning Margrethe II Vej — whatever the hell that meant, but surely nothing good.
The village library now bore a brand-new sign: “Tax Office.”

With trembling hands, Sakach wrote his farewell letter:

“My dearest ones, I was born a proud Indian,
but I will die a Hungarian Jew.
May you, at least, become good Danes”

Legal (and sane) disclaimer

The stories in Montiverzum.hu are fiction, satire, and literary mischief. If real people, places, or brands appear, it’s purely playful — not news, not accusations, not press statements.

These texts aim to entertain, hold up a funhouse mirror, and sometimes poke at the absurdities of the world.
Please don’t treat them as factual advice for taxes, elections, or DNA tests — they won’t help.