“We’ve run out, sir,” his body slave whispered, his hands trembling.
“Run out? Impossible. Get Yuri on the phone.”
“The next shipment won’t be ready until next week.”
“Next week? I’ll carpet-bomb Kiev before I wait that long. I’ll spend my fuck on you before I wait that long.” A languid backhand caught the slave in the face and knocked him into the swirling filth below Donald’s makeshift throne.
“America has gone soft. I will make it strong again. I will. No one else!” He spat on the slave. “Bring me someone from the trolling pool.”
“Someone useless, but not too fucked out yet.”
The slave struggled to stand and Donald pushed him back down in the miasma of fast food wrappers, empty Viagra bottles, amyl nitrate capsules, Sephora samples, turds, half-eaten bagels, jizz-filled taco bowls, steaming, bubbling, gurgling pools of luminous piss and deadly eggs shat out of Hillary black and dead womb that had been softboiled, cracked, and scooped out for an endless brunch of delicious madness. She sent one or two every day now. Donald knew he would never die.
The slave crawled away. As he reached the door, Donald screamed “Send in my advisors!”
Two cruelly twisted dwarves hurried into the throne room bearing the hat and the hair separately on gilt trays. Donald ignored them lavishly as he spent a full five minutes picking his nose and inspecting carefully what he found.
“He's not been right since that first egg,” the hair whispered.
“He’s fine. It’s just a pivot.”