Monday, July 25, 2016

Idolatry is worse than carnage

“There is another matter, Grandmother. A traitor in our ranks,” Hillary said.

The crone sniffed the air and smiled.

“Bring it to me,” she whispered.

A figure was dragged out the forest, filthy, nude, bleeding, gross, with terrible hair. A large root was jammed mouth to keep her from speaking.

“The Florida Jew,” the crone sneered. “You have betrayed us all.”

Debbie’s eyes went wide and she made muffed sounds around the root gag.

“Let the traitor speak,” the crone said.

Hillary pulled the root from Debbie’s mouth roughly, breaking a few of her distorted gravel teeth in the process. The delegates tittered as she spit blood and tears cleaned paths on her dirty face.

“You stand of accused of helping Them,” the crone said.

“Grandmother, I only did as you told me."

Hillary kicked her in ribs, below her distended breasts, and knocked her to her side.

“Betrayer,” she hissed and spat at her.

“Emails were written,” said the crone.

“Emails were written,” intoned the delegates, and they did up-twinkle.

“Emails were retained.”

“Emails were retained.” And they did jazz-hand.

“Emails were leaked.”

“Emails were leaked.” And they did side-step shuffle.

“I sentence you to be known and degraded by every man here,” the crone said.

The forest filled with the sounds of hundreds of men fleeing into the night. Far away retching was heard.

“Then death,” said the crone. “Bring her.”

Hillary kicked Debbie in the crotch until she began to crawl to the crone in her bower. A supplicant rushed forward and put a silver knife into her veiny and shaking hand.

“Give me your neck, Florida Jew,” she said.

Debbie tried to turn away and Hillary booted her once more in the ruin of her vagina.

“It can be worse, Betrayer. I can bring you before a Senate Subcommittee. Even your used assrag of a soul won’t survive that,” Hillary said.

Debbie turned her head away and presented her neck.

“Be swift, Grandmother,” she begged.

The crone struggled to raise the blade and swiped feebly at Debbie’s neck folds. The blade barely made a mark.

“Closer,” Hillary said, punching the pudding socks of Debbie’s teats painfully.

The crone steady her knife hand with the other and laid the knife on Debbie’s neck. She sawed back and forth with the knife until her strength gave out. A thin line of blood appeared.

“Aw, fuck it,” the crone said. “Let the dumb bitch just resign.”

Running through the forest, again and again and again

"Grandmother! I have brought him for your blessing!" Hillary cried into the hushed night of the deep forest, addressing a withered figure nestled in a bower of rotting limbs and twigs.

"Bring him forward," the crone rasped. The assembled delegates of the DNC murmured in awe at the sight of her. "RBG!" one screamed. The woman was torn apart by those standing beside her in a gout of religious ecstasy. The crone watched the lifeblood flow from the holy blasphemer, her rheumy eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, one claw-like hand grasping as if it were she who tore the young flesh.

"I have brought the one who shall be my second, Grandmother," Hillary said, desperate as ever to bring the attention back to her. The crone ignored her until the heart of the dead woman was brought to her. She licked it and shuddered.

"The ritual, Grandmother," Hillary said quietly. "It is almost midnight."

The crone let the heart fall to the loam of the forest floor and began.

"Has he been shriven at The Gate?"

"Yes, Grandmother," whispered the crowd.

"Has he suckled the black milk of Herself?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Is he smooth between the legs?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Has he whispered to his Mother's secret abortions? Has he waited for The Many-Angled One to take them away?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Is he ready to be bled?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

Hillary pulled a cruel and hooked claw of some massive raptor from her blood-dyed robe.

"Your tongue," she demanded. He stuck it out and she pricked it deeply with the needle-sharp point.

The crone let out a dry laugh, like the chittering a thousand insects.

"Your eyes, your nose, your ears, your throat are all mine," she said, lightly puncturing each in turn.

"Your heart," she said. He levered the claw in deeply and tore it away. He grimaced but did not make a sound. As the crone nodded in approval, he smiled, blood running down his chin.

"Arise, Kaine."

The coven began to chant:

"Kaine has been chosen
"Kaine was chosen
'Kaine will be chosen
'Kaine will have been chosen
"Our night is forever"

As she held the bloodied claw to the sky, the many hungry mouths on Hillary's body sang and gnashed and gurgled a symphony of darkness.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Thanks for shitting all over my literary efforts.

"Ah, fuck it. Might as well just be Pence," Donald said. He dropped the microphone and walked off stage.

Selectionous Interruptus

"MAH TITTAYS!" Newt screamed as he rushed toward Chris. He dropped his sword as he lunged and the two of them landed on the dirt floor of the arena, moobs locked in slippery combat.

"You one of them boylovers?" Mike asked Mike as they circled one another. General Flynn laughed and fell forward on his sword, dead from a self-inflicted wound. The crowd cheered and gibbered.

"Good win, Pence," Trump said. "Solid victory. This makes you the leader." Pence roared and held his gauntleted hands in the air in triumph.

"He knows the other guys just killed himself, right? Like, he did nothing at all?" the hair asked.

"You just have to shit all over everything, don't you?" the hat shot back.

"He's running a victory lap around to fat guys struggled to slap each other to death with flab," the hair observed.

"And that's how we are going to make America great again," the hat said dreamily.

The grunting and farting of Newt and Chris filled the arena as Mike stopped gloating. Their labored breathing and half-muttered curses got louder as the crowd quieted.

"Look at them. So disgusting. Get up you two. Fight like men!" Donald yelled through the PA system.

"I like watching men!" Mike screamed. "Fighting. I like watching men fighting!" he corrected himself.

"Pence is so white he's hard to look at," the hat said.

"He looks like the ghost of a mummy that died a second time," the hair agreed.

"Wait, wait," Donald said. "Hold on. Stop fighting. We are suspending the selection process."

"No, the thigh-fuckers are mine! You said I could kill them! You said I could watch them die!" Mike screamed. His erection was bright purple.

"There's been a development," Donald said. "Some pry Moon Base and Governor Fatbridge apart."

"What's going on?" the hair asked.

"Goddamn terrorists," the hat said. "They stepped all over our big moment again."

Wednesday, July 13, 2016


"Just read the words," Hillary said, spitting out the sibilants like pieces of old skin.

"But I didn't write this. I'm from Brooklyn. We write things for ourselves," Bernie protested. He tried to crumble the endorsement speech but his arthritic hands could barely wrinkle the paper.

"You'll do what we tell you or you won't leave Vermont with a working asshole," her goiter said. Bloody-toothed mouths grown in her clavicles choked out mirthless laughter. A voice from between her rotted breasts whispered, "Sew it close anyway."

"I don't re-re-re-act well to threats, Madam Secretary." She slapped him twice in quick succession, the rough skin of her gnarled hands scraping his face.

"I will only speak to a black officer," Bernie whimpered.

"You want me to call Huma?" she asked him. Orifices all over her body sighed. "Have you ever been double-dipped, Bernie? You won't survive it. There might not even be enough left over to send home to your fat wife."

"Leave her out of this," he said. But his voice betrayed him. He was old and feeble. He shook all over like an inbred chihuahua.

"I'm going to let Bill use her as a tampon," Hillary giggled.

The broken old man began to weep.

Monday, July 11, 2016

Be still my dog of war!

“Who will be my VP?” Donald asked the hushed arena.

“I said WHO WILL BE MY VP?” he screamed into the microphone. The crowd sighed as one but made no other sound.

“Don’t you all rush forward at once,” the hat muttered.

“Don’t get picked up by the microphone,” the hair hissed back. Donald reached up and gently tucked a stiff wing of the hair behind his left ear.

“Nobody? Really? Sad. Just sad, people,” Donald said. He shook his head in disgust. “OK, let them out.”

A large man in a mask and a greasy loincloth on the arena floor threw back a giant bolt on an enormous door and pulled it open slowly.

“Faster, please. C’mon,” Donald scolded. “OK, OK, who is the first one?”

Rough hands pushed an elderly man out into the dusty arena floor, his white hair disheveled, the face on his round pumpkin head red and blotchy. He had a filthy cloth wound around his midsection and he carried a short sword.

“Newt Gingrich, everybody,” Donald said. A dozen or so people clapped with no enthusiasm.

“The crowd loves him,” the hair whispered. The hat chortled.

“OK, the next one,” Donald said.

A fat man covered in sweat was pushed out next. He only had a pull-up diaper on and was armed with a trident and a net. The crowd began to laugh when he threw the weapons down and tried to run back into the door. He was pushed down to the floor of the arena and got back up with his back and legs matted with sweatmud.

“Disgusting,” Donald said. “Chris Christie. Yeah. OK. Don’t clap, then.” A nervous giggle rang out as Chris stumbled while trying to collect his weapons.

“OK, come on. Let’s GO!” Donald said.

Another old white man was pushed out into the actinic glare of the arena lights. He was flabby and nude and made a show of sucking his gut. Foot-long spikes jutted out of leather gauntlets that had been laced up his arm and there was a tight metal collar around his neck. He raised his arms in triumph and there was an effeminate “WOO!” from a lone voice in the crowd.

“Mike Pence!” Donald said. In the thunderous silence that followed a cricket died quietly.

“Mike Pence? Really? Nobody? The governor of Indiana?” Donald held his arms up questioningly. “Indiana. It’s a state. It’s, like, right there in the middle. OK. Whatever.”

“INDIANA! WOO!” Mike screamed. In the agonizing silence that followed he yelled, “Y’all are just a bunch of FAGGOTS!”

“Has he seen what he is wearing?” the hair asked.

“Closet case,” the hat said. “You know, a wide stance.”

“Oh, I get it.”

Donald shook his head like a horse annoyed by flies. “OK, OK. There’s one more. OK, send him out.”

A large, imposing figure walked into the arena, dressed in an armored codpiece and wielding a long sword. The crowd cheered as the door creaked closed behind him.

“Wow. OK. Cheering already,” Donald said. He looked down at his notecards.

“General Michael Flynn. General Flynn. Look at him. Isn’t he just great?”

Flynn swung his sword around and pointed at Newt, Chris and Mike. Mike exclaimed, “My heavens!” and the other two cowered.

“Mike Flynn. Great guy. Love him. Afghanistan. Iraq. Very distinguished. He’s gonna just murder these other three.”

“Are we just doing this so he can just slaughter them?” the hair asked.

“Wait for it…” the hat replied.

Donald squinted at his note cards. “It also says here that he’s pro-choice.”

The crowd booed deafeningly. They threw programs and rotten fruit into the arena. They rushed the fences that kept them in the audience area and began pushing against them, snarling and screaming.

“Poor dumb fucker,” the hair said. “He might as well not even fight.”