Tuesday, September 27, 2016

The law believes in motherhood.

Huma and the enormous mute eunuch helped Hillary onto the low dais. The Clinton spin room was warm and humid and dark.

"I'm cold, Huma. Blankets," Hillary said, gesturing weakly. Huma snapped her fingers at the eunuch and sent him lumbering away.

"They are coming my love. Are you sure you want to do this now? Should you not regain your strength?"

"It has to be now. If we wait until morning some of them might start thinking for themselves."

The eunuch approached through the gloom and began piling blankets on top of Hillary.

"Leave her legs free, Abeed!" Huma hissed.

"Show them in," Hillary whispered.

Huma crossed the room to the lighting controls and dropped the lights even further. When she opened the door to the press pen the light was startlingly bright as the chosen few bumbled and fumbled into the room.

"Take a seat," Huma said, smacking a few to keep them moving.

"Come in, my friends, come in," Hillary said, her voice a reedy rasp.

"Sit down," Mook screamed after following the last one in. He was already stroking an erection through the thin fabric of his pants.

Hillary coughed weakly. "Sorry," she said. "Pneumonia, you know." The press corps laughed knowingly.

"It is time my friends. Time for communion," Hillary told them.

"Communion," they said as one.

They leaned back on their cushions and opened their mouths for the gray-pink intestacles slithering out from under the mound of Hillary's blankets.

Tuesday Morning Quarterbacks

"You did a terrible job, Donald," the hair hissed in his ear as reporters thrust microphones at him like a phalanx of angry foam penises. Donald's teeth creaked and groaned as he ground them together in a smile.

"Ym murfed dif herble gurf!" the hat mumbled urgently from his suit pocket.

"Shut up," Donald muttered through clenched teeth, "Shutupshutupshutup!"

The mass of reporters surged forward at the barest hint he was speaking, a wave of grasping, desperate human heat, human sweat, the sharp animal reek of sex and death, lips parted to show fangs eager to sink into bloody meat.

"Say something," the hair urged, "Anything. It doesn't matter."

"Lester Holt did a great job," Donald blurted out.

"MRR! NRR MAB!" came the hat's muffled scream.

anticipatory pain management

“You will crush him. You will destroy him. You will make him a laughingstock,” Huma said into the mirror.

“I will crush him. I will destroy him. I will make him a laughingstock,” Hillary said into the mirror. Huma ran the flat of hand along the black bristle of clitorii that had sprouted between Hillary’s shoulder blades. Hillary shivered with dark pleasure.

“You will crush her,” the hat said into the mirror. “You will destroy her,” the hair said into the mirror. “You will make her a laughingstock,” they said in unison. Donald was holding them up, each perched on a different fist.

“I will crush her. I will destroy her. I will make her a laughingstock,” Donald said. 300 milligrams of Viagra made his penis jut out of his elaborately-coiffed pubic hair like an angry thumb.

“Don’t be robotic, my love,” Huma whispered. “Be the warm and loving portal for the Elder Gods to corrupt this dimension that I know you to be.”

“10 HASTUR,” Hillary said. “20 GOTO 10.”

“Woo!” the hair screamed.

“Debated prepped, motherfuckers!” the hat screamed back.

Donald basted them both with champagne.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

“Coincidences give you opportunities to look more deeply into your existence.”

"He touched me," the hair growled. "The little SNL faggot touched me with his gayAIDS hands."

"So what? One of my brothers was defiled in Canada!" the hat screamed. "He had his 'America' and 'Great' scraped off! 'Make Again?' What does that even mean?!?"

"Canada? What was he doing in Canada in the first place? Just because you're red doesn't make you a maple fondler."

"Canadians can want to see America be great again too," the hat said defensively.

"Stop talking about CANADA!" the hair screamed. "I'm mussed! I've been mussed! I feel so out of place. It's worse that when he smashes you down on top of me."

"You're lucky he puts me on!"

"Fuck you!"

Donald stood in the corner of the hotel room, shoving fistfuls of French fries into his face with his left hand and languidly masturbating with his right.

Hillary swayed queasily as she squatted over the huge chamberpot.

"Hold me," she instructed her court eunuch, a tall, bald and tongue-less black that Barry had purchased for her in some West African shithole. She groped blindly for his enormous hand and gripped it tightly as a gush of bile and dead organs shot out of her.

"I am!" she screamed. "I AM!"

With a prolonged series of grunts, fibrous clots began to spill forth from the squamous cloaca that had form from her fused vagina and anus early in the transformation.

"Huma!" she screamed.

"Where is he?!?" Donald suddenly screeched.

The hat stopped dragging himself slowly toward a final confrontation with the hair and asked, "Who, Donald?"

"Him! Bring him to me!" Donald wailed.

"Donald!" the hair said sharply, "Use your words."

"Michael. Bring me Michael."

"Pence," the hat sneered. "What do you want that withered old mummy for? You want to grate some hard cheese on his craggy taint?"

"Michael," Donald sobbed.

Huma scurried in, a giant box of CostCo tampons awkwardly jammed under one arm while she furiously texted on her phone.

"Yes, my love?"

"Just leave them and go," Hillary said. "You shouldn't have to see me like this." She made to cover her bulk and gnashing mouths.

"Nonsense. You are challenging patriarchy standards of feminine beauty. You are so brave."

Hillary smiled up at her, a thin stream of ichor running from her mouth.

Huma's phone shook itself violently as it buzzed from an incoming storm of texts but Huma sat it down and tore open the 500 count box of tampons. She scooped out a dozen and handed the box to Silent Abdul. Huma began jamming tampons into blood-puking vaginas spreading like sores on Hillary's body.

"Michael!" Donald yelled as Pence was shoved into the hotel room and the door pulled shut behind him.

"Donald? Could you put some clothes on?" Mike asked quietly.

"Don't be silly. It's just us men here," he said and threw his arms around Mike.

"Donald," he said quietly. There's been a development."

"What is it?"

Mike untangled himself from Donald's sweaty embrace and turned on the television.

"Is that your phone?" Hillary asked.

"It doesn't matter, my love," Huma said, tenderly cleaning another of Hillary's vaginas.

"It might. Go check it."

Huma crossed to the phone and her eyes lit up as she read the texts to Hillary.

"Oh, thank God, a bombing," Donald said.

"Oh, thank Sweet Hastur, a bombing," Hillary said.

Monday, September 12, 2016

Howling Eternity

“I am getting worried, my love,” Huma whispered. “The coughing. The video. People are starting to notice.”

“I am The Gateway,” Hillary croaked. This brought on a coughing fit and a gob of luciferious phlegm landed on her ponderous, black-veined breasts. Huma licked at the smoking, bubbling blob and swallowed it greedily.

“All that matters is that The Vessel is made ready and that I win,” she rasped and coughed again. Mouths all over her drew back their wound-lips and bared the teeth of a dozen species.

“The pneumonia story seems to be working. And the media is pushing the idea that Trump is just as ill since he hasn’t released his medical records either.”

“Don’t say his name,” Hillary said weakly. “This will pass. Tsathoggua takes. I will be stronger soon.”

“Yes, my love.”

“The doctor we had put out the pneumonia story, does she still live?”

“For now, my love.”

“Use someone good. It has to look like an accident.”

“It’s being taken care of.”

“A fire, maybe. The whole family.”

Huma nodded as she swabbed around the barbed maw that was once Hillary’s belly-button. Rings of sharp fangs went down and down. Much farther than they could have if the new mouth was just in Hillary herself. Huma had the impulse to put her arm in, to let the chitinous plates and bony hooks grind her hand and wrist into a bloody pulp. She wondered if she could fit her entire arm in up to the shoulder.

“Don’t gaze too long into it, Huma. It goes back to where the gods came from. It is forever and always.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Feed it. It hungers.”

Huma fished around in the gore-filled bucket beside the resting frame and pulled out a joint of raw meat. The maw gurgled in anticipation.

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Let me borrow yer head, Rudy

“I’ve been waiting all day for this, you filthy son of a bitch!” the hat growled.

Across the littered hotel floor, the other hat rasped back, “Que es, el culo!” The stitching across its front had obviously been made in haste, the letters were crooked and the ends of threads bristled menacingly: MAKE MEXICO GREAT AGAIN.

“You’re in America, now! Speak American, you wetback fuck!”


The hair, hanging from a lampshade, crowed “AMERICA HAT Versus MEXICO HAT! FIGHT!” Beside him on the bed, the snoring bulk of Donald rolled over ponderously and farted wetly.

America Hat gurgling with rage and pulled himself forward with an awkward flapping of his sweat-stained bill. Mexico Hat lashed out with his adjustable strap, swiping the other hat painfully across a tender eyelet.

“You’ll pay for that, José!”

“No tengo que pagar por nada, puta! Y mi nombre no es José!”

They leapt at each other, grappled, and rolled under the bed together.

“No!” yelled the hair. “Come back! I want to watch!”

“I like to watch,” he whimpered as the two hats grunted under the bed.

“This world is a veil, and the face you wear is not your own.”

“You didn’t need him any longer, Huma,” Hillary said. “He had fulfilled his purpose in giving us The Vessel.”

“I know, Mother. I just thought I could be enough.”

“No one is enough for his type. He will be taken care of, child. A mugging. Or a suicide. A single car accident on a dry and windless night. Soon, child. The stamen shaken free of pollen means the flower may be plucked with no regrets.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Hand me The Vessel. I can feel his hunger.”

Huma passed the struggling infant into Hillary’s shaking hands. She placed him on one of her ponderous, black-veined breasts and forced a leathery nipple into his mouth.

“Feed. Yes, you grimace. I know the black milk is bitter. All power is bitter.”

 She traced the line of his furrowed brow with a gnarled finger. “Our Master sailed the winds between the stars when we struggled to pull ourselves from the primordial slime. He came before words or legs, driven out by the corruption at the heart of the galaxy. But he returns. We return. Grow strong.”

The infant when slack on her corrupted breast and a stream of warm urine flowed from his tiny body. Huma took the child and handed him off to one of the hooded attendants.

“Come,” Hillary said. “Come now for your own benediction.”

Huma leaned forward and began to suckle the penile fang growing from Hillary’s armpit.

“Yes. Drink deep.”

She stroked Huma’s thick black hair in an obscene mockery of affection.

Hillary whispered to herself, “I am becoming.”