“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.