“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.