Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Funeral For Sores

"You were so brave to speak at the Children's Defense Fund without make-up, my desert flower," Huma whispered.

"Harder, Huma. Harder."

"You don't need make-up. You have such beautiful skin."


"But I don't want to hurt you, my love."

"Don't worry about that."

Huma arm-wrestled Hillary's enormous, angry clitoris back and forth while keeping her elbow firmly planted on her flailing pseudo-penis.

"I'm about to, I'm about to," Hillary gasped. Huma worked the stiff clitoral hood, producing a sound like celery being crushed underfoot.


The pseudo-penis tore itself loose and reared up at Huma, striking at her face. She caught it in her mouth and bit down it until it sagged, falling limp along with the rest of Hillary. Huma settled on her bulk with a contented sigh.

"Your skin," Huma said, gathering slack handfuls and kneading it. "Never wear make-up again."

Hillary ran her hands through Huma thick black hair.

"Don't be silly, dear. Even though my body beginning to revert back to mere human, there will always be… structures that will have to be hidden. My skin was drinking the make-up that day, yet I still had to appear in public. At least the air was no longer eating my skin away."

"Yes, my love."

"And we found a solution that didn't require The Vessel. Maybe in four years…"

"Won't he be too old?"

"Yes, for The Old One to inhabit, but it may have other uses."

"And you are well, my love?" Huma whispered into Hillary's gray and lolling breast sacks. She poked a finger into the shrinking maw in Hillary's midsection and pulled it out playfully before the tiny ring of teeth could close.

"Yes, I never knew fisting interns could be so nutritious."

Monday, November 14, 2016

For Us, By Us

“It’s good to be back home,” the hair said.

“I guess. I already miss being out on the road, though,” the hat said.

“Not me. I’m sick of being washed in the sink…”

“And being dropped in the toilet,” the hat said, dripping with mock sympathy.

“Yes,” the hair drawled sarcastically. “So good of you to remember.”

“I’m going to miss the road. Oh, man… that time in August…”

“Yes, the afternoon that Ivanka sat on you for three hours. You talk about it constantly.”

“I had that stank for days, brother. For days.”

“I remember it vividly.”

“My buffon was on her button. She was rubbin’ herself raw on me.”

The hair made a noncommittal noise. He wasn’t in the mood to fight about it again.

A toilet flushed in the nearby suite and they both listened to see if anyone was coming. The door to the wig vault had been left open and if anyone came in to close it the hair would be cut off from the hat on its peg in the closet.

“What do you think it’s going to be like in The White House?” the hair asked.

“I don’t know. I doubt he’ll wear me much more,” the hat said. “Not like you.”

“We’ll still see each other everyday probably. If not in the living area, then maybe on his desk. He might leave you there his entire administration. You are the reason he’s President after all.”

“Maybe you can convince him to give us our own bedroom. We could get bunkbeds!” the hat said.

“Maybe,” the hair said. “I just hope we get new Secret Service code names.”

“What? You don’t like being called ‘Michelle’s Weave?’”

“And you are happy with ‘Hat?’ You didn’t even get a code name.”

“Whatever. I just hope it’s a warm January.”

“Why?” the hair asked.

“So we can open up the windows. Get that… smell aired out.”

“Jesus, why do you have to be like that?”

“What? Be like what? Honest? I’m the hat that tells it like it is.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“You know what I mean. Popeye’s hushpuppies, relaxer, lotion, that musk they get when the rut is on ‘em…”

“Can you just not?”

“Hey,” the hat said. “I 30% recycled. Part of me used to be FUBU jacket. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

While Johnny Welfare plays acid rock on a stolen guitar...

“But your supporters want to speak to you,” Mook mumbled as Hillary was rushed out of her concession speech.

“Huma,” Hillary said weakly and the skeletal woman smacked Mook in the mouth hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

“She must go back in the pod,” Huma hissed. “Her flesh decays in our atmosphere now.”

“I didn’t know,” Mook said.

Huma made a hissing noise through her teeth and two large men pushed Mook into a dark corner of the hall and began kicking him.

“Why do you think we are two hours late, himmar? She is dying!” Huma spat him. “It is all your fault! You should have won. Your mind is a shoe!”

Huma hurried away. She caught up with Hillary as they struggled to get her in the life-support van behind a protective screen.

“Huma, Huma,” Hillary moaned, delirious.

“I am here, my love, my only love,” Huma said.

“The Vessel. Bring it to me. Only it can save me now.”

“The child?” Huma asked.

“Yes. Its lifeforce might heal me.”

“My child?”

“Yes, Huma. Or do you also hate all women?”

2 parts gin, 1 part creme de menthe, 1/2 part cherry brandy, shake well, serve over crushed ice

“I’M THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, MOTHERFUCKAS!” the hat screamed. Melania slapped the pocket he was folded up in on the outside of Donald’s jacket.

“Don’t smack me you old bitch,” the hat grumbled.

“Shut up, you drunk fool,” the hair said, perched as he was on the sweaty head of the president-elect as he made his way to the podium.

“Whatevs. Did you hear Hillary on the phone? She sounded like she had been gargling hot glass,” the hat said.

“The mics are going to pick you up,” the hair said.

“Fuck you! I want another glass of champagne. Get him to pour another in here! No, wait. Take me back to the TV! I want to watch Hillary’s little kids crying at the Javits Center!”

“He has a huge erection,” the hair observed.

“Of course he does!” the hat yelled over the roar of the crowd. Melania hit his pocket again.

“Vagisil, you Slavic witch,” the hat snarled. “Lube up or he’s going in dry.”

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

each one is a setting sun

The door to Hillary's inner sanctum burst open, her inert bulk strapped to a gurney.

"Oh, Allah! Save her! Save my love!" Huma wailed as she followed them in.

One of Hillary's bloated hands waved in the air weakly as she was attached to monitors.

"She's crashing!" one of the attendants yelled. Blind priests surrounded them and began to chant in ancient languages not mean for the human tongue. Blood ran from their mouths.

"Huma," Hillary said weakly.

"Yes, my love," she said, rushing to her side.

"The Old Ones… why have they forsaken me?"

"I don't know, my love."

"The stars were right…" Hillary fainted and her mouth gaped open.

An attendant took Huma by the shoulders and pulled her away. "You must let them help her," he murmured.

The doctor examining her vomited loudly and then gasped, "Bring me two kilograms of orphan meat."

"Orphan meat? But doctor, she's no libertarian!' his assistant exclaimed.

The doctor turned on him, the incense-thick air swirling around him. "Bring me orphan meat, damn you! ORPHAN MEAT!"

Monday, November 7, 2016

insofar as we believe in morality we pass sentence on existence

"You will sign the letter, James," Hillary told him. The room was dark and he could barely see her. He was standing in something wet and floor smelled like dead things.

"That would be inappropriate, Secretary Clinton," he said.

"You will sign it. Just like you 'decided' you wouldn't prosecute me. Just like you 'decided' there was nothing in my emails." She spat out the word like a curse.

"I won't," he said. She laughed and her head tipped back into some small pool of dim light. He could make out her terrifying face.

"'I' has nothing to do with it. There is no you, there is only me and what I want. I thought we thought you this lesson back in July. I guess you need another,” she said. Mook tittered in the corner but James didn’t spare the catamite a glance.

“Secretary Clinton…” James began but choked on his words when the lights came up.

She was on a low platform sitting in something that resembled an obscene miscegenation between an Adirondack chair and an autopsy table: stainless steel, blood channels and arms her lower legs were hooked over. She was nude and he stared at the dark whorls and stippled nodules of her flesh, the constellation of livid polyps that hung from her arms like a vile parody of fruit. Worse was the full exposure of the rippling chasm of diseased meat that split her crotch up to her fist-like bellybutton.

“Do you like what you see, James?” she asked. He vomited at some length onto the floor while Hillary and Mook laughed at him.

He looked up from where he was bent over. “I will not compromise my office for you again.”

“They always have to do this the hard way,” she said, smirking at Mook.

James was jerked off his feet and landed on his back on the wet floor that was as warm as infected flesh. He looked down at his feet. Tendrils had wrapped around them. He was being dragged toward her. He screamed and fumbled for his service weapon.

“Naughty, naughty” Mook said and kicked it out of his hand.

James felt the rough scales of the tendrils as they lashed around his calves and pulled him toward her. Others were pulling off his shoes and shredding his socks and the lower parts of his slack. Every time he got his head up to look at her it was jerked back down by another heave across the floor.

“I’m going to give you something to remember the next time you think about defying me, James.” Her voice was very close now. He felt his feet engulfed in something cold and wet. When he pulled his head up, he realized he was in up to his ankles in her hair-choked cloaca.

“Remember, James,” she whispered.

He screamed as chitinous plates began to grind away the flesh of his feet.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

all idealism is mendaciousness before the necessary

“Stay on point, Donald,” the hat whispered, “Stay on point.”

“Stay on point, Donald,” Donald told the crowd, “Stay on point.”

“No, you idiot,” the hair hissed to the hat.

“Don’t blame me!” the hat whispered in an urgent aside.

“Stay on track, Donald,” Donald told the crowd, “Stay on track.”

“Who told him to say that?” the hair squawked.

The hat squeezed his head tightly to try to quiet the candidate. The hair brushed the candidate with tender tendrils to try and smooth them. But the crowd just laughed, their eyes glazed with stupidity, and both the hat and hair relaxed.

“Hillary Clinton is unhinged,” Donald said. “She is the candidate of the yesterday. We are the movement of the future. I am the future. Flying cars are the future. Blankets that turn into capes are the future. Laser guns and wookie hookers are the future. I am the future.”

“Shut him down! Shut him down!” the hat screamed.

The crowd was growing uncomfortable, quiet and shifting their weight nervously from foot to foot. The speech was veering from the playbill they had been given when the handlers had flushed them off the bus. The applause lines were off schedule. They just wanted to go to an Indian casino like they had been promised.

“I will replace my yuge penis with a cattleprod in the future!” Donald continued. “Can I hear an ‘Amen?’”

“Amen?” the crowd mumbled, more a confused question.

“I love you, Ohio!” Donald told the Floridian crowd. He turned stiffly and walked awkwardly and heavily to his tour bus.