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.