Inauguration Day, Pt. 1

"I don't know if I can go, Huma," Hillary whispered hoarsely.

Huma looked up from Hillary's squalid crotch and gently spat out an erotic cyst. "You must my love. To show them you are proud and beautiful and brave."

"I just can't stop crying," Hillary said, wiping cheeks that hadn't seen any tears in decades.

"Barry will be there and Michelle," Huma said. She began decontamination procedures, astringent orange fluid hitting her from multiple high-pressure nozzles.

"I don't know what I ever say in those two. They were terrible lovers. Barry only wanted to bottom and Michelle's dick always smelled like asshole." Hillary rolled over and farted.

"It's time to go, my love," Huma said, bathed in UV light.

"I don't care," Hillary mumbled. "I don't care about anything."

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."

"Harder."

"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.

"I'M ABOUT TO!"

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."

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?”

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!"

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.

For mankind this is always the hour of Noon

"If I never see another Weiner again I'll die a happy woman," Hillary hissed.

"You will never die, my love," Huma whispered, lightly tracing the bridge of her son's nose with a fingernail the color of dried blood.

"Weiner email. Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?"

"650,000 emails, love," Huma said. "They will never find anything in it among all those dick pics and onion dip recipes. I swear it."

"I'm not mad at you, Huma. Never at you," Hillary grated. She snaked out a rugose tongue and began to groomed the thick hair around her anthracitic nipples.

"We should have killed him when the child proved to be a proper Vessel," Huma groused.

"No one could have guessed Comey would betray us," Hillary said.

"See? No one! No one could have guessed!" an insane Mook gibbered. Hillary jerked the chain riveted into his testicles until Mook came and fainted.

"January 21st I shall ascend and the Vessel will be filled with a power only it can contain. And they will all pay, Huma. Especially the Weiners. I hate Weiners."

Huma ululated loudly.

"Weiner," Hillary sniffed. "It's another word for penis, you know."

But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travelers notoriously false?

Champagne flowed over Hillary's nude and glistening body as she cackled in delight, bloated on her dais.

"Third debate, motherfuckas," Mook screamed as the boy in the Paul Krugman mask pleasured him roughly.

"Another wikileaks release, my love," a worried Huma said, looking up from the phone she constantly browsed. "This one says that Podesta traded cocaine and sexual favors to keep you from having to give a press conference throughout the entire campaign.

"Who cares?" Hillary said over the loud music. "Third debate! Starbucks gift cards for everybody!" She fed the empty champagne bottle into the gaping maw where her bellybutton should have been and there was a sound like a garbage disposal choking down a handful of silverware.

"The National Enquirer knows about us!" Huma said.

"Who cares?" Hillary said, opening another bottle to anoint the assholes stippled along each shoulder. They grew smaller every day. Soon they would be naught but tiny farting freckles. "Tell Mook to get more champagne when he's done shitting out all that cum."

"No!" Huma screamed. "Drudge is running a video of you pissing on a cancer kid, like literally pissing right in his face!"

"Who cares?" Hillary said. "Wait, it was a white kid, right?"

Huma looked up from the video, her olive skin turning pale.

"Yes," she replied.

"Who cares? Release a couple more of those girls Donald groped. We still have over 50 of them, right?" Hillary cackled again. A wave of horripilation passed over the Secret Service guards gagging at the scene.

"Grapes!" Hillary yelled. "I want grapes! And meat! Bring me meat!"

A dwarf stumbled forward, staggering under a tray piled with bloody hunks.

Hillary clapped her hands together awkwardly. "Send in the entertainment."

Mook vomited loudly as a nude woman in a Donald mask and a nude man in a Hillary mask were herded in the room from opposite doors. Hillary cackled again as they began to circle each other warily.

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.

“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.

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.

“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.”

Idolatry is worse than carnage

“There is another matter, Grandmother. A traitor in our ranks,” Hillary said.

The crone sniffed the air and smiled.

“Bring it to me,” she whispered.

A figure was dragged out the forest, filthy, nude, bleeding, gross, with terrible hair. A large root was jammed mouth to keep her from speaking.

“The Florida Jew,” the crone sneered. “You have betrayed us all.”

Debbie’s eyes went wide and she made muffed sounds around the root gag.

“Let the traitor speak,” the crone said.

Hillary pulled the root from Debbie’s mouth roughly, breaking a few of her distorted gravel teeth in the process. The delegates tittered as she spit blood and tears cleaned paths on her dirty face.

“You stand of accused of helping Them,” the crone said.

“Grandmother, I only did as you told me."

Hillary kicked her in ribs, below her distended breasts, and knocked her to her side.

“Betrayer,” she hissed and spat at her.

“Emails were written,” said the crone.

“Emails were written,” intoned the delegates, and they did up-twinkle.

“Emails were retained.”

“Emails were retained.” And they did jazz-hand.

“Emails were leaked.”

“Emails were leaked.” And they did side-step shuffle.

“I sentence you to be known and degraded by every man here,” the crone said.

The forest filled with the sounds of hundreds of men fleeing into the night. Far away retching was heard.

“Then death,” said the crone. “Bring her.”

Hillary kicked Debbie in the crotch until she began to crawl to the crone in her bower. A supplicant rushed forward and put a silver knife into her veiny and shaking hand.

“Give me your neck, Florida Jew,” she said.

Debbie tried to turn away and Hillary booted her once more in the ruin of her vagina.

“It can be worse, Betrayer. I can bring you before a Senate Subcommittee. Even your used assrag of a soul won’t survive that,” Hillary said.

Debbie turned her head away and presented her neck.

“Be swift, Grandmother,” she begged.

The crone struggled to raise the blade and swiped feebly at Debbie’s neck folds. The blade barely made a mark.

“Closer,” Hillary said, punching the pudding socks of Debbie’s teats painfully.

The crone steady her knife hand with the other and laid the knife on Debbie’s neck. She sawed back and forth with the knife until her strength gave out. A thin line of blood appeared.

“Aw, fuck it,” the crone said. “Let the dumb bitch just resign.”

Running through the forest, again and again and again

"Grandmother! I have brought him for your blessing!" Hillary cried into the hushed night of the deep forest, addressing a withered figure nestled in a bower of rotting limbs and twigs.

"Bring him forward," the crone rasped. The assembled delegates of the DNC murmured in awe at the sight of her. "RBG!" one screamed. The woman was torn apart by those standing beside her in a gout of religious ecstasy. The crone watched the lifeblood flow from the holy blasphemer, her rheumy eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, one claw-like hand grasping as if it were she who tore the young flesh.

"I have brought the one who shall be my second, Grandmother," Hillary said, desperate as ever to bring the attention back to her. The crone ignored her until the heart of the dead woman was brought to her. She licked it and shuddered.

"The ritual, Grandmother," Hillary said quietly. "It is almost midnight."

The crone let the heart fall to the loam of the forest floor and began.

"Has he been shriven at The Gate?"

"Yes, Grandmother," whispered the crowd.

"Has he suckled the black milk of Herself?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Is he smooth between the legs?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Has he whispered to his Mother's secret abortions? Has he waited for The Many-Angled One to take them away?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Is he ready to be bled?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

Hillary pulled a cruel and hooked claw of some massive raptor from her blood-dyed robe.

"Your tongue," she demanded. He stuck it out and she pricked it deeply with the needle-sharp point.

The crone let out a dry laugh, like the chittering a thousand insects.

"Your eyes, your nose, your ears, your throat are all mine," she said, lightly puncturing each in turn.

"Your heart," she said. He levered the claw in deeply and tore it away. He grimaced but did not make a sound. As the crone nodded in approval, he smiled, blood running down his chin.

"Arise, Kaine."

The coven began to chant:

"Kaine has been chosen
"Kaine was chosen
'Kaine will be chosen
'Kaine will have been chosen
"Our night is forever"

As she held the bloodied claw to the sky, the many hungry mouths on Hillary's body sang and gnashed and gurgled a symphony of darkness.

Auto-de-fé

"Just read the words," Hillary said, spitting out the sibilants like pieces of old skin.

"But I didn't write this. I'm from Brooklyn. We write things for ourselves," Bernie protested. He tried to crumble the endorsement speech but his arthritic hands could barely wrinkle the paper.

"You'll do what we tell you or you won't leave Vermont with a working asshole," her goiter said. Bloody-toothed mouths grown in her clavicles choked out mirthless laughter. A voice from between her rotted breasts whispered, "Sew it close anyway."

"I don't re-re-re-act well to threats, Madam Secretary." She slapped him twice in quick succession, the rough skin of her gnarled hands scraping his face.

"I will only speak to a black officer," Bernie whimpered.

"You want me to call Huma?" she asked him. Orifices all over her body sighed. "Have you ever been double-dipped, Bernie? You won't survive it. There might not even be enough left over to send home to your fat wife."

"Leave her out of this," he said. But his voice betrayed him. He was old and feeble. He shook all over like an inbred chihuahua.

"I'm going to let Bill use her as a tampon," Hillary giggled.

The broken old man began to weep.

“Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.”

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Hillary said. It was loud enough for the staffers and reporters in the hallway to hear before she shut the door.

“No problem, no problem,” he said. Bernie feebly made his way to an overstuffed chair and lowered himself painfully into it. “The campaign trail. Young people hug too strong these days. Back when I was growing up in Brooklyn we were tough but we knew how to hug! The old Brooklyn hug we’d used to say. It was elegant, dammit. And it never hurt.”

Hillary played with the panel near the door. Powerful bolts thunked close inside the door and frame and three loud beeps sounded.

“Shut up, fuckhead,” she told him. “I’ve turned off the recorders and soundproofed the roof.”

“Excellent! I already have an erection. There’s a button between my dangler and my nutsack.”

“We’re not here for that,” she said.

“What? I wasted a charge then. You know they have to reload through my ass? My ASS!”

Hillary slapped him.

“Pay attention. I am speaking. I have spoken!” she screamed.

“So we’re done here?” Bernie started to get up and she pushed him back down.

“What?” he asked. “You said you had spoken. Past tense. Why do I talk like an old vaudeville routine?”

“Shut up, Jew,” Hillary’s goiter rasped.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” the goiter said.

“Hillary? Your neck is talking to me. Hello? Can someone bring me a Fresca?”

“Fuck your Fresca and fuck you,” the goiter said. “You didn’t drop out when you were told and now we have to run an actual campaign.”

“Can I touch it?” he asked.

“No,” Hillary and the goiter said at the same time.

“What it is?” he asked.

“It’s my only child, Bernie. I made her,” Hillary whispered.

“What about Chelsea?” he asked.

“That ugly thing? She was made from the filth Webb left in me. Left in me, like a floater in a guest bathroom toilet. This is my true child.” She stroked the bulge on the side of her larynx. It purred with contented delight.

“I still have an erection,” he said.

“You will support us, Jew,” the goiter said. Hillary began to unbutton her $12,000 housecoat.

“Whatever you say, uh, ma’am,” he stammered.

Hillary lifted a ponderous breast and Bernie saw a dark patch of skin and hair and wetness. As she pulled her heavily-veined teat high, the dark skin split, revealing lips.

“I grew it for you, Bernie. Black Vaginas Matter.”

Thumb-puppet of hate

“I expect a concession speech tonight, Bernie,” Hillary rasped, her throat as dry as a turtle’s asshole. “I have the Superdelegates, you crusty old fuck. You cannot withstand their power.”

“I’m from the Brooklyn. I am tough. You do not control the Bernie Rev-rev-revolution!” the old man stuttered. The wheeze in his breath sounded like the rustle of beetle wings. She loved listening to him die on the phone.

She stroked its bulging mass and smiled.

“I’m rubbing maple syrup all over my pussies, Bernie. New Hampshire maple syrup,” she said.

“No! You witch!” You’ll feel the Bern for this!”

“Now I’m opening a bottle of Canadian maple syrup.”

“You wouldn’t! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Tariff-free. Bernie. Tariff-free syrup. Hmm. Free trade feels so good on my pornucopia of back-up labias.” Hillary held the phone away as she and the goiter chortled.

“I WILL DESTROY YOU AT THE CONVENTION!” Bernie screamed, but it was tinny and far away on the phone's tiny speaker.

“No you won’t, Bernie,” she said, drawing the phone back. “I’m taking away the millennials. The Tumblristas are mine. All your little college lackeys and dick-drunk bros are mine. I’ll call them sexist if they stay home.”

“It won’t work. They are mine, you dried up old hag. I am the youth movement!” He was so agitated his jowls made a flapping sound as they shook with rage.

“They are going to vote vagina now. AND I HAVE ALL THE VAGINAS!”

She let the goiter laugh into the phone for a long moment before she hung up on his raving and tucked Convenience Phone #17 into her wetly pulsated gunt pouch.

The Big Doll House

“You shall be my weapon against The Trump,” Hillary said as she stroked Elizabeth’s bumpy skull through her elderly lesbian hair. “You will destroy him for me.”

“Yes, Mistress. I will destroy him for you.”

Hillary pressed Elizabeth to her black-nippled teat. Veins pulsed right under the skin.

“Suckle on my hate. Grow powerful,” Hillary said. She rammed her breast into Elizabeth’s mouth and squeezed out clotted milk in a stuttering geyser.

Elizabeth’s fingers slid into the dry canal of Hillary’s dead cunt, shelves of desiccated pus shedding, falling to the floor. She worked spiked nub of her clitoris until her thumb bled.

“Will it be enough?” the goiter on Hillary’s neck asked in an excited whisper.

“I don’t know. This chittering twat is almost as used up as I am,” she whispered back. She needn’t have bothered. The sounds of Elizabeth choking and sputtering filled the campaign bus bedroom utterly.

“The Trump is powerful. He has the hair and the hat,” the goiter said.

“I don’t fuck give a fuck about the goddamn hat! The hat is nothing! NOTHING!” she screamed. She cuffed Elizabeth on the ear in sent her reeling, rancid hillarymilk dribbling from her lip.

‘What did I do?” Elizabeth whined. She wrapped her arms around her head and face, bingo wings queasily flubbering.

“I’m going to fill you up, bitch,” Hillary said. She stomped Elizabeth in the ribs right below the breasts. As she moved to hold her chest, Hillary palpitated one last stubborn gob of milk right into her mewling mouth.

“Whose cunt is more powerful than mine?” Hillary demanded.

“No one's,” Elizabeth managed, choking.

“Wash it down,” Hillary said as she squatted over Elizabeth and let loose a stream of urine teeming with hormones.

"The strain's too much, can't take much more"

“There are pleasures you have never dreamed of, Bernie,” Hillary whispered. “I grow new ones every day.”

She tore off the sleeve of her heavy polyester blouse and showed him a row of nipple along the underside of her upper left arm. They quested about, thick, dark ends gulping at the air like dying fish, drooling a thick black milk. He lunged toward them, the slack asshole of his mouth emitting a maple syrup rot. She pulled them away.

“Bite them carefully. They bite back,” she said. Bernie groaned and hammered a fist into his dusty fuck parts. Hillary slapped him and cackled.

“What want, Bernie? Do you want me?” Hillary pulled down the side of her skirt. There was a vulva slit into the side of her hip.

“You can touch it, Bernie. Go on. This one might not tear anything off.”

His shaking fingers found her hipgina and thrust into her before she could move away. His rheumy eyes went wide as he stroked the pitted surface of her iliac crest.

“Bill never touches me. He hasn’t fingerfucked my skeleton in decades.” Hillary cried out, the sound filling the cold spaces of the empty warehouse. She grabbed at the crotch of his shabby suit, his breath hot and sour on her neck.

“There’s nothing,” he grunted. “Nothing there since the 70s, dammit.”

“You’ll just have to be creative then,” she said. She pulled his left hand around her doughy waist and guided him to a small constellation of buttholes set over her liver. He stroked them and found them dry and scaly as she moaned. He licked his finger as she panted, the sweet and meaty smell of death on her breath. He sank each of his fingers and his thumb into the five buttholes and flexed them like he was making a puppet speak. She farted from all five, delicate notes rushing past his invading digits.

“I want your equal outcomes, Bernie,” she said, forcing him to his knees.

The pseudopenis she had already extruded forced itself against her clothes. She pushed her skirt down and it sprang forth, the disapproving pucker of her cervix on the tip of the inverted vagina bobbing menacingly. She inched forward and swung her hips to smack him with it.

“Suck it, Bernie. Suck it,” she said. “I’m going to shit my uterus right in your mouth.”

We Defy Augury

“You don’t have to do this,” Joe pleaded as Hillary shackled his left leg. “I did what you wanted. You saw the news conference!”

“Too late! Too late! You lingered like the stink you leave in Amtrak bathrooms!” She moved in, the hot corruption of her breath in his face.

“Good old Joe,” she whispered. “Everyone loves Joe. Everyone loves Joe’s wife.” She pulled off his tie and slit the neck and arms of his sweat-stained dress shirt.

“Everyone love Joe’s kids, especially the dead one.” Hillary gathered up the crotch fabric on his dress pants and pulled. She used the razor to cut along the inseam on both sides and then ripped them off his waist. Joe began to sob.

“No one loves Hillary’s beautiful baby, not even that moron we paid very well to marry her and knock her up. Why is it, Joe? Why does everyone love you so much?” She cut his boxers off and stuffed them in his mouth.

“This is some fucked up shit, yo,” Donald’s hat whispered.

“Shut up you idiot. She might hear you,” his hair replied.

“I don’t know why I have to be here,” Donald said, to no one. Hillary turned on him, slashing the air with the razor.

“Because I want you here. I want you to witness what happens to those who betray me!” she screamed. She pounced on Joe and sliced off his right nipple with a single motion of the blade. He screamed through his underwear. She picked the nipple off the floor and ate it.

“Um. Meaty. I wonder what other parts of you are good?” She squatted in front of him and smelled his genitals intently, like a dog getting that last whiff of old piss from a hydrant.

“God, Joe. You’re balls smell so good. Like honey and old Bibles.” She made a small, careful cut along the seam of his scrotum and licked. “But your blood, Joe. Not so good. Are you dying Joe? That would be a real fucking shame, right, Donald?”

“Yes, Mommy. Whatever you say,” Donald said. He farted wetly and a long string of anal beads clattered on the warehouse floor.

“Pick those up!” Hillary screamed, her pendulous breasts wobbling with rage.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“You know what, Joe?” she asked, turning back to him. “You did do what I asked. Maybe a little late, maybe not when I told you too, but you did OK. I think you deserve a reward.” Joe’s eyes went wide with terror. He began struggling to free himself, straining at the shackles.

“Yeah, Joe. You know what’s coming, don’t you? You’re going to get the ass, Joe.” She turned and bent over. Joe screamed again, a pathetic sound. Underneath it Donald could hear the eager gnashing as she backed toward him.

“I wish he had left me in the car,” the hat said.

“He never leaves me in the car,” the hair moaned.

“Who said that?!?” Hillary screeched. In the rafters of the warehouse a bird died and fell to the floor.

YUUUUGE! For Mommy! YUUUUGE!

“It’s gonna be YUUUGE! YUUUGE! I swear! But it might take a minute!” Donald rasped. His hair smirked at his limp penis.

“It’s fine,” Hillary said. “It happens to all guys. Just hurry up. I can only act like this is a faggoty-ass pancake breakfast for so long before the Benghazi Committee will add it to the agenda.” She toyed with Donald’s ball cap, twirling it around her finger.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” the hat moaned.

“I guarantee you won’t be the first thing that’s ever thrown up in this chick’s lap,” Donald’s hair said.

“Am I at least doing a good job, Mommy?” Donald asked. “Am I distracting them like you and Daddy told me too?”

“Yes, Donny. You’re doing a very good job of being a dumbass,” Hillary told him. “And you’re going to be ‘yuge,’ I promise.” She threw the hat down and parted her vast thicket of pubic hair. Her labia parted with the sad grumble of old Velcro and her gnarled clitoris emerged. “Does this help? Are you getting hard, Donny?”

“I’ll get hard for you, Mommy. Donny will get YUUUGE for Mommy!”

“This is disgusting,” his hair said.

“It really is,” said the hat from the floor. “At least I’m half under the bed. All I have to see is her horrible thighs. They’re quivering, dude. Quivering.”

“I really hope he doesn’t go down on her,” the hair said. “It smells like a litter box down there.”

“I’m trying to CONCENTRATE!” Donald yelled at them both.

“I know you are,” Hillary said. “Mommy is very proud of you.” She lifted her legs for him and farted like a startled trumpet.

“OH GOD, YES!” Donald gurgled and sucked in the miasma.

“What in the name of all holy fuck does this old whore eat?” Donald’s hair managed.

“Huma,” the hat chortled. “And whatever rancid cockcheese Michelle leaves all over Barry.”

“Oh, fuck. Don’t make me laugh,” the hair choked out. “It’s so thick up here I swear I can taste it.”

“You don’t have a tongue,” the hat said.

“You think that matters? You get up here and soak in the hot garbage coming out of her horrid nethers for a while.”

“Please be quiet,” Donald whispered.

“What was that?” Hillary asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing, Mommy,” Donald said. He began to twirl his flaccid tycoon like a lasso, hoping to rouse it from its frightened slumber.