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!"

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.”