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.

"Terrible experiences make one wonder whether he who experiences them is not something terrible."

“What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh,” she whispered. The sickly smell of corrupted meat was the only perfume she ever wore and it raced from his nose straight to his penis on a wave of blood. His erection sprang into her hand with an audible slap and she clamped down on it with a hideous grip.

“You’re weak, Joe,” she whispered, raspy and hoarse. “Everyone knows it. Spineless like your father; meek like your mother. You were created by cowardice and a coward you are.” She squeezed the blood from his penis and glanced down to watch it rush back in after she released it. “This is all you’ve ever been good for, a cheap fuck in a train toilet.”

“That that that’s not true,” he stuttered. He licked at the slack skin of her neck as she forced the blood out his erection again. She wadded his penis up like a FOIA request and bore down. It felt like his scrotum would burst.

“You can’t run,” she said, the puckered asshole of her mouth barely moving.

“P-p-p-lease,” he whined, he whimpered, he said in a wet sob. She was crushing his penis into his body. She caught up his balls in her other hand and caressed them into one large bruise.

“You won’t run,” she said. “I’ll tear it off and fuck you with it. I’ll deglove it and use the skin as a condom when I fuck Bernie. I’ll suck the maggots from the wound and spit them in your mouth. You won’t run.” She dug her thumbnail into the underside of his penis, feeling the tendons under the skin. Joe moaned in terror and pleasure. “You won’t run. You won’t run. You won’t run.”

When he fainted, she squatted to urinate on him.

He could have been The Belle of the Ponderosa, but that was not the fat man's plan

Joe slid the train bathroom door lock to "Occupied." His shoulders slumped with relief. The poor people on the train always wanted to shake his hand or slap his back in gratitude for his support of public transit. He shuddered at the memory of their proletariat caress.

He washed his hands in the tiny metal sink. The water smelled like machine oil and pennies. He splashed water on his face and groped for a paper towel, but the dispenser wasn't there. He stared at the hand dryer bolted in its place. The start button was covered with a large "Go Green!" sticker. It whirred to life briefly but ignored his repeatedly jabs. With a sigh, he unfastened the snaps holding down his toupee and then wiped his face with it. He stuffed it into the small trash slot. There were three fresh ones still in factory plastic in his briefcase.

He rubbed his tumescence through his slacks. It was already hard, trained to the sights and smells of an Amtrak bathroom. Joe braced a foot on either side of the tiny room and slipped his penis free. He started with a light Western grip, occasionally stopping to pinch his glans so he could feel it refill with blood. With his left hand he cradled his scrotum, pulling the gray hairs at first, and them cupping tightly, the side of his thumb digging into the base of his penis.

Joe switched to an a full-fisted Cleveland grip, sliding the flesh his penis up and down, straining at the circumcision scar under his glans on the down stroke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fantasize. The usual image of Sarah at the debate would not come to him, only brief flashes of her glasses and his post-debate hug and the half-grind he managed.

Random images flickered: distorted memories of watching from the bedroom closet as his wife was anally violated by an intern, summer camp and smell of Helen Sartoski's crotch as he lapped at it through her shorts, a brief image of a shirtless Barack that he squeezed away.

Joe opened his eyes. The train swayed and bucked beneath him. It was slowing now, almost to its destination. He cast about for a visual aid as he pumped harder and harder. His vision strayed to the trash slot. A lock of hair from his discarded toupee hung from the slot like a peek of pubic hair during the first week of bikini season.

He ejaculated directly into the toilet.