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"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 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.”

Damn, I Feel Like An Honorary Woman

“Do you want me to make you a woman, Bernie?” Gloria purred.

“Will it hurt? No. I don’t care. I’m tough I’m from Brooklyn. Go on. Do it. Feminism. Women. Yeah!” Bernie said rapidly. He strained against the stirrups to spread his legs even wider.

Gloria slapped the enormous dildo she had strapped around her waist, making it flail wildly. She reached forward and cranked the speculum in Bernie’s anus to its widest setting.

“This is the only thing, the ONLY thing, that makes sense in the dialectical of historical oppression of the working class, Gloria. I had humble beginnings. Humble. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth or in my ass. I’m from Brooklyn, Gloria. I’m tough. I’m like withered meat on a gnawed skeleton. Tough, Gloria.”

“Goddammit, Bernie. Do you ever shut up? I’m losing my artificial boner here.”

“I’ll be quiet, Gloria. This is your time. I understand that. I don’t need to talk.”

“Just shut up.”

“Oh, I’m shut up all right. Not a peep out of me, all right. Not a word. Enact your labor on my patriarchal ringpiece, Gloria. Make me valuable. MAKE ME!”

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” Gloria covered her breasts with her hands and looked around the squalid false consciousness removal room, the glass-doored cabinets of blood- and shit-covered dildos stood like silent soldiers of regret.

“What am I doing with my life?” she whispered.

“Gloria! Brooklyn! Marx! Rent control!” Bernie screamed, thrashing at his bonds. “Gloria!”

Gloria ran from the room and began to vomit loudly in the hallway.

Did you know he was from Brooklyn?

"I want you to rub your mutton flaps on me, Mr. President. I'm from Brooklyn. I can handle it. And I want to pay Negros like you 15 dollars an hour to rub your mutton flaps all over America," Bernie said. Aides all over the room gasped.

"I hear you, Bernie. And I understand," Barry said. "Clear the room."

Aides began to shuffle out. A dildo dropped out of one and bounced limply to the floor.

Barry pointed at the Secret Service guards on the door of the conference room. "You two as well."

"But Mr. President," one began.

"No. Out. I need to speak to the Senator alone." Barry watched as they left as well, securing the doors behind them."

"Tell me more about these mutton flaps, Bernie."

"Mr. President? Have you ever rubbed 29 different brands of deodorant on your balls at once? I am from Brooklyn. I'm tough. I'm a street fighter. And I'm telling you, it's not easy. 10 brands. Anyone can do that. 10 is nothing. Nothing. 15? Now you're talkin'. 15 is a man's number. That's why it should be the minimum wage. Even for Negroes. I love Negroes, Mr. President. That's why I am worried about their balls. Their nutsacks. Cojones. Testicles, Mr. President. I'm talking about testicles."

"The Affordable Care Act mentions testicle care on thousands of pages," Barry said. He could feel the ruin of his penis filling with blood.

"That's not good enough. We need single payer Negro testicle care and deodorizing. Every other civilized country in the world takes care of Negro testicles better than we do. Every one of them, Mr. President." Bernie's hair was swirling on his head like fierce white flames. "And for less money too! Often less than 15 dollars per Negro testicle."

"What about white people testicles?" Barry asked. He began to rub his crotch on the corner of the conference table.

"Reparations! White testicle privilege! Not all be-penised and testiculated Americans deserve to be cared for in the same manner. Whites have gotten enough! I am from Brooklyn. I'm a scrapper. I care about black and brown balls!"

"The points you are making are perfectly reasonable, Bernie. I understand them completely." Barry continued molesting the table corner, digging it harder and harder into his odoriferous scrotum.

"I can smell your balls, Mr. President. I'm tough. I’m from Brooklyn."

The Green Mountain State

"But I need it," Bernie pleaded.

"It's not easy, Bernie. It takes a minute," Hillary said. She reared up from her squat and dropped back down, a low gruntle rumbling forth.

"Is it coming?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder. "I need it. You have it. I want it. Give it to me." He was whining. His weakness made her sick and aroused. She strained again and something inside her snapped like cheap sunglasses.

"OK, Bernie. It's starting," she said.

"Oh, thank Atheist God! Thank you, Atheist God! You have bestowed your nonexistent blessings upon us this day!" Bernie started to sway, still on his hands and knees.

"Shut that shit up. I still need to concentrate!" Hillary screamed. She waddled forward in her squat. Her prolapsed vagina slowly inflated into a rigid pseudopenis.

"I'm going to core you, Bernie. Core you like a crisp Vermont fuckapple."