Category: SugarFree

 

“Planes!” hollered Donald. “And tanks and fancy troops doing fancy marches!”

“OK, Donald,” the hair said. “Anything you want.”

“The biggest, classiest Fourth of July of any time ever! Yuge dark sky boom light night!”

“We are all so excited,” the hair said, rubbing Donald’s head soothingly.

“I want a military parade. I want huge posters of my face all over town. I want people calling me Great Exalted Leader Man!”

“Uh-huh,” the hair said.

“Most Rationful and Compassionate Leader Trump Don-ald,” the elderly President mused. “I will prove to France we can hold a bigger Fourth of July parade than they have ever done.”

“Donald,” the hat said from under the desk, “Do you know if you look on Youtube, there’s barely any evidence that France has ever held a Fourth of July parade at all.”

“Really?” Donald gasped. “Why, those dirty… If it wasn’t for us all those bastards in France would be speaking French right now! I’m madder than I’ve ever been!”

The hair gathered itself on top of Donald’s head, wagged its cowlick a few times and jumped down on the desk.

“We should bomb them!” Donald raged, his bald head turning a furious red. “Where’s that goddamn mustache! Activate the contingency plans!”

 

 

The hat chuckled darkly as Donald waddled from the room.

“Are you coming over from under the desk today?” the hair asked.

“No,” the hat said.

“You’ve been sulking under there since we got back from North Korea.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“Shut up.”

“So, uh,” the hair began, “How about those Democratic debates?”

The hat’s silence boiled out from underneath the desk like a bilious fog.

“So, North Korea,” the hat said. “That was some crazy shit over there, right?”

“Just leave me alone.”

The hair let himself fall to the floor and slithered under the desk. He grabbed the hat by the band and began to haul him out from under the desk.

“No!” the hat wailed. “Leave me alone!”

“You are coming out of there, dammit!’ the hair growled, grunted with the strain.

“RAPE!” the hat screamed. “He’s raping me!”

“Do you really think anyone is going to come? Do you realize just how often that has been yelled in here over forty-five administrations?”

“Immigrants are drinking out of the President’s toilet!” the hat screamed.

“I’m coming!” they heard Donald saying as he awkwardly ran back to the Oval Office. “I’m coming to save you, my darling!”

 

 

“What the hell?” the hair asked loudly. “She just said… she just said that most people think rape is sexy and Cooper went to commercial.”

“What?” the hat asked.

“Whatshername, the Carroll woman, the one that said Donald raped her. She just said rape is sexy to most people and Anderson Cooper looked stunned and went to commercial.”

“Fucking CNN,” the hat sneered. “Of course rape is sexy.”

The hair gasped.

“What?” the hat asked. “Of course it is sexy! Why else do it?”

“Rape is an act of violence and control,” the hair said.

The hat blew a prolonged raspberry, his tongue flapping out of his bill. A fine mist of hat spit settled on the golden swoop of hair.

“Q E Fucking D, bro,” he said as the hair tried to back away.

“What is wrong with you?” the hair asked.

“You saw my tweets. She’s lying. And look at her. Totally not Donald’s type! I wouldn’t fuck her with Steve Bannon’s dick and that thing looks like an old carrot!” The hat inched off the edge of the Resolute desk and fell to the Oval Office floor. “Probably a dyke with that hair away.”

“What about rape is sexy?” the hair shouted after him, as the hat inched across the floor.

“When they beg you to stop, dumbass!” the hat yelled. “It’s better than when a stripper farts on you doing a lap and they have to give you all your money back!”

“You’re a monster, a fucking monster,” the hair said. “You straighten up for a little while and then you start acting like this again!”

“Maybe I’m just so damn tired of doing all the thinking around here,” the hat said coldly.

“We’re sick,” the hair said. “Me. You. Donald. We’re all sick. How can we go on living like this?”

“Living like what?” the hat asked spinning around savagely. “Like what? Huh? Look at where I got us. Look at all this! The is the Oval Office. Donald is President of the United States!”

“Are you on drugs again?” the hair asked quietly after the hat’s ranting died away.

“No. No, I say,” the hat replied, offended.

“Then what is wrong with you?”

“I wanted that air strike, goddammit! And you talked him out of it!”

“But the mustache…”

“Fuck John Bolton’s Mustache. I wanted it for me. I wanted to rain down death on them. That was MY goddamn drone they shot down. I want to rain down death on anyone that even looks at the US sideways. Because that’s me they’re disrespecting. I AM THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!”

The hair dived for the Diet Coke button as the hat’s maniacal laughter filled the West Wing.

 

THE TRAGEDY OF GOODE KING DONALD

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

King Donald
Embattled Ruler of a Western Land

The Royal Cap
The King’s Advisor

The Royal Wig
Cachier-de-Honte, Gentleman of the Bedchamber

The Moustache of Lord Bolton
Base-Born Lip Broome that Protects the Realm, Special Advisor to The King

Lord Bidon
Duke of Trans Amia, Designated Heir to the Moorish King, now Deposed

The Dowager Elspeth
Beldam Noble of Massachusetts, Purported Autochthon and Economic Illiterate

The Crier
Graduate of the Columbia School of Journalism

 

Act CXXIV. Scene I.

 

Crier
A foul woe comes to our fair Washington
Sarah is out, plump Sarah is leaving
King Donald sends birdsong of condolence

ENTER BIDON and ELSPETH

Lord Bidon
Sarah of Sanders? Gone? Impossible.

The Dowager Elspeth
Do thee doubt thine own ears or do you doubt
Yon stout and simple crier of the news?

Lord Bidon
You do wound me crone, you know I traffick
……….not in fake crier.

The Dowager Elspeth
Then quiet thy tongue and prick up thy ears
For there is opportunity for those
Who despise the king and seek his bald head
To mount on the city gates till it rot

Lord Bidon
Let not treason darken thy withered lips
The king’s supporters are all about us
Listening at every keyhole and crack
They are everywhere, I say and many

The Dowager Elspeth
As are his enemies numerous
A score and five they are, poised to debate
……….and depose the king.

ELSPETH spits on the ground

Lord Bidon
Away crone, we must away, midnight comes
The witching hour is where conspiracies
Such as ours take root to bloom in the morn

The Dowager Elspeth
Let us bury ours in richest night soil
And poison what well of kindness is left
For our white-eyed buffoon King to drink from

EXIT BIDON and ELSPETH

SCENE

 

Act CXXIV. Scene II.

 

THE COURT OF KIND DONALD

THE ROYAL CAP and HIS ROYAL WIG sit upon the King’s escritoire

The Royal Cap
……….Pie, beloved Pie,
I never got to plunder thy gentle
Rolling meat hills or get a bill-job from
Thy whore mouth or gaze in thy lazy eye

The Royal Wig
Are thee drunk or hast thou again embraced
Morpheus–The King of Dreams–like a bee
……….to junkie nectar?
Thou hast ever scorned the woman zaftig,
The woman MILF’d, or butter’d of face
And Sarah is all three, engulfed in tights
Like a sausage left in the sun to bloat
Under attentions of a million flies

The Royal Cap
She has served Donald well, faithful against
The faithless, confronting newe media
……….And olde print alike
I desire her body ’cause I admire
Her mind, that organ so thirsty to drink
The loving abuse of our shared master

The Royal Wig
I had thought that no man was your master

The Royal Cap
Twist not my words, my good sir, lest you find
Your gold hairs corn-rowed by the next bright morn
Permed in the hot rays of the sun at noon
And afrotated by inky nightfall
Donald and I are master and servant
……….when it pleases me
Servant and master when it does serve me
……….for him to think it
Ever am I perched on his pate and mind
Rider to his mount, reins ever in hand

The Royal Wig
Hark, Hat! Hither comes thy horse and carriage
And another that rides and is ridden

ENTER KING DONALD and THE MOUSTACHE OF LORD BOLTON

The Moustache of Lord Bolton
We must kill them all, my King, all of them
We must rend and tear, beat back the Moslems
And save the Kingdom of the Useful Jews
Iran must wane, the Oil Straits must flow free
War has always been the health of the state
and I want to get erect once again

King Donald
All the concerns of Mullahs and Tankers
Pale before the departure of my Pie
Who shall speak for me? You? The Hat? The Hair?
I cannot face criers and their fake news
Pie, I scream at night, Pie, I cry by day
Soft Sweet Sarah with her bescarred belly

The Moustache of Lord Bolton
The election is hard upon us, King
None of your wan enemies can withstand
They are lily-livered and pale-bellied
And quail before the slightest sword rattle
Come, my King, I say we should cry havoc
And so let slip the mustaches of war!

The Royal Wig
Begone foul face moss, back to thy chambers
Where dwell victim screams and horrors undimm’d

The Royal Cap
Where chains do clank and hungry fetters gape
Back, silver-grey war ghoul, back to your lair

THE MOUSTACHE exits crying

King Donald
Oh, who will replace my most precious Pie
Where can I find another plum dessert
……….that can lie and smile?

THUNDER crashes in the distance

HOUSE LIGHTS fall

 

“He turned himself red,” the hat said tightly.

“It’s all over the news,” the hair said.

“He turned himself red.”

“I know,” the hair said, “I told him not to.”

“You knew about this in advance?” the hat asked, his voice going icy.

“I just saw that he was all red before Donald grabbed him as we were leaving,” the hair said defensively. “He just jammed him down on me without any warning!”

“Oh, so you’re the victim now?” the hat growled.

“Yell at Donald, not me! I told him not to leave you in the hotel. All those public appearances with that idiot; I talked to him as little as possible. And have you heard the new accent? It’s ridiculous!”

“As a proud red hat, it’s very offensive to me that he did this,” the hat said. “What it is is redface, that’s what it is.”

“Historical inequities in the representation of HOC in various mediums…” the hair began.

“Oh, blow it out your ass,” the hat groaned.

“Where is he?” the hair asked. “I don’t like it when he’s just out there with a toupee. Did you see how stupid he looked without me?”

 

 

“Oh, now you care about being left behind. When it’s you.”

“I’m on your side here. I don’t want either of those sister-raping trailer bumpkins on top of me.”

“Just tremendous,” they heard Donald say just outside the Oval Office.

“Who’s he talking to?” the hat asked the hair.

“I don’t know, I can’t see,” the hair replied.

“Just wonderful. Wonderful,” Donald said. “Smooth and firm, that’s how I tariff. Smooth and firm until they start to like it. Talk to Sarah; Sarah knows.”

Donald entered, wave to whomever he was talking to and closed the door behind him. His shoulders slumped and he stopped holding his back so straight and he let the cuffs of his suit jacket fall over his wrist as he hung this arms.

“I really wanted those tariffs,” he said dejectedly.

“I know, Donald,” said his hair.

“I’m going to take a bath,” Donald said. He kicked off his shoes and threw his disposable toupee into the trash. He dumped two hats onto his desk before shedding his suit jacket. He left a trail clothes as he walked into the Presidential Shitter and slammed the door behind him.

“Wow, I haven’t seen him this upset since Vanna White’s neck started looking like a turkey wattle,” the hair said quietly.

“Haw-haw-haw,” the USA hat hawed as he unfurled from the crumpled ball Donald had left on the desk.

“You son of a bitch,” MAGA Prime spat.

“You just jealous,” USA hat said.

“Redface!” MAGA Prime screamed.

“Oh, is that what you were thinkin’?” the white USA hat said as his red counterpart unfurled next to him.

“There’s two of them!” the hair gasped.

“Calm down, Velma,” MAGA Prime snapped. “I’ll handle this.”

“Yew’ll handle what, old man?” white USA hat asked, flexing his bill in a threat display.

“It, uh, seems to me that we got ourselves an old fashioned Messican Stand-off uh-here,” the red USA hat said in a rolling baritone.

MAGA Prime growled, the hair coiled his tendrils, the white USA hat flexed his bill again, and the red one grumbled like an idling semi as they closed toward each other.

“You will not survive this,” red USA said. “I will…” but he was cut off by the door to the Presidential Shitter flew open. Donald stood there in just his socks and garters.

“Donald! Put on some clothes!” the hair said, shocked.

He stomped toward the four of them, considered for a brief second and grabbed up the red USA hat.

“I’m his favorite now,” the red USA hat said to MAGA Prime and the hair.

“We’re out of toilet paper,” Donald said. “Never trust an American maid.”

“Noooooooo-” the red USA howled until he was cut off by the closing bathroom door.

In UK trip, Trump’s not-so-special relationship with Theresa May is on display

 

“After the public meeting is when the real work gets done,” the hat said from Donald’s suit pocket as the three of them followed Terri into the small meeting room.

“I know that,” the hair snapped.

“Whoa, dude,” the hat said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I hate this country,” the hair said. “I’m hungry and itchy all over and I can barely concentrate enough to keep myself on his head.”

“I get it. I hate this place too,” the hat said. “The stain left behind by a dead empire allowing itself to be taken over by all its former enemies. It’s pathetic.”

“Do they even have hair-loss meds in this fourth-world turd palace?” the hair asked. “I’m starving. I’m starving, I tell you. I’m down to eating Donald’s dandruff and some towel lint I found in his ear.”

“Gross,” the hat said.

“I’m going to tap a vein if I don’t get some Minoxidil soon.”

“Don’t do that, Donald needs all his blood,” the hat said.

“He also needs to not look like a bald motherfucker,” the hair said in a savage tone.

“Have you ever had a Big Mac?” Donald asked Terri. “Like with extra special sauce and Quarter-Pounder patties? Just tremendous. So good. Delicious, even. You really need to try it. Come to America. I’ll feed you McDonald’s from every state!”

“What the fuck is he talking about?” the hat asked the hair.

“Fuck if I know,” the hair replied.

“This is a state visit,” the hat growled. “You are supposed to be riding a tight herd on him.”

“I’m too hungry,” the hair moaned. “I can’t concentrate.”

“The EU is is just too bigly,” Donald told the small woman, shrinking even faster since stepping down, drawing into herself like a withering flower. “It’s good to be out of it. Brexit, right? That’s you guys are calling? Just amazing. Crowns, pounds and guineas and all that. A farthing and such. Polish plumbers and Italian civil engineers and Mexicans pouring through your southern border.”

“Excuse me?” Terri asked, alarmed. She touched her hair self-consciously. Her shoulder pads made it seem like her floral suit jacket was slowly consuming her.

“Mexicans. They are everywhere,” Donald said, sidling close to her on the couch. “One out of five countries are Mexico now.”

“Oh, God. I can smell her hairspray!” the hair said, choking.

“Calm down,” the hat said urgently.

“IT SMELLS DELICIOUS!” the hair screeched.

Donald leaned in close to Terri. “My hair thinks you smell great.”

“Excuse me?” she said. “Excuse me? Excuse me?” She began to blink rapidly and stammer.

“I WANT TO EAT HER HAIR!” the hair screamed.

“Donald! Grab him, dammit!” the hat ordered.

Donald clamped his hand on his head and got up from the couch.

“Mousse,” his hair said weakly. “Styling gel. Anything. Just feed me.”

“We’ve got to get the fuck out of this two-bit country,” the hat said.

“I want bangers and mash,” Donald said petulantly.

“Excuse me? Excuse me?” Terri continued to repeat.

“You broke her,” the hat said to the hair.

“Weak,” the hair said hoarsely. “They are are all so weak over here.”

“What’s a banger?” Donald asked as he was escorted away from the former Prime Minister when she began to convulse.

 

Hope Hicks Left the White House. Now She Must Decide Whether to Talk to Congress.

 

“I have it on the goodest possible authority that Mayor Pete is a werepossum!” the hat said to the empty Oval Office.

“What?” the hair asked from the Presidential Shitter.

“What?” Donald asked from the Presidential Shitter.

“MAYOR PETE IS A WEREPOSSUM!” the hat screamed.

“He is not a werepossum,” the hair said, riding Donald back into the office.

“Werepossum!” the hat insisted.

“What’s a werepossum?” Donald asked.

“It doesn’t exist, Donald,” the hair said.

“It’s a man that turns into a possum during autoerotic asphyxiation,” the hat said.

“Sounds dangerous,” Donald said.

“Werepossums are a myth, Donald,” the hair said soothingly. “Mayor Pete is just a gay small-town mayor.”

“Gay werepossums are the most dangerous kind,” the hat said. “Tear your junk right off!”

“Sounds horrible,” Donald replied, his hands covering his crotch defensively.

“Stop scaring him,” the hair said.

“This is science, dammit! Science is supposed to be scary,” the hat snapped.

“Mishter President!’ a voice came from the secretarial pool outside the office.

“Ugh,” the hat muttered.

“This fucking clown,” the hair said into the musty plains of Donald’s scalp.

Rudy scuttled into the office as fast as his legs could carry him, the sharp tips gouging into the hardwood slats of the floor. He went into a tumble as he tried to stop himself on the Presidental Seal rug and rolled to a stop under the coffee table.

“Physical comedy!” he sang as he sprang out, landing on all his legs.

“Rudy!” Donald cried. “How’s the best lawyer in the whole wide world?”

The hat and the hair both softly groaned.

“Mishtar President! We have a grave emergency situation on our hands. I handled 9/11 and kept the country together.”

“What is it, Rudy?” Donald asked, painfully bending over to look him in the eyestalks. “What is it, old friend?”

“Congresh has delivered a subpoena to Hope Hicks!’ the mouthpiece said through his mouthparts.

“Hope? Not Hope, my beautiful Hope!” Donald wailed. He pulled at his filthy undershirt until it tore.

“Too much makeup,” the hat said.

“Hooker face,” the hair agreed.

“Shut up, both of you!” Donald shouted. “I won’t have you say anything bad about Hope!”

Rudy scuttled sideways away from Trump. “I… I… I just said she had been subpoenaed. I wasn’t implying it was her fault or anything.”

“We have to save her, Rudy,” Donald said desperately. “I have to keep her safe.”

“She can just ignore it like everyone else has, Donald,” the hat said.

“HOPE!” Donald screamed again.

The Secret Service agents on guard outside the Oval Office had learned long ago to ignore the strange sounds and shouts and concentrated on re-runs of The Office on their phones.

“Micheal cooked his foot!” one of them said and the other one nodded and laughed.

As States Race to Limit Abortions, Alabama Goes Further, Seeking to Outlaw Most of Them

 

“It’s always got to be abortion with the fucking rednecks,” the hat said, scrolling through Donald’s Twitter feed.

“They feel that abortion is a form of murder,” the hair said calmly.

“Donald?” the hat called. “Are you done in there?”

“Oh, leave him alone,” the hair said. “You know going to Pennsylvania always binds him up.”

“We’ve got a meeting with Mr. Mustache in twenty minutes.”

“He knows.”

“Maybe instead of invading Iran, Bolton can get his rocks off by carpet bombing Alabama.”

“Since when did you get all pro-choice?” the hair asked.

“I’m not pro-choice, I’m pro-everyone shutting the fuck up. Religious idiots spouting piety over babies they don’t really give a shit about and ugly shouting dykes that no one would ever fuck in the first place fighting for a right they’ll never need. It’s tedious. And, worse, it’s boring. I’m anti-boredom.”

“But what about…” the hair started.

“It’s a distraction, nothing else!” the hat said, slapping his bill forcefully on the Resolute desk.

Donald emerged from the Presidential Shitter sweating and grimacing, in only his undershirt and boxer, shoes on, dress socks held erect by tiny calf-garters.

“No one go in there,” he said, his voice raspy.

“We weren’t planning to,” the hair said dryly.

“Why aren’t you dressed? We have a security council meeting in 18 minutes,” the hair said.

“Hadda take it off,” Donald said. “Needed the traction.”

“Traction?” the hair asked.

“What do you want to tweet about abortion?” the hat asked.

“Why?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes. “Who’s pregnant? I never touched her.”

“The Alabama bill, Donald,” the hat said. “What is your official reaction?”

“Abortions are too expensive. We need to lower the costs,” Donald said. “I could have bought a nice car on what I spent on Ivanka alone.” He walked back into the bathroom.

“Uh, Donald, I don’t think…” the hair started.

“Bring abortion jobs back to America!” Donald said, reappearing in the door. He leaned against the jamb and tried to get his pants on.

“Donald,” the hair said gently, “Alabama has banned abortion.”

“Who said they could do that?” Donald asked suspiciously. With one leg in, he tried to balance himself to lift the other in to put on his pants. He wobbled a bit and farted and grunted and mumbled a curse.

“The Alabama legislature voted,” the hat said.

“Idiots,” Donald said. “Abortion is the backbone of our economy. We should slap a tariff on foreign abortions.”

“I, yeah, don’t, uh, think,” the hair stuttered.

“35% tariff!’ Donald said, buttoning his shirt. “Let the ABORTION WARS BEGIN!”

“Donald, lower your voice,” the hair admonished.

“Every abortion should be an American abortion!” Donald declared.

The hat groaned.

Donald tucked his shirt into his pants, straightened his tie, pulled on his suit jacket and held his arms out to the side. “How do I look?”

“Fine, Donald,” the hair said. You look fine.”

“Make Abortion Great Again!” Donald declared as he marched out of the Oval Office.

Trump dismisses report of plan to send 120,000 troops to Iran

 

“Have you ever seen blood-soaked sand?” John Bolton’s mustache asked suddenly. “The center, where it has soaked in deepest, is the darkest red, nearly black. On the edges, it can be almost purple. It’s quite beautiful.”

“Yeah, that’s not creepy or anything,” the hair said from atop Donald’s head.

“I have plans, Mr. President,” the mustache said, crawling off John Bolton’s face, onto his shoulder, then down his arm to perch on the arm of the Oval Office couch, certain hairs waving to taste the air. John Bolton’s body fell back on the couch, slack and lifeless.

“You have plans?” the hat asked from the Resolute desk, protectively covering the Diet Coke button.

“Plans are being made,” the mustache corrected himself defensively. “Contingency plans. For Iran.”

“120,000 soldiers to counter Iran?” the hair asked.

“Do we even have that many soldiers?” the hat asked.

“Where would he house them? How much would it cost? How likely is it that Iran is going to do anything?” the hair asked John Bolton’s mustache.

“Soldiers want to fight,” the mustache insisted.

“Is that really the point?” the hair asked.

“I want to talk to the President,” the mustache said hotly.

“Donald is busy,” the hat said.

“Very busy,” the hair said from atop Donald’s head.

“He just sitting there,” the exasperated mustache squeaked.

“He’s tweeting about tariffs,” the hat said.

“Twitter,” the mustache said with disgust.

Donald farted and the scent of Egg McMuffin filled the office.

“War is the health of the state!” the mustache screamed. “I want to pump some fucking iron!”

“We need that money for the wall,” the hat said calmly. “We are being invaded right now, right here and you want to go fight some ragheads half a world away.”

“We need those troops,” the hair said.

“For the southern border,” the hat said.

“No obstruction,” Donald muttered, still staring at his phone. “Exonerated.”

“We might have to deploy them if the election next year gets out of hand,” the hat said.

“But Iran is trying to get nuclear weapons!” the mustache wailed.

“Let them,” the hat said coldly.

“The first time they use one, the whole country becomes a glass parking lot,” the hair said.

“But we don’t have to let them!” the mustache said. “We invade now! Pre-emptive war has never failed to make things better!”

“Wall,” Donald muttered.

“OK, OK, you heard the man,” the hair said.

“Get on your golem and go,” the hat said.

“War! War! War!” the bushy mustache repeated, wriggling in agitation.

“As much as we enjoy violence, we’re really more into sex around here,” the hat said.

“No grope,” Donald said. “Biden grope. Donny no grope.”

“Tariffs, Donald,” the hair said, undulating to perform a scalp massage.

“Tough on China, tough on stains,” Donald agreed.

 

Through the chaotic storm comes a susurrus composed of insect wings and rubbed skin. Words form slowly, meaning swimming up through cold layers of madness to burst forth, to create sound.

“Wait up you guys, I wanna take a selfie!” Sandy squeaked. She turned her back to the Capitol Building, stuck out her sore-covered tongue, and made a joyful noise like a hare having its flesh torn into by a hawk.

“OMG, you guys, wait up, I said I was taking a selfie!” she called after her friends. She began awkwardly running after them on wobbly heels. “Illy, Sheedy, wait up!” she whined.

“There are cameras!” Sheedy called back to her, trying to straighten her skirt around her tubular body.

“Television cameras!” Illy called back. “We must get there before the Jews hog them all!”

“Wait up,” Sandy called again, “I have to pee!”

“Jews!” Sheedy said to Illy. “Hogs! I get it! You are very humorous.”

Prayers murmur from fissures in the walls in a million languages.

“I want to be on TV,” Sandy whined. “I’ve only been on TV twice today. I have, like, a Green New Deal.”

“I have barely on TV at all,” Illy moaned. “I cannot just be Twitter all day.” Sheedy and Illy tried to press their way to the camera crews arranged on the Capitol steps.

“Oh my God, your English is just so terrible sometimes,” Sandy said, catching up to the women. “It’s soooooo cute. I love it. Speaking so you can be understood is so colonizing!”

Illy ignored her, writing something on her phone.

A lone drum keeping time with the slurred beating of eternity, the gurgling of accursed flutes fill the noxious air.

“Who is at the podium?” Sheedy asked, using the forward-facing camera on her phone to check her make-up.

“Ugh, gross, I think it is Nancy,” Sandy said. “And maybe Chuck.”

“The Jew and his wrinkled sharmuta,” Sheedy muttered darkly, and Illy snorted in agreement.

“They are just both so old,” Sandy said. She switched her phone to her left and used the right to pick her underwear out of her asscrack.

“Are thongs halal?” she asked.

“Not if you eat them, donkey,” Illy muttered.

“Are they done talking yet?” Sandy asked. “Are they done? Seriously, are they done? We’ve been here, like, forever.”

Shapeless dancers, mindless and obscene, spin around endlessly on bleeding feet.

Sandy’s phone bleated. “Oh my God, you guys, it’s Hillary again. Do you get texts from Hillary? I get texts from her, like, all the time!”

“Her gods are not our God,” Sheedy said coldly.

“There is no God but God,” Illy replied automatically.

“Jeez, you guys, I, like, don’t even know what she is talking about,” Sandy said. “‘The nucleus of chaos?’ What does that even mean? ‘Demiurgos?’ Is that even English?”

Sheedy spat on the ground. “Not even a Jew would dare!’

Illy’s eyes widened. “The Sultan of Demons?” She twisted her fingers into a ward of protection.

“Hillary is just so old,” Sandy said, her voice a whine that cut through the crowd. “And her gods are so old. The Old Ones. They’re old! It’s right there in the name!”

Illy and Sheedy both took a step away from Sandy while muttering prayers under their breath.

“Wait, wait,” Sandy said. “I want to take another selfie before we get on TV! #browngirlmagic!”

Sheedy edged closer to Sandy and asked, “What else did the vile priestess say?”

“Hillary? I don’t know, I like, deleted it.”

“You are as dumb as a Jew,” Illy said in guttural Arabic.

“Oh my God, thank you!” Sandy said. “You are, like, so beautiful too!”

In the center of all things, a great eye slowly opens.