Category: SugarFree

 

“You’re the superpredator,” Joe said to his reflection in the mirror of his campaign bus. “You’ve still got a good head of hair and most women you touch don’t have a problem with it. Presidents have been made on less.”

“Is that enough?” the makeup girl asked.

she’s got nice tits they are right on the back of my neck i can feel the weight of them i can smell them

“More,” he told her. “More foundation. And maybe a little rouge to bring out my cheekbones.” He gave her a too wide smile in the mirror and she shuddered at his dead eyes.

she’s on her period I can smell it smell it smell it meat she smells like meat

“Superpredator,” he whispered as she worked, the brushes moving over his face. The comb going through his hair as she smoothed it against his head.

“Get it good,” he said. “There’s only room in this race for one crazy-haired old man and it’s not going to be me.” He gave a hollow avuncular laugh and winked at her.

laugh laugh laugh laugh damn you laugh i’m funny everyone knows i’m funny

“What do you think, Mr. Vice President?” she asked.

“It looks fine,” Joe said. He searched around his mind for her name and drew a blank. He reached to pat her hand instead but her chaperone reached forward and slapped his hand.

“No touching, sir,” the large woman said, her voice gravelly and thick.

fucken dyke fucken dyke fucken dyke can’t find a man that will fuck you

Joe bared his teeth in a smile at the chaperone.

There was a polite knock on the door of his dressing room, the thin door rattling in its flimsy frame.

“Mr. Vice President?” Michelle asked through the door. “Are you ready? It’s time.”

“OK, OK, just hold your horses,” he said, sliding on his folksy personality like an ill-fitting glove. Joe tore away the tissue paper protecting his dress shirt and put on his suit jacket.

“How do I look?” he asked his assistant.

“Just great, Mr. Vice President!” the girl said, shooting a thumbs up from behind the glowering chaperone.

“Michelle!” he said, opening the door. She backed away from his outstretched arms until he dropped them to his side.

“Make sure to hit all the points we talked about this morning,” she said.

yellow meat yellow meat that tiny little body i want her to land a triple axel on my dick

“Hit points,” he replied. “This morning. Hit.”

“Shake hands only. No holding babies. No hugs. Don’t autograph anyone’s cleavage.”

“Not even the guys?” he asked, hurt in his voice.

“Not even the guys,” she said firmly.

“And makes sure to launch the new slogan,” she said.

“New slogan?” he asked, lost in a fog of suck suck suck thoughts.

“Make America Moral Again?” she prompted.

“Is there a hat? I want a hat,” Joe demanded.

“No hat,” she said firmly. He had asked a dozen times already.

“Make America Moral Again,” Joe said, rolling each word around in his mouth. “MAMA. MAMA. MAMA versus MAGA.” He looked down into Michelle’s eyes and asked, “Did you like your mother?”

She ignored the question and turned, walking off the bus. Joe darted forward to smell her hair. Lilacs. Musk. Frangipani.

i want to jizz in her hair jizz jazz jism i jizz in her hair i was jazzing her hair i have jazzed her hair i have been jazzing her hair i will jizz her hair i will have jazzed her hair i will be jazzing her hair i will have been jizzing her hair

He was still savoring it the smell of her as he stepped out into the bright sun of the rally stop. The tepid roar of the crowd washing over him, faces turning to track him, hands out-reached. The pleading. The yearning. The need in them hitting him like a drug.

fuck them fuck them all fuck fuck fuck fuck

He shook his head and then started shaking hands.

 

“Nobody disobeys my orders,” Donald said. There was no one in the Oval Office to hear him.

The hat and the hair huddled together in the cabinet below the sink in the Presidential Shitter and reviewed the 2020 Democratic nominees.

“Kamala Harris,” the hair said after pulling up her picture on his phone. “She might be the DNC darling. Ticks off a lot of boxes. Lots of boxes.”

“Shouldn’t we be doing this with Donald?” the hat asked.

“He’s distracted right now.”

“NO IMPEACH I!” Donald yelled from the Oval Office.

“Elizabeth Warren,” the hair said, changing the picture.

“Jesus wept,” the hat said. “Fucking HD cameras.”

“She’s going buck-wild. Student debt forgiveness. Free college. Socialized medicine. Trying to out-Bernie Bernie. She wants to be the chaos candidate. Ride into office on a wave of mutilation.”

“Big Chief Warren smoke-um…” the hat started.

“No Indian jokes,” the hair said. “They are old. Played out. Used up like a squaw’s squaw.”

“But you just…” the hat began.

“Cory Booker,” the hair said, changing the picture. “Clean, articulate, well-spoken. Another Obama maybe, but hopefully everyone still has Obama fatigue. Probably gay, but they found him a beard… Rosario Dawson… hubba, hubba.”

“I’m not really into black girls,” the hat said. “Or Hispanic girls. Or halfsies.”

“But she was still hot in that. And shaved,” the hair said.

“Why would that appeal to you?” the hat asked.

“I…. uh… well, I guess I don’t know.”

“I like a big 70’s porn bush,” the hat said. “Thick. Way up the belly. Like the size of a bicycle seat. Gives a guy something to hold onto while he’s getting his bill wet.”

“Moving on… Beto O’Rouke, the fake Mexican,” the hair said.

“Needs a sombrero,” the hat said.

“He’s your basic man-of-the-people, salt-of-the-Earth, white-guy-married-to-an-heir-to-billions sort.”

“What did his husband do to make all his money?” the hat asked.

“He’s married to a woman.”

“What did her ex-husband do to make all her money?”

“It’s family money. She some sort of non-profit do-gooder teaching kids to read or some shit.”

“Rowr. You’re saucy today,” the hat said. “I like it.”

“Donald has to get reelected,” the hair said intently. “He’ll be dead in a couple of years if he loses. And what does your hair do when you die?”

“Keeps growing?”

“That’s an old wives tale.”

“Did you check snopes.com?” the hat asked.

“Fuck off.”

“How many Pinocchios did they give it?”

“Your hair dies, is the point. I don’t want to die,” the hair said.

“Maybe you can move to a new host. There are millions of bald people out there that would love to have you.”

“You’re being really nice to me. What’s going on?”

“After what happened in the tunnels, I realize it’s just you and me,” the hat said.

“Ooh, that’s such a sweet load of bullshit,” the hair said.

“No, I mean it,” the hat said. “Things are going to change between us from now on, shithead.”

“I don’t know what to say,” the hair said.

The hat coughed somehow and the hair changed the photo he was projecting on the cabinet wall.

“Pete Buttigieg,” the hair said. “Mayor of South Bend, Indiana.”

“How old is he? Does he even have a driver’s license?”

“37, married.”

“Married?!? He looks like a fag,” the hat said.

“He’s married to a guy,” the hair said dryly.

“Oh, well, then that explains it. Vice Presidential material, at best. Quayle was a closet case.”

“Amy Klobuchar…” the hair began.

“This is boring,” the hat said. “How many more of these are there?”

“There are 16 people in the Democratic primary. 17 if Biden jumps in.”

“17? It’s a clown car, not a vagina, people.”

“Yeah, it’s nuts,” the hair admitted.

“Does that count, you know, Her?”

“No. She said she isn’t running again.”

The hat laughed so convulsively, he fell out of the bathroom cabinet and rolled onto the floor.

 

Meanwhile, in a desolate Harlem basement…

 

“You should run, beloved,” Huma said.

Hillary grunted with angry pleasure and pressed herself harder into the belt sander.

“You are so much more qualified than all of them,” Huma said. The callus was finally abraded to the point that the pressure behind it broke through the tough skin. Brown pus shot out in a feeble geyser and into Huma’s mouth.

“Swallow,” Hillary commanded. “Swallow it all. It will make you strong.”

Huma bent to Hillary’s swollen labia and licked the area clean. She suckled at the sore until the nodule deflated.

“Now the other side,” Hillary said, pointing with a maggot-like finger.

“I know how to take care of you,” Huma said gently.

“Of course you do,” Hillary grumbled. “You kept me alive all these dark months since…”

“Since the election,” Huma finished. “You must always face reality. You will never be President on a delusion.” Her slim brown hands took up the heavy duty end nipper wire cutters and began pruning the small thicket of skin tags on Hillary’s labia majora. Some had grown to attach themselves to the squamous patch of thigh skin closest to Hillary’s erotic grotto. Huma worked on them first, bearing down with all her strength to shear through the fibrous strands.

“Those used to be clitorides,” Hillary sighed. “They reacted to the slightest touch of the wind between the stars.” She shivered in pleasure, eyes lazily opening under her lolling breasts.

As the skin tags came off, Huma ate them one by one.

Bernie Sanders, at Fox News Town Hall, Says His Wealth Isn’t the ‘American Dream’

 

“Comity,” said Bernie, his jowls set a’tremble, “Comity is what we need in this country. Delicious comity.”

Bret and Martha looked at each other quizzically.

“What is ‘comity?’” an audience member yelled.

“Well, ah, it’s a kind of, I guess, jam, you could say,” Bernie stammered. “Great on a bialy.”

“Bialy?” Martha asked.

“Jewish English muffin,” Bernie said. “All over Brooklyn. Poor people food. Authentic. Covered in sweet, sticky comity.”

“That’s not what ‘comity’ means, Senator,” Martha said, pressing her earpiece.

“I knew a girl with a sweet Jew muffin,” Bernie mumbled.

“Senator?” Bret asked.

“You both make more money than me,” Bernie said, angry, his skeletal finger pointing at them. “I don’t have any money. I’m like a monk. A Jewish monk from Brooklyn. I watched the Brooklyn Dodgers play, you know. The tickets were only a dollar. I bet you fancy Fox New anchors would be angry if you only had to pay a dollar to see a Brooklyn Dodgers game. Let too many of the poor to sit next to you.”

“Senator,” Bret interrupted, “Your just-released tax returns state that you made over a million dollar in income in both 2016 and 2017.”

“Look, I don’t have a dime, OK. Flat broke,” Bernie said. He turned out his pockets and change, lint, old tokens the subway no longer used, half a fortune cookie, and a few one-hundred dollar bills came pouring out. The change bounced and rolled everywhere.

“See?” Bernie said. “Just the change for the washing machine in my building and a little walking around money in case I meet a constituent.”

“You give money to the people who vote for you?” Martha pounced.

“I never said that. Stop putting words in my mouth!’ Bernie shouted hoarsely. He mimed chewing with his mouth open and then stuck out his tongue. It was fish-belly white. “Your words are chewy and taste funny. All I said is that I occasionally give money to my constituents when they need it. I’d never give it to voters.”

“Your constituents are the people who vote for you,” Bret said drying.

“Lies! Lies and comity!” Bernie raged. “I am poor and broke and grew up poor and broke and I’ll be poor and broke forever. Sure, I have millions of dollars. But I wrote a popular book. Maybe you should write a popular book and be a broke millionaire too!”

“That liberal rag, The New York Times, says that you are now a member of the 1%,” Martha said.

“Lies! I am the 99%!” Bernie said. He turned to the audience and began chanting “We are the 99%! We are the 99%!” but only a few joined him and they were half-hearted at best.

Bernie turned to the camera and looked directly in it, grimaced and ran a liver-spotted hand through his thatch of hair. The HD cameras in the studio caught the small blizzard of dandruff that settled onto his shoulders and sleeves and lapels and the floor.

“I saw the Brooklyn Dodgers,” Bernie said. “I’m just like you, America.”

“The Dodgers play in LA now, Senator.”

“LA?” Bernie asked.

“Los Angeles,” Bret said gently.

“No such place,” Bernie said. “Fake news.”

Joe Biden, in Video, Says He Will Be ‘More Mindful’ of Personal Space

 

“Have fun with that, Joe,” Donald squealed with glee. “Have fun being called a pussy-grabber!”

“Haw-haw-haw!” the USA hat guffawed at the television. Fox News had been looping footage of Biden rubbing shoulders and lingering on arms and standing behind women and whispering in their ear for nearly an hour.

“This is so much fun!” Donald yelled, digging the heel of his hand into his stubby erection. Fidgeting, he then clawed at the toupee glue holding his hairpiece on.

“What’s the matter with you?” Donald asked his hair. “It’s all itchy!”

Donald grimaced when his hair didn’t answer him back and poked his finger through it.

“Wake up!” he instructed. “You’re missing the Gropey Joe highlight reel.”

“Yew sent them down to the tunnels, Don,” the USA hat said.

“Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“Those tunnels under the White House that lead to alla JFK’s fuckpads ‘round the city,” USA hat said.

“That doesn’t even sound real,” Donald sniffed. “Fake news. Fake historical news.”

Sarah came into the Oval Office and shouted over the television. “Sir, you wanted to talk about today’s press conference.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Donald replied, turning the television volume down.

“You called me this morning at my house?” Sarah prompted. “At 3:30, sir.”

“Fake news,” Donald said. He rose from his desk and walked up to Sarah. She visibly fought the urge to step back as he got close and touched his forehead to hers.

“Does this make you uncomfortable, Pie?” he asked. Before she answered, Donald stepped behind her and began to knead her shoulders, digging painfully into her trapezi. “What about this?” he asked, his Diet Coke breath ruffling her hair.

“S-S-S-sir,” she managed to stammer. She felt him bury his face into the back of her head, shaking back and forth to burying his nose into the nape of her neck. He sniffed her with a prolonged inhalation.

“Nothing,” he said, withdrawing. “Nothing at all. Not even a little twitch.”

“Sir?” she asked.

Donald sat back down at his desk and put his feet up. “Your head smells like soup, Pie,” he said. “Maybe you should switch shampoos.”

“Campbell’s makes shamPOO?’ the USA hat asked. “Har-har-har.”

“Do you need anything else, sir?” Sarah asked, shaking all over, horripilation peppering her arms and neck.

Donald waved her away and turned the volume back up on the television. Fox News was now running the Biden loop at twice speed, Benny Hill version of “Yakety Sax” for a soundtrack.

“Turn me ovah, Donnie!” USA hat said through his laughter, “I wanna watch it upside-down!”

 

 

The first creature stepped out of the gloom of the dark tunnel and into the feeble light of the crashed scooter. Hankering, gross, nude, it played idly with a huge, twisted erection, a foot-long bar of deformed meat. “Wanafud?” it asked as yellowish semen dribbled to the floor of the tunnel.

“Wanafud?” came a voice behind them. The hat and hair turned to see a similarly deformed monstrosity also step into the light. Its penis was almost sharp looking, and yet bent back on itself at the tip, like a murderous fuck harpoon.

The hat and the hair huddled together, shaking.

“What do they want?” the hair whispered.

“Rape, judging by the erections,” the hat said.

“There can’t be much food down here,” the hat said, a new horror dawning in his voice. “What if they want to eat us?”

“Or rape us, then eat us,” the hat said. “Or eat us, then rape whatever they can’t digest.”

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

“I’m just being realistic,” the hat said.

“Wanafud? Wanafud?” came even more voices down the dark tunnel.

“We have to get out of here,” the hat said.

“The scooter is totaled,” the hair began when the hat bounded off the floor and landed on top of him.

“Aww,” said the hair, “You’re going to protect me.”

“Fuck that,” said the hat. “I’m going to ride you.”

“What? You’re way too heavy!”

“Are you calling me fat?” the hat asked, shocked.

“Wanafud?” asked the closest grotesque.

“Run,” the hat commanded.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” the hair moaned.

“Haven’t you figured out what they are saying yet?” the hat asked, cruelty in his voice. “‘Want to fuck?’ is what they are saying. Do you? Do you want to fuck?” The hat slapped the hair painfully with his band and they took off, dozens of the hair’s tendrils digging into the cum-crusted floor of the tunnel and scaling the low crude wall to run back down the tunnel.

“Yee-Haw!” the hat yelled and they dodged a hideous over-developed hand and wrist swooping down to capture them. They careened off the wall of the tunnel, corrected and took off in a disturbing scuttle.

“Are they following us?” the hair asked.

“I can’t see them,” the hat said, not bothering to look back.

“What are those fucking things?” the hair asked.

“You didn’t recognize the brow? The hair?” the hat asked.

“Oh, God. Oh, no,” the hair moaned.

“Yes, they are the bastardated spawn of JFK!” the hat said gleefully. “Down in the tunnels for decades, fucking each other, breeding, sliding down the evolutionary scale toward Alabama…”

The hat skidded to a stop and the hat flew off of him.

“What the fuck?” the hat asked.

“It’s the intersection,” the hair said, panting. “I’m trying to figure out which way to go.”

“Wanafud?” came down the tunnel in a mournful sigh.

“You better figure it out fast,” the hat said. “They are definitely going to fuck us and eat us. Probably been fucking and eating each other for years now.”

The hair shot out manipulatory hairs and drew the hat back on top of him.

“I think I see lights up ahead!” the hair said as they shot off down the right-hand tunnel.

 

 

Donald was spooning Sarah on the new White House couch, the angry stub of his erection jammed into one of her folds of back fat.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” Donald asked. “It’s just nonsexual touching.”

“I’m fine, sir,” she said. She squirmed and peed a little.

Donald’s hand moved up her body and settled on her neck. He began to squeeze.

“Just a little nonsexual choking,” he whispered. “This is just normal human stuff, right?”

“She’s too much woman fer yew!” the USA hat crowed. “Yew can barely get yr hand ‘round her fat neck!”

 

 

“WANAFUD?!?” the shambling monstrosity following them bellowed.

“Run, you hairy sumbitch!” the hat yelled at the hair.

“I can’t see anything!” came the muffled voice of the hair.

“Thay gonna fuck us!” the hat screeched.

“Stop fake code-switching!” the hair snapped.

 

 

“No collusion with pussy,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper. “No non-sexual obstruction.”

Sarah groaned.

 

 

“CLIMB THE LADDER!” the hat screamed.

“I CAN’T!” the hair screamed in pain and terror.

“YOU WANA GET FUDED? DO YOU?!?”

 

 

“Pie?” Donald asked. “Are you still comfortable? Am I making you comfortable?”

Sarah said, “I don’t know, Mr. President.”

Donald dug his penis stub deeper into her back pudge. “It’s OK. You can call me ‘Donald President’ if you want to.”

 

 

“Slam the hatch!” the hat yelled.

“It’s too heavy!” the hair sobbed.

 

 

“Can I watch you eat a Big Mac?” Donald asked.

 

 

The hat flew through the doggie door from the Presidential Shitter and tumbled into the Oval Office.

“Get off of me!” the hair said, bucking the hat off and onto the floor.

“Where have you guys been?!?” Donald asked them.

“Oh my God, Donald,” the hair said sternly. “Get off Sarah. Now. Get off, get off, get off!”

“Non-sexual!” Donald said. “Like Biden! I’m being like Biden!”

“No, Donald!” the hair yelled. “Bad Donald! Bad Donald”

USA Hat laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Get that redneck piece of shit out of here!” the hat screamed.

“Bad Donald!” the hair said again. “Where is the damn spray bottle?”

 

“What is he tweeting? What is he tweeting?” the hat asked the jizzal void of the tunnel system under Washington, DC.

The hair grumbled noncommittally over the whine of the electric scooter he was driving. The lights were out in the current section of Kennedy fuck tunnels they were investigating and he was barely creeping along.

“Why isn’t there a signal?” the hat wailed.

“Maybe you should have stayed behind,” the hair offered.

“Donald insisted I come with you,” the hat said morosely.

“Well, you’ve certainly been a huge help,” the hat said.

“Yuge help. Yuge,” the hat said absently. “Is there a USB port on this scooter thing? My battery is dying.”

“I don’t see one,” the hair said, not taking a look.

“Did you take a look for one?”

“Of course I did.”

The hat snorted in disgust.

“I’m sure Donald is fine. Some tweets about Mueller. No collusion, blah blah blah,” the hair said.

“I’m worried that he might be trolling on the McDonald’s feed again,” the hat said. “Remember that flame war he got in over the McLean?”

“He’s probably just obsessively checking the McRib Locator site.”

A low guttural moan echoed through the tunnel and the hair let the scooter glide to a halt.

“What was that?” the hat asked.

“How should I know?” the hair asked. “Fucking creepy as fuck though.”

“I did it come from ahead of us or behind?” The hat turned on the flashlight on his cellphone. The light barely penetrated a few feet in front of them before being swallowed by the dark. The hat turned it off with a snort of disgust.

“Shh,” the hair shushed.

“What? What is it?” the hat asked.

“Be quiet. I think I hear something.”

They both strained to listen. Water dripping. Far-off churning of machinery. The stale exhale of one of the grimy air vents set into the ceiling. The hair was about to speak when he heard the soft shuffle of feet.

“Did you hear that?” the hat asked.

“Yes, of course, I heard that,” the hair replied in an urgent whisper.

“Ruh-roh, Raggy,” the hat whispered. The hair reached back with a tendril and slapped at him.

“I’m going to keep going,” the hair whispered back and started the scooter forward.

“Wanafud?” a voice behind them asked and they both yelped in terror.

“Go!” the hat said. “Go go go go go go go go go go go!”

The hair twisted the throttle as far as it would go and the scooter sped up a little.

“Wanafud?” asked the voice again.

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” the hat screamed. “Open her up.”

“That’s what she…” the hat began before scooter ran into a low wall that had been built across the tunnel.

The hat and the hair shot over the barrier and landed, tumbling, on the other side.

“Are you alright?” the hair asked when they stopped.

“Ugh,” the hat replied.

“Wanafud?” they heard again, close enough for them to tell it was back behind them, beyond the scooter.

“It will be here any minute!” the hair squealed.

“Wanafud?” asked a voice ahead of them and they both groaned.

“We’re surrounded!” the hair exclaimed.

As the shuffling steps grew louder, the hat checked his phone again for a signal. The screen came on briefly through a thick webbing of cracks. “No signal, of course.”

“Donald will come looking for us when we don’t come back,” the hair said.

The hat’s laughter was high and piercing in the tunnel. After he stopped, from before them and behind them, “Wanafud?” was said in near unison.

“Whatever happens, I just want to say,” the hat said calmly to the hair. “Fuck Donald, fuck Gerald Ford’s Probably Non-Existent Gold and, and most of all, fuck you.”

 

Check back next week for Part Three: The Hat and The Hair vs. The S.T.U.D.s

Mueller Madness!

 

“My lumps, my lumps, my lovely lady lumps,” Sarah sang to herself as she walked into the Oval Office.

“Who’s there?” Donald hollered from the open door to the Presidential shitter.

“Sarah, sir!” she yelled. He grunted in reply.

“Whatcha gonna do with all that junk?” Sarah continued singing. She ground her crotch against the corner of the Resolute desk. “All that junk inside your trunk.”

“What’s that?” Donald called.

“Nothing, sir!”

Donald flushed the toilet, a loud bang gurgle coming from the bathroom. “Goddammit,” he said.

“I’ma get get get get you drunk,” Sarah sang,, spinning away from the desk, grabbing both of her breasts and then running her hands down the various convexities of her body to her fuparairy.

“What?” Donald asked and then flushed the toilet again.

“Get you love-drunk off my hump,” she sang in a whisper and threw herself onto the Oval Office couch, which collapsed with a room-shaking crash.

“What the hell was that?” Donald screamed.

The Oval Office door was kicked open and two Secret Service agents rushed in the room. One tripped over an ottoman and turned into a sloppy forward roll that landed him on his back.

“Mr. President!” the standing one yelled.

Sarah groaned from the destroyed couch and the agent down on the floor fired into the ceiling.

“I told you boys to fix this damn toilet!” Donald said and flushed again. “Dammit! I need a knife to break it up.”

“For fuck’s sake, Bob,” the Secret Service agent told the one on the floor.

Bob looked up at him sheepishly and said, “Sorry, Andy.”

Andy did a tactical shuffle around the ruined couch and pointed his weapon at Sarah. “You!” he shouted. “Get off what’s left of the couch!”

“Anybody got a poop knife?” Donald asked, standing the doorway of the Presidential Shitter. His pants were off, but he was still in his suit coat and shoes.

“Are you hurt, sir?” Bob asked from the floor. “Should we call medical services?”

“Get up off the floor,” Donald said. “What if someone walked in right now? You look ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” USA hat said from Donald’s head, “Yew look like a friggin’ idiot or somethin’.”

“And get Pie up before some hippies show up and try to push her back into the ocean,” Donald said.

“Haw, haw, haw,” the USA hee-hawed.

“Pie, Mr. President?” Andy asked, finally off the floor.

Donald pointed at Sarah who was struggling to roll over. “Her. Pie. Her!”

Bob and Andy holstered their weapons and hauled Sarah to her feet.

“Do none you have your family poop knife with you?” Donald asked as they worked. “Mine is in New York.”

“No, sir,” Bob and Andy both mumbled.

“I don’t know how people get by without a good sturdy poop knife,” Donald said, shaking his head.

“They probly use a stick or sumtin,” USA hat said. “Fuckin’ white trash.”

Donald patted the USA hat gently to console it.

Sarah straightened her dress and wiped crumbs from it. Her face was beet-red under the thick layer of foundation.

“Go find me a poop knife!” Donald ordered the Secret Service agents. “I don’t care if you have to tear apart the entire White House to find one!” Bob and Andy scurried out.

“I’m sorry about the couch, Mr. President,” Sarah said in a quiet voice.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Donald said.

“And on your special day, too,” Sarah said.

“Total exoneration,” Donald said. “What a special thing. I love that Bob Mueller.”

“Ex-oner-ation,” USA hat drawled.

“Total,” Donald reminded his redneck hat. “Total exoneration.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarah said. “We’ve got them now.”

“I’ve got them now. Me. Total exoneration. No collusion. No obstruction. I am President No!”

“Yes, sir,” Sarah mumbled.

“A press conference, I think,” Donald said. “Let’s get you on TV. All those losers that doubted me are going to get their’s.”

“Tear ‘em a new cornhole, Donnie!” the USA hat cackled.

“Say, Pie,” Donald said. “You got your family poop knife on you? I got a real tough one in there.”

“N-n-no, sir,” Sarah stammered.

“You’re a big girl. Surely you need a poop knife. Not even a little folding model?”

Sarah shook her head until her hair hid her eyes.

“A ruler,” USA hat said. “There’s gotta be a good ole ruler around here sumwhere.”

 

 

“Why are we doing this?” the hair asked.

“Because Donald asked us to,” the hat replied.

They were in the massive sprawl of tunnels President Kennedy had the Army Corps of Engineers build to connect the White House with various hotels and love nests around the city. In grand pharaonic tradition, the engineers had been killed afterward in order to keep the secrets built into the tunnels, their bodies thrown into the Potomac and families paid off with Cold War black budgets. The hat and the hair zipped along on a small electric scooter that had controls scaled down for the hair’s manipulatory tendrils.

“Poonhound,” the hat said. “Total poonhound.”

“I don’t know how Kennedy told people these were Cold War evacuation routes,” the hair said. “There is erotic art on almost every wall.” Close-ups of vulvas stretched as far as they could see in the dim light.

“He died of syphilis, you know,” the hat said.

“Who?”

“Kennedy. JFK,” the hat replied.

“He was shot. In Dallas. In the head. There is film of it,” the hair said dryly.

“All fake. Fake news. The ultimate fake news. Someone was shot that day, someone’s brains were all over Jackie, but it wasn’t John F. Kennedy. He was already in an asylum in Europe.”

“No, he wasn’t!”

“His nose had fallen off, so they had to have the double take over the public appearances,” the hat said. “JFK smelled like rot and death and crazy. Jackie hadn’t touched him since Junior was conceived.”

“What about Dallas, then?” the hair asked. He swerved to avoid a rat carcass.

“Hey, watch it!” the hat said.

“Just hold on!” the hair told.

“With what?” the hat screamed and went tumbling off the scooter, rolling in the filth on the tunnel floor.

“Are you OK?” the hair asked.

“No!’ the hat screeched back at him. “The floor is all sticky.”

“Sticky?”

“Oh, God. It’s jizz. There’s jizz all over the floor!”

“Ew!”

“There’s jizz all over ME! Old jizz! Old president jizz!”

“Not the first time, I’m sure,” the hair muttered.

“I heard that!” the hat spat. He inched himself back to the scooter and the hair helped him on board.

“You were telling me about Dallas?” the hair prompted.

“I hate it down here,” the hat said, ignoring him. “I bet there isn’t even anything down here.”

“Donald said he heard it from a reliable source,” the hair said, setting the scooter trundling down the dark jizz tunnel.

“The Lost Gold of Gerald Ford? Since when did Gerald Ford have any gold?”

“Donald says it’s enough to build The Wall,” the hair said.

“God only knows what he’s tweeting while we’re down here,” the hat said darkly.

 

The two of them reached another dead-end, a cave-in, rubble and re-bar everywhere.

“Well, shit,” the hat said. “I guess we should go back to the last intersection.”

“Why isn’t there a map?” the hair asked again.

“There’s nothing down here. We’re going to get lost. We’re going to get lost and die down here.”

“If I die first,” the hair said, “I give you permission to eat my body.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“And?” the hair asked.

“And if I die first, keep your fucking hands off my body,” the hat said.

They rode along in silence until they reached the last intersection.

“Left or straight ahead?” the hair asked.

“Left.”

The hair drove straight ahead.

“Asshole,” the hat said.

 

The tunnel they were in was decorated with thousands of nipple pictures: big, pink, dark, inverted, bumpy, puffy, erect and flat, all the nipples of the human color wheel.

“What would Donald do if we died down here?” the hair finally asked.

“What he’s doing now, I imagine,” the hat said. “Wear a regular man wig and take advice from USA hat.”

“Oh, Jesus. America would be doomed.”

“Toby Keith would be the poet laureate,” the hat said.

“Air Force One would be a tractor.”

“Iowa would matter.”

“No,” the hair said, horror in his voice. “That would be terrible. There’s already too much Iowa now.”

“All Iowa,” the hat said tonelessly. “Wall-to-wall Iowa.”

“SCOTUS would be called on to settle The Great Ford-Chevy Truck debate,” the hair said, his hollow laugh echoing.

“I hate USA hat,” the hat said. “He dilutes my brand.”

 

Tune in next week for PART 2 of THE LEGEND OF GERALD FORD’S GOLD

Nancy Pelosi on Impeaching Trump: ‘He’s Just Not Worth It’

 

“They will never impeach me,” Donald said.

“Of course not,” the hat grunted.

“Nancy said they would never impeach me,” Donald said. He was looking out the Oval Office window to the lawn below, brown and dead, winter grass waiting for Spring.

 

“Yeah, oh yeah, that’s it,” the hat said and gasped.

“You’re disgusting,” the hair told the hat. He hissed in revulsion.

“You,” the hat said, between thrusts, “Just wish you could. Swerve. Like. Me.”

“Do you have to do that on the desk?” the hair asked.

“They dig the desk. It gets them hot,” the hat said. “Roll over, girl.” He moved off the pummelo wrapped in gaffer’s tape and nudged it with his bill until it rolled away on the desk. “Not so fast,” the hat said lasciviously, ”I’m not done with you yet.”

“They will never impeach me,” Donald said again. The hair scampered off his head and settled on his shoulder.

“There was no collusion,” Donald whispered. “No collusion. This is all Presidential Harassment.”

“It’s your #metoo moment, Donald,” the hat said, engulfing the fruit once more.

“I never slept with her!” Donald said quickly, turning, waving his hands at the hat. “I do not have a deformed penis. My penis is bigly and yuge and so classy.”

“OK, Donald,” the hair said soothingly.

“I’ll pull it out right now and you can see,” Donald said, reaching for the closure on his Sansabelt slacks. “It will blind you with style!”

“Oh, god, no, Donald, no,” the hair said.

“I’m trying for a little citrus delight here, dude,” the hat said. He began humping away again at the bound fruit.

“Uh, sir?” Sarah asked from the Oval Office couch. “Is everything alright, Mr. President?”

The hair scrambled onto the top of his head as Donald buttoned his pants back. “Everything is fine, Pie. Just fine. Great. Tremendous. No impeachment, no collusion.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “That was my plan for the press announcement.”

“It’s good to have you back out there, Pie,” Donald said, wiping his hands on his shirt. “Out on the front lines, in the trenches, battling the enemy of the people.” Donald paused to mime firing a machine gun and said, “Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.” Sarah could see the saliva flying from his mouth in the sunlight streaming in from the window.

Donald sat down beside her and said, “Remember: no collusion, no impeachment.”

“No collusion, no impeachment,” she repeated.

“Donald! Hey, Donald!” the hat cried out excitedly. Donald waved him away as he leaned against Sarah.

“Oh, Pie,” he said. “It’s so lonely being me.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” she said, squirming as his hot McDonald’s breath rushed into her cleavage.

“No one understands but you,” he said. “Never leave me. Say you’ll never leave me.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Sarah said, trying to stand and failing.

“No, say it. Say you’ll never leave me,” Donald begged, a timorous whine creeping into his voice.

“I’ll never leave you, Mr. President,” she whispered.

“Not even when I fire you?” he asked, his face pressing into her breasts.

“Not even when you fire me, sir,” she said.

“DONALD!” the hat screamed. “LOOK! LOOK!”

Donald glance over at the hat and his sex fruit. The hat was taking the pummelo from the side, grunting, hungry and pig-like, pausing only to pant or shift for better traction.

“I call this one The Deformed Avocado,” the hat said. “Because I made it up while fucking an avocado until it was deformed!”

How I felt watching Trump hug our flag

“I will now tell you the words of our grandmother,” Hillary said grandly. She bent painfully to put her ear to the lips of the tiny swaddled form. Hillary nodded and nodded and then turned to the cell meeting and raised her arms, bingo wings in majestic flight.

“She speaks to me, children!” Hillary said. “She speaks to me!”

A hush fell over the small knot of angry women, nervous women, the few that had bothered to show up.

“Grandmother says: ‘The days of darkness are nearly passed. The stars have come right and my Daughter shall ascend!’” Hillary was grinning so widely the bones of her skull threatened to push through.

“Me,” Hillary continued. “I am the Daughter, that’s me. I must run for President again!”

Two of the women clapped listlessly and one toward the back started crying; the rest were looking down at their feet or at the unmoving body on the dais with Hillary. They were in the basement of a DC townhouse and it was cold and lit with only one bare bulb.

“I shall take back what was stolen!” Hillary went on, oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm. “I shall heal this Trump-broken land! I will bring back the Elder Gods!”

Huma came clomping down the stairs in the silence that followed and said in a quiet voice, ”Sorry, I was putting the baby down.” She moved to stand beside Hillary and bumped the small riser that Grandmother was perched on. The tiny body rocked back and forth until Huma reached out and steadied her. She looked down at the ancient face, collapsing in on itself now, a fruit too long from the tree, brown and wrinkled and beginning to smell.

“The Elder Gods!” Hillary repeated, throwing up her arms again, and again hearing only the embarrassed shuffling of feet. Before she could begin to scold them, various text alerts went off all on the phones in the room. They all looked at their phones.

“What is that?” Hillary hissed. “I said no phones in the sacred chamber!” The sacred chamber had shelves lined with bulk packages of toilet paper, and diapers, and jars of murky pickled unspeakable horrors from damned dimensions birthed dead to poisoned wombs.

Huma looked at her phone. “It is a new tweet, beloved.”

“A tweet? A tweet?” Hillary asked voice edged with hysteria. “We stand in the presence of Grandmother and all the exiled Gods and they are reading a tweet?”

“Yes, beloved,” Huma said, shifting her weight from foot to foot like she needed to pee.

“Who from?” Hillary demanded.

“Her,” Huma said in a tiny voice.

“Her?” Hillary asked, voice rising. “HER?!?”

Huma nodded.

Hillary ground her teeth together and spoke through them. “Is she why there are so few women here tonight?”

Huma nodded and back away a few steps.

“Big-toothed, bug-eyed, bartendering whore,” Hillary muttered. She kicked Ruth’s corpse and it rolled off the dais, settling to the floor, nearly weightless, with a dry papery sigh.

---

 

“Oh! My! Gawd!” Sandy screeched and let a lime Jello shot slide from a small plastic cup into her cleavage and then shimmied. “It wiggles all the way down. OMG. OMG. LOL. #wiggle #socialism!”

The Democratic Socialists weekly vegan cupcake / booze bash was underway in a huge loft overlooking DUMBO.

“Have a cupcake, you guys!” Sandy shouted to a nervous knot of bearded anarcho-Marxists huddled together in the corner. The woman who was with them had a terrible fake beard, but no one had been gauche enough to point it out.

Sandy threw her arms around a young cis-het couple she didn’t know who had leaned in to talk to one anyone over the din of Ariana Grande remixes.

“OMG, I love you guys!” she yelled, pushing to get between them. She grabbed the man’s red Solo cup and drained it.

“I really need to pee!” she screamed at them. “Let’s take a selfie!” She held her phone out and yelled, “Say ‘SOCIALISM!’” She held them there taking photos until she got one she liked.

“OMG, you guys! Look!” she finally said, pointing at the floor. The now-warm Jello shot had worked its way out of her dress onto the teak floor of the loft, misshapen and slimy.

“OMG, you guys, that’s totally capitalism!” Sandy said and laughed and laughed, high and piercing, like an ice-pick, at her own joke while snapping dozens of pictures of the forlorn Jello shot for Instagram.

---

 

“Pat attention, Donald,” the hair said. “The Democratic primary field is very large.”

“Yuge,” Donald said. “Bigly and yuge.”

“OK, first, we have Amy Klobucher,” the hat said, circling her face with the laser pointer clamped to his bill.

“Ugh,” groaned the hair.

“Is that the lesbian one?” Donald asked.

“No, she’s just ugly,” the hat said. “Pay attention.”

Donald grimaced and sank down into his chair. “They all look like lesbians. And not the hot kind,” he muttered.

“Kamala’s not too bad looking,” the hair said.

“Kamala?!?” the hat squeaked. “I wouldn’t fuck her with Chris’ dick.”

“Who’s Chris?” the hair asked.

“Kamala was with Willie Brown, fucking her way to the top of the California shitheap,” the hat said darkly. “You never want Willie Brown’s sloppy seconds.”

“Oh, c’mon,” the hair said.

“No, seriously,” the hat said. “Willie makes an NBA player look like a WNBA player in terms of sexual partners. And he has the most diseased dick ever. I heard he once gave herpes to a strain of syphilis. Not someone with syphilis, but like a syphilis strain itself that now has Willie Brown herpes. Herphilis. Makes you itchy and crazy.”

“That’s just an urban legend,” the hair said.

“You end up scratching your junk until it falls right off!” the hat said.

“NO!” Donald screamed, clutching his mushroom farm.

“That’s why you need to pay attention, Donald,” the hat said. “Do you want someone like that running the country? Some dirty girl with diseases?”

“She’d get them all over the flag!” Donald said, the distress cracking his voice. “I love the flag!”

Donald began to weep softly and the hair rubbed his scalp until he calmed down. The hat spent the rest of the afternoon using the laser pointer to try and blind the clerical staff as they entered the Oval Office.