#she was trying to get it from the wrong sources (*cough* miller *cough*) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bewareofchris · 5 years

Text

Public Relations 7/??

R atm | Alec Hardy/Dr. Bill Masters | Broadchurch, Masters of Sex | Strong language, eventual sexual situations

“The fact that Alec Hardy was not currently, had not ever, and did not want to date the American sex research did not seem very important at all to the town of Broadchurch. They did what they had always done with a little bit of juicy gossip: they made a spectacle of it.”

<<prev

After an afternoon of wandering, searching through the town for any indication of the headquarters of the Broadchurch Echo, Bill had simply given up and headed back for the hotel. He’d been all set to put the odd, stupid day behind him when the Broadchurch Echo seemed to find him. That was, it was directly across the street from his hotel, as conveniently placed as you please. It was so easy to find that he’d spent a few hours not finding it out of the stubborn feeling that if he asked anyone for direction he’d only fuel whatever rumors and half-thoughts they were already developing about him.

And not just him. Him and Alec Hardy.

Bill’s reputation had suffered enough bruising that it almost couldn’t get any worse. He certainly never needed help in damaging it further; he was perfectly capable of coming up with new heights of stupidity on his own. But, it didn’t seem very fair to let his mistakes drag another man down with him.

The doors to the newspaper headquarters were open to the breeze, the young woman behind the counter looked at him like she expected to recognize him, and didn’t, and only at the last moment remembered to say, “good afternoon,” and “can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge,” Bill said. He remembered hearing the name Ellie and Maggie but he couldn’t be sure which one of them was relevant to the newspaper. Bill had a manner of speaking that made everyone uncomfortable; Betty said it was like being sent to the principal, or standing in front of a judge in your underwear. No matter what Bill was saying, he said it with severity and people were always put off by it.

The woman here looked sideways and then back at him, “uh, can I tell her what it concerns?”

“Yes, I was accosted during my lunch by Olly Stevens, he says he works here and I’d like an explanation.”

The woman couldn’t muster even the faintest sense of surprise at those words. She smiled an apology that she didn’t say and motioned over to a small seating area at the front. “I’ll go and find her,” she said.

Bill was not going to sit on display in the front window of the newspaper. He stayed at the counter, looking down at what passed for headlines in the town. He’d expected some manner of excitement over fish, or an expose on a disliked neighbor. He wasn’t ready to be confronted with the story of a child’s murder. He hadn’t expected to read anything disparaging about DI Alec Hardy, but he was three-fourths through an article when a polite cough interrupted him.

“I’m Maggie Radcliffe, the editor.” She extended her hand in greeting and Bill set the paper back on the counter. “Please, take a copy.”

“Yes, thank you,” Bill said as he shook her hand. He folded the paper over and tucked it under his arm. “Is there somewhere less in the public view where we can talk? I’m sure you understand that I don’t really want advertise this visit.”

“Sure,” Maggie led the way through the building to her cramped, dusty office. It smelled like newsprint and ink, and age. There was a rickety chair to sit on and a door that very nearly closed. She turned her attention to him solely, “Olly interrupted your lunch?” she prompted.

“That’s putting it mildly.” Bill set the paper in his lap and cleared his throat, “I’m vacationing here. I’ve had the feeling since I arrived that I’ve somehow become a spectacle. And today, while I was trying to enjoy my dinner, one of your reporters interrupts me to ask if I plan to move my sex study here and what my relationship to Alec Hardy is.”

Maggie was annoyed, but there was no knowing which part was annoying to her. “I’m very sorry about that,” she said. But no indication if she was sorry that he was offended or sorry that it had happened. “I’ll talk to him. He gets over-excited, forgets what is and isn’t acceptable. I’ll send him over to make an apology. You’re staying at the hotel across the street?”

“Yes,” Bill said. He cleared his throat before he could be shuttled out the door, “The thing is,” interrupted what Maggie seemed to think was a complete conversation, “what I’m most interested in knowing is why people seem to think there is a relationship between Alec Hardy and I, and exactly what sort of relationship they think it is.”

Maggie had the face of a woman who had seen more than any person ought to have seen. She had the body of someone who had done her share of interrupting lunches and hunting down sources. Life had given her plenty to write about, and it had left plenty of marks along the way. And here she sighed and leaned back into her chair. “To be very blunt, the feeling is that you’re having an affair with DI Hardy.”

“Why?” Bill asked.

“You were travelling together, you were with him in the hospital, you’re staying at the same hotel. I heard he was yelling at Ellie about--”

“Who is Ellie?” Bill asked.

“Ellie Miller? She works with him. I wouldn’t say she’s his partner, but since she’s the only one that will voluntarily work with him, she might as well be considered a partner.”

Ellie was the woman that had come to collect Hardy from the hospital, the one that had been so amused to hear Bill’s first name. Bill rubbed his forehead with his fingers and tried to figure out what could be done now. It didn’t matter that the evidence was stupid, or that he hadn’t been travelling with Hardy. This thing the town had created required no facts to be sustainable, because it was built on Hardy’s unpleasant face.

It was almost like a bad joke.

“Well,” he said, “thank you.” He got up and waited for Maggie to pull the door open. She pointed him toward the front and had the decency to say sorry as he left.

Hardy wanted a drink more than anything he’d ever wanted in the whole of his life. He just wanted to drown the stupidity of his sorrows in liquor until the world faded around him. He hadn’t even been the sort of man that indulged in that manner of escapism.

No, Hardy had always been the same. He’d always been driven by the here, and the now, and the terrible notion that every person on this forsaken planet was alone. He’d been waiting for something to prove him wrong, he’d been willing to hear arguments to disprove him but life had taught him that there were no grand gestures. There was no sense in this world, and there was no hope in it ever making sense.

Justice was the idea he’d subscribed to. The law was the rule he’d decided to follow.

And now he was a skinny shitface of a man, dragging his body back to the hotel he called home. Becca was there with a smile, and the distant sound of a bar full of patrons hoping to learn something new and juicy about the rumor spreading through Broadchurch.

Hardy had every intention of leaving it alone. There was nothing to gain by protesting. If anything, it would just convince them all they were right and the last thing he wanted was anyone knowing his opinion on the matter. (What did the truth matter really?) But his feet brought him to a halt, and then back, and he was standing in front of Becca with a sour frown and the desperate need for a drink. “Is it really that exciting?” he asked.

“What?” Becca asked.

“The idea of me fucking someone,” he said. Because that’s who he was right now, he was a coarse, foul-mouthed man on a ledge. He had nothing to lose and no reason to be polite when there was an audience gagging for tidbits to add to their circumstantial collection. He didn’t stay for her sputtering denial, “good night,” was how he left her.

The stairs mocked him, and the hallway seemed to grow longer-and-longer the more steps he took. He’d been hoping for a drink, but he was praying he made it into his room before his legs gave out. His heart was getting worse, but he just needed a few more days to close this case. He was so near to the end of it now.

“You really are an idiot,” was the sound of his fictional American lover, and the feel of his arm sliding around Hardy’s back. He was pulled straight upright without realizing he’d listed to the side. “Which one’s your room.”

“No,” Hardy said.

“We could go to mine,” Bill offered.

“No,” Hardy said with more force. He tried to pull away and Bill’s grip tightened around his ribs. “Haven’t you heard?”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” Bill said. “Which one’s your room?”

Hardy couldn’t save a man that didn’t want saving. He directed them to the door and leaned against the wall while Bill opened it for him. They stumbled in together, two grown men trying to fit through the same doorway. He collapsed on the bed and Bill shut the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, observing the bad idea he’d involved himself in. “I’m not gay,” Hardy said, like it mattered. “Not typically.”

Bill snorted, he pulled a stethoscope out of his back pocket. “Open your shirt,” he said.

“You just had that?” Hardy asked. He shrugged his coat and his suit jacket off, and pulled at his tie. He took a break with it half-loosened and let his head hang back. His body was singing, just thrumming, and his head was starting to ache. The pills were in his pocket but the moment might pass.

Bill was pulling his tie free, as if he regularly undressed strangers. (And he might, what with being a sex researcher and all, who knew?) He fumbled at the buttons but managed to get enough of them open that he could get the bell of the stethoscope flat to his chest. “Just breathe normally,” he said.

“What sort of doctor are you?”

“Shh.”

“What sort of doctor studies sex?”

“I’m an obstetrician, now could you please be quiet, I’m trying to listen to your heart.” And if he determined it was bad enough he was going to force Hardy into a hospital again, no doubt. All doctors were like that, admonishing and lecturing and prodding at him about how he was going to die. As if he he didn’t know, as if they had told him some news he’d been too stupid to notice himself.

Hardy was quiet until Bill leaned back away from him. “Obstetrician, that’s a baby doctor?”

“It’s women’s reproductive system, pregnancy and birth doctor. Once the baby is born, they are generally looked after by a pediatrician or a neonatologist.” He hooked the stethoscope around his neck and stood there with an expression that wanted to be severe but settled for annoyed. “You have to start taking care of yourself.”

“How’d you find out?” Hardy asked.

“About us?” Bill asked. He looked around for somewhere to sit and found a chair that he could pull close enough they weren’t shouting across the room at one another. “A reporter named Olly Stevens interrupted my lunch to ask me what my intentions in Broadchurch were. He seemed to think they included you.”

Hardy turned on the bed so he could lean against the headboard. “Sorry,” he said.

“Worse things have been said about me.”

Well, at least they had that in common. Hardy nodded and looked toward the door, “am I going to live?”

“You should make it through the night, I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving you an idea beyond that.”

“I’m really tired,” Hardy said.

For a minute, Bill looked as if he wanted to start yelling. It was a storm of things parading through his deceptively pleasant face and none of them made it to his mouth. He only smiled, polite and indifferent, and stood up again. “I’ll leave you my number. Call me if you start getting symptoms, and call for an ambulance. I’d hate them to think I killed you.”

Hardy snorted at that. “I can see the headline, worst cop in the world killed by American’s cock.” He took the slip of paper that Bill offered him and nodded his thanks.

“My secretary would frame the paper that printed it, hang it in the lobby of my practice.” He lingered a moment to be sure that Hardy wasn’t going to keel over and then let himself out. The quiet he left behind was almost companionable. Good natured, at least. It was nice to know that the only person likely to be damaged by the nonsense rumors found them as stupid as Hardy did.

He gave up sitting up, and staying awake, and the idea that he should change his clothes. His bed was warm and ready for him, and he was very ready for it.

next >>

@marvelmisha, @it-is-ineffable, @may-darling, @quakerlasss (it wouldn’t let me tag you), @e3105eb, @bigleosis, @jiffry6969

#illogical husbands #broadchurch #masters of sex #grouchy bastards in love #public relations: the fic

48 notes · View notes

letterstoocean · 7 years

Text

my ocean,

more of the story..... I know it is long, but perhaps imaigne i am next to you telling you the story. perhaps...

Know Your Fears Let It Go

Mom was working a double shift and couldn't find a babysitter. So I am hanging around the bar working on my bank shot. I have this grand illusion of being on Real People as a 10 year old pool hustler.

Mom throws this twenty and a ten on the bar and gestures to the guy sitting in front of it, a guy she hardly knows, and says, "Can you watch him until my shift is over?"

The guy gives me a wink and a click of his teeth and then we are bouncing down this dirt road listening to Kenny Rogers, Merle Haggard, Journey, and Ted Nugent. This guy is all right, I think to myself.

As he drank from the Miller Lite that rested between his legs and as he shifts, he tells me what’s going on. "It's Halloween and there's an all night party. Should be some kids there, we'll eat after we pick up wood for the fire.” And he talked like this the entire time. Like his brain was going ten times faster than his mouth. So his mouth tried to keep up by just grabbing important fragments. And after awhile I catch myself talking just like him. But shit its okay because I'm relaxed and not stuck in the bar and it’s Halloween.

We get there and no one had arrived yet so we spent the day setting up tables, stacking wood, icing the kegs of beer. I didn’t mind because the entire time this guy talks to me like I'm an adult.

He explains that the reason his lip was gashed open was that "some guy ripped him across the face with a beer bottle” and then he showed me the stitches beneath his hair where he was cut.

So I showed him my scar on my side "from where a guy shanked me on the playground for messing up his hair."

"Are you talking jive?" he said smiling.

"Trying," I said and he laughed and stacked my arms full of wood.

"What does shank mean?” he asked as he put the last piece of wood beneath my chin.

"Not sure.”

His laugh was a deep laugh. He meant it and I knew this guy was all right and I thought maybe mom could date him because he would be all right to be around with all the time.

And then a big man from across the yard yells for us to "to git our shit in here and eat!”

We sat at the table and the guy scooped out of this big pot some shrimp and crawdads and poured them in this bottomless bowl and then from another pot not as big but could still hold its own he poured this red sauce over the whole thing. He climbed in the fridge-popped open this bottle of Guinness; does all of this so fast and never says a word to me.

So there in front of me was this huge bowl of food. Red and black and huge chunks of spice and that dark thick mass with a pearl white tap in the glass and I sat at the table too big for me and there was this guy digging into the shrimp sauce like an animal on Wild Kingdom and I thought what am I supposed to do now?

Bruce sat down with his beer, his bowl, and started talking to this guy in French. They go on and on and I'm sitting there caught in this frenzy and then the big guy looked over at me.

He had a face of leather and stubble and he reminded me of that pig in Charlottes Web. Not Wilbur, but the big one at the fair; all squinty eyed and snorting and this man squinted at me "something wrong" and let me say I was scared. I looked over at Bruce for some help and grinning he raised his hands as if saying; “hey you’re on your own."

"Well," I said, "Sir, I'm not sure what to do."

The old man grunted or he laughed. I’m not sure which. "Say grace if ya feel the need. Drink the beer, and eat. Suck the head out of the craw fish and if you want the shrimp peeled, peel them your fucking self. Bruce where'd ya get this kid?"

Bruce laughed, "picked him up hitchhiking."

"Where ya from pint ass?" Another red shrimp vanished into his mouth.

"Indiana, sir.” I said feeling myself shrinking into the chair.

"Yankee. No wonder the food scare ya. Damn Yankees don't even put salt or pepper on their food. All the same I poured it. You eat it. How old are ya?"

"Ten” I said and grabbed one of the shrimp. My hand was blood red and sticky. I did my best to peel the shell off the meat and then I closed my eyes and shoved the whole thing into my mouth.

The heat hit my throat. I gasped and reached for the black mass. I sucked it down and it was so thick it slid down slow and tasted what I think sweet choking darkness would taste like.

The heat kept coming. I coughed. I Choked. Jesus, I never had this much going on at once in my mouth and the old man and Bruce laughed as they smacked the table their hands.

I panted trying to get the heat out of my mouth but that made it worse. I drank again but the fire wouldn’t go away. My eyes watered. My nose ran. My tongue, I knew was dissolving inside my mouth and they just kept on laughing. I raced to the sink and started drinking from the faucet but my god that made it just that much hotter. Finally Bruce walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a jar of honey.

"Here ya go. Put this on your tongue. You'll be fine."

I shove my finger into the bottom of the jar and stuck it in my mouth. There was relief for a moment. I sat back down in my chair sucking my finger.

"You see," the big guy says grabbing a crawdad popping it in his mouth and making this loud sucking sound. " Certain things you have to love. Food-women-music. With all of them there is a certain amount of difficulty. Some are hot. Some are smooth. Some are rough and may come close to killing ya......." He tossed the empty shell in the trashcan, "but the trick to all of it, Is the first taste of any thing….don't think. Just take a breath and let it out slowly. You’ll enjoy the taste, or you won't but take a second to decide. Not the first thought in your head. Now take your finger out ya mouth."

My mouth was still hot, but I took a deep breath and blew it out. I wasn't sure I was going to survive.

Bruce tapped my glass, “don't tell ya mamma we are feeding ya Guinness.”

The sun went down. The bonfire reached to the sky and adults and children alike were all dressed for the occasion and screaming, laughing or singing. I tip -toed int o the kitchen and poured some of the tea that was simmering in a big black cauldron on the stove into two coffee stained mugs and carried it out to the two girls dressed like valley girls who couldn’t stop giggling at me. I told them to wait until I got my own and then we ran out into the cornfield.

“I think there is alcohol in this because Bruce said it packed a heavy hit.” We take a sip and it taste horrible. So we down them quickly and I ran back for more.

***

“You feel okay Indiana?” Bruce was squatting beside me. The campfire lit up half his face and caste shadows on the other half. Voices kept coming in and out like they were falling or they were running away and then run back close to my ear. Laughter, I could hear laughter but it was deep laughter and it came from everywhere. Are they laughing at me? One of the shadows on Bruce’s face opened its mouth. I reached up and tried to grab the tongue that it was sticking out at me.

“I-I-I-I” My mouth won’t work. I take a deep breath let it out and went back to looking in the fire.

Bruce shook my shoulder. “Indiana? You okay?”

“I. I’m okay. I think.” The shadows stopped.

“Well your two princesses are looking for you and they can’t stop laughing. One of em has the hiccups and can’t stop. Try giving her a kiss to make them go away. I heard that works. I think they have gathered all the kids together for a game of hide and seek.” Bruce picked me up, set me on my feet and smacked my back. “Better go find them before some other little Don Juan does.”

Ooooooh girls. I thought. I really like girls.

***

Somewhere in the midst of the game I wound up in a field of wheat, tall grass or some Texas plant I didn’t know. I could feel sweat pouring off of me like rain and I could hear the thunder of drums in my head.

So as I sat in the field with drums pounding in my head, my hands began to melt. The laughter and the singing in my head grew louder and stood up to try and find the source.

There was a house at the other end of the field. I wasn’t sure how far it was because things were still melting and then coming back only to melt again. All I could see was a light on in the second floor window. As I got closer I could see some one was leaning on the window looking at me. I think. I could only see their shadow.

The drums. The drums became louder and my head started to bounce to the rhythm. I started humming.

What is that music? Or is it screaming? Is it turned up too loud? Or is it marching? Wait, its footsteps? Or is it some ones hands tapping on a table? No, it’s marching.

I got to the house and even with thing smelting and only the moon to give me light I could still tell that the place was ready to fall apart. But that didn’t stop the drums and the music from helping step on the porch and open the door.

Step after step I continued until I was in the house and the darkness. The smell of dead animal, of shit, and something I couldn’t place filled my nose. The drums stopped. The singing stopped. Like the darkness around me the silence filled everything. The sweat that rolled down my back began to mix with the dust and my skin started to itch.

How did that person get up the stairs?

I blinked but I really couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or shut. I could see myself on the porch with the Pigman and Bruce again. We were waiting for every one to arrive. I sat in the chair with the hiccups and tried to focus on something, anything to keep from getting sick.

Pigman would occasionally laugh and punch me in the arm. The Guinness bottles began to pile up between them and the more they drank the more they spoke in French and left the English behind. My eyes went everywhere. I kept thinking that I wish I had my tablet and paper and then Pigman hit me in the arm again and I forgot about writing.

“Hey Indiana, look out there.” He pointed to the horizon. The sky was black and I could see the rain falling like a mist from a waterfall. “Keep your eyes open and you might see a tornado.”

Tornado! Thunderstorms! I hated thunderstorms. I was terrified of them. At the mere hint of lightning or thunder I used to run to grandma and grandpas bed.

“Shouldn’t we hide or something.” I asked.

Pigman and Bruce both laughed. “Don’t worry, chief. That storm is over two, three hundred miles away. Won’t even come close to us. Welcome to the Texas plains. You can see two days ahead it’s so flat.”

So I sat on the porch and watched a storm that from the distance we were at looked like smoke drifting down from the sky. On the landscape were three different tornadoes kicking and pulling up dust, dirt and everything else from the ground. I sat and watched all of it like I would a movie.

They slowed down like they were freezing and each one started to turn into the shape of a dark, naked woman with their arms reaching up into the clouds above. And they began to dance.

I opened my eyes or the vision vanished. The moon shines through the boards covering the window and I could see some stairs in front of me. My hands found the wall and I started to slowly take my time up the steps. I let my toes search every step to make sure there wasn’t one missing. Eventually I reached the top and put my hand on the ice cold doorknob. Do I want to do this? Is this really that smart?

I heard the soft hum of a woman’s voice. What is she humming? It reminds me of rain in the wind. Her voice rising and falling each time getting a little higher; A ball rolling down a mountain maybe.

I turn the doorknob, push the door open and cover my eyes from the bright light that hit me. The sweet smell of vanilla, orange peels, cherries, hits my nose. My eyes adjusted to the light and I stood in awe.

Hundreds of different candles were lit all over the room. Some of them were very large with three or four wicks to them. There were some others medium sized red ones in large iron holders in each corner of the room. The floor was covered with candles that ran with wax.

The room was so hot I could hardly breathe. I looked up from the floor to see who standing at the window. It was a wooden statue and as I stared at its back I knew I had seen it somewhere before. It was naked except for a dirty cloth wrapped around its waist. Muscles rippled on its back that were covered with bloody cuts. Long black hair fell to its shoulders. Its arms were spread wide as it leaned against the window. I moved closer, careful not to kick over any of the candles. Originally something was nailed to its back and arms but the person that put it there had removed it but left the nails. I stepped around to the front of it looked into the face of Christ. His eyes rolled up to look at the ceiling.

The red candle that hung above his head had dripped wax down on his face and chest making it look like he was crying blood. I should have been scared. I should have felt something but all I could do was stare. What was going on and where was that music coming from?

I heard a loud bang, jumped back against the window and immediately felt the warmth around my crotch from pissing myself. The door had slammed shut behind me, that was all.

There was a full length mirror attached to the back of the door. I stood looking at myself and Christ in the candlelight and with the same red wax some one had written in big letters

Listen

Know your fears

Let It Go .....

I love you ocean,

river

1 note · View note

ecotone99 · 4 years

Text

[RF] Flaming Pistol

By Noah Wright

He was going to pay for this.

The blazing Miami Sun was scorching his back, reaching him through his car's side windows. The Cars wheels squeaked each time they hit even the smallest bump, and there was nothing Tyler could, or would do about it.

He gently pressed down on the car's ignition, which caused the car to accelerate.

The cool and fresh wind jogged through his hair, and he leaned his head back in order to appreciate just how nice and cool the atmosphere was. His anger started fleeing his body and he regained his senses.

He had a job to do and he was going to do it.

The grass was green, and the birds were chirping, Tyler was currently sitting outside on his porch which was stationed in his back garden. Around him were dozens of trees, all different shapes and sizes. Some being teeny saplings, and others being vast, grand Oaks which blocked any sunlight getting into the garden.

Tyler looked around at this family, he saw his elderly mother quaking above his younger siblings. She was sipping a lukewarm coffee, which she had placed in her right hand. She was looking at them with her loving eyes, and Tyler could tell that she was happy.

Their house was on the outskirts of Miami, a small modest little cottage which was within walking distance from the beach. They were in a neighborhood which was dominated by nature. With there house being engulfed in knee-high grass, and dazzling flowers which were scattered all over.

Although he often disliked living in such a place, being on the verge of poverty more often than he liked, he had feelings for the house which he could not describe. He had known in it for all of his childhood, and had spent the majority of his teenage years there, and he could not live without it. He glanced over at his mother one more time as well as his younger brother and sister, who were in their early infant years. His brother had just recently began to walk, and the two of them were playing in the mud.

He would not give this life up for anything.

Unfortunately he might not have a choice.

The restaurant was dimly lit, it had no other source of light other than the candles which were placed on every table.

It was a fancy place, Tyler could tell, it was the sort of place that rich, showy, pretentious couples went on dates. This was not his type of place, and he didn't feel welcome. However, his boss had called him here and he didn't have a choice.

A waiter walked over to the table and started speaking to Tyler.

"May I ask what it will be you're having?" the man asked him. Tyler looked over at the man startled, and told him that he was waiting for company.

"Very well then Sir" he said and nodded his head, he smiled at Tyler before turning around and going to server another one of the restaurants customers.

He let out a big sigh, and took a sip of Liquor from a flask which he had been carrying in his pocket. He could feel the alcohols effects, and began to feel quite cozy as his body temperature slowly increased.

That was when he saw him. He was a rather large man, with some interesting features. He often slicked his hair back, which did not really do much for his appearance. He was in his 50s, and you could tell from his fashion. He often wore suits which simply did not look good on him, but no one ever told him that. No one had the courage to.

Tyler focused on him, and watched him scour the restaurant looking for him.

When the man finally spotted him, his mouth morphed into something that resembled a smile. He stumbled over to his table and sat down in front of him.

"Hey there kiddo" he told Tyler. Tyler smiled, "Hey, so may I ask why it is you called me here?" he asked the man.

He signaled to the waiter to come over before turning to Tyler, "Slow down there Kid, I just got here. Give me a second, you had anything to drink yet?" he asked him.

"Yes Sir?" the waiter asked him, "What will be having tonight?"

"Bring us your best bottle of wine!" he told him with a smirk on his face, Tyler looked over at the water, "I'm good with water, thanks."

The waiter nodded at both before moving on over to the bar.

The man had been looking at the waiter as he was moving from then, when he was out of hearing distance his smile faded away and he swiftly turned to Tyler.

"I have a job for you. One which I had to push to get them to give it to you." he told him in a quiet manner.

The Car was going at 40 something miles an hour, and Tyler was not worried about having an accident. Not one bit. He couldn't be, not with everything on his mind.

He pressed down on the pedal until the meter hit 50. He looked out of the window and saw the vast Miami Sea, which stretched as far as the eye can see. It seemed to be full of life and so empty at the same time. He listened to the sea's waves crashing against the shore, and it helped him calm down and cool his head for an instant.

Unfortunately, this was interrupted by the Car's engine.

It began to make heavy, clunky, mechanical sounds, and before he knew it smoke was blocking his complete view. The sounds got louder and louder, until the car came to a complete halt.

Tyler let out a deep, hearty cough, due to the thick cloud of smoke which was only growing in size before getting out of the car.

"Fucking typical" he mumbled to himself. Of course it had to happen now, why not?

Tyler kicked the car in frustration, and then did it again, and again until he was out of breath. He had left a decent mark in the car, and started to stumble towards the beach until he was right next to the water.

He sat down, picked up a stone which was next to him on the ground and chucked it as far as he could into the ocean. It traveled about 20 meters away from him until it hit the water, and sunk to the bottom of the deep, dark ocean.

Tyler had just left the house, and had left his mother and two siblings alone.

He had not told them where he was going, neither whether he would be back anytime soon, so his mother needed to figure out what to do with her other children.

She began to wander over to the Garden when she felt her phone start vibrating.

She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.

After a quick glance she was able to read the words "Soccer Practice".

Oh crap, she though. She ran over to her children, they were in the living room, relaxing on the couch when she came running in. She picked the two of them up and got them into the car, along with their soccer equipment.

She stepped on the gas, and after a large cloud of smoke came out of the exhaust pipe, the engine started to run.

"Chris Miller" the man asked Tyler, "You heard of him?". Tyler genuinely had a look of confusion on his face as he tried to connect the name with a face. He came up with a blank.

"No, I can't say I have..." his eyes promptly opened as he made a connection.

He grinned as soon as he made the relation, he recognized the man as his sibling's football coach. His look rapidly turned from one of grin, to one of anxiety.

"What do you want me to do to him?" he asked in a quivery voice.

He knew that whatever it was, it was not going to be pleasant.

"What do you think?" the man asked him, "Listen, I think you know what we want you to do. So listen, I know that this would be your first time. However, I really think you can do it, that's why I pushed for them to give you this job."

Tyler looked at him hesitantly and took a long sip from his flask, he looked into his Boss's eyes and could see that he was telling the truth.

"Listen, every single person that is above you, has done it. It's one of those things that everyone needs to do at one stage at another"

The man could tell that Tyler was not convinced, "I'm sorry, but I really can't. Not him at least." The man looked at Tyler sympathetically, "Kid, I know what it's like, believe it or not but I didn't get to where I am today by being nice. I have hurt and killed many people, and I will never forget my first one."

He looked at his drink which he was holding in his hand, he took a lengthy sip which seemed to go on forever to him. He started to fidget with the Watch which was on his Wrist and began talking, "You see, back when I was your age things were different, one of the reasons that I like you is that you remind me of me, starting from nothing and slowly going up the ranks."

Tyler gave out a little smile, which encouraged the man to carry on, "Now, I realize that murder is a gray area for most people, but well, if you have got a problem with it you might be in the wrong business." he said before chuckling to himself.

Tyler was standing next to his broken down, piece of crap car. He just stood there, looking at it. He would need to decide what he was now going to do, luckily he had already decided. He took in a deep breath, before entering the car, opening the glove box, and pulling out a pair of sunglasses and a pistol. He then swiftly hopped out of the car and began coughing like a madman.

When he was done he placed the gun down his pants, and the sunglasses on his face.

He looked down the road and carried on his journey.

The sun had just set, and Tyler's mom was driving to the other side of town with her two children, she was hurrying as she was fairly late, and always did her best to give her children the things she thought they deserved.

Her two children had been going to this Soccer Practice for over a year now, and she did not feel like giving up after everything.

She stomped her foot on the pedal, and the car shot through the town.

The children started feeling anxious, and told their mom to slow down.

They arrived at the small field, which the practices were hosted at, with a few minutes to spare. She found out quickly that it did not matter whether they were late or not, as the Coach had not arrived. They simply found the group of children which were part of the team, all waiting outside with their parents.

"Welp" she mumbled to herself, "That's what I get for trying."

Tyler could see the house down the road, he had been walking for the past two hours, and was now finally here. It had been nice and bright when his car had broken down, and it was now sunset, the atmosphere was cool, and the winds had sent a shiver down Tyler's spine.

He was going to make the man pay, no matter what.

He pulled the gun out of his pants and made sure that it was loaded. He was now standing outside the mans garden, he cocked the gun and started walking closer.

"No, I'm not going to do it." he told him.

"All right then" said the man, "I can't force you." he leaned back and took a sip of his drink. The man had a look on his face, one which Tyler could recognize.

It was one which he had seen many times, the face of a person who has a trick up his sleeve.

"What are you doing, you're obviously going to try do something to change my mind."

He scanned the mans face, and tried to figure out what that trick might be.

"Nope, I gave you the option and if you're not going to do it I'll just find someone else who will."

Tyler sighed, "All right then, thank you for respecting my decision." He stood up, grabbed his jacket, "May I ask what he's done?"

"To us?" the man asked him, "He is refusing to pay back the money that he borrowed and we are worried he might rat us out. He's a long time customer."

"Oh, all right." he put his jacked on and walked over to his boss in order to shake his hand. He stuck his hand out in front of him and the man went and grabbed it, he held it tight and did not let go.

He then dragged the boy towards him and whispered in his ear, "Oh, one more thing I forgot to mention, the man is a pedo." Tyler stood back, his eyes were wide open and these couple words completely stopped his brain from thinking. He tried to say something but couldn't, all that came out were stutters, "e...e.xcuse me?" he asked in a trembling voice.

He cocked the gun, and made sure that it had ammo.

"This is what you get when you touch children... fucking creep", he circled the house before finding that the man had his back door wide open.

Before Tyler walked into the house he admired the garden for a second, it was a decent size and was carefully taken care of, he could tell. The grass was all the same height, and the trees seemed artificial, they were so perfect.

The man had two children and a wife, at least that was what Tyler knew. And he hoped to god that they weren't here, the man might deserved to die, but no child deserves to see the dead corpse of their rotten parent.

He took a deep breath and carefully wandered into the home, he was greeted by a well tended, and orderly kitchen, he ignored it as he had more important manners to do.

He listened carefully and heard a mumbling upstairs. A mumbling which he assumed to be that of Chris Miller. He walked over to the steps and softly climbed up them, step by step, his heart began to race, he could feel the sweat crawling down the back of his neck. He was trying to be quiet, which presented to be a challenge, as his breathing was becoming heavier with each step he took.

He finally reached the top of the stairs without making a peep.

He walked down the hallway and reached the door, he closed his eyes for a second and mentally prepared himself.

I can't do this.

Yes, you can.

The man is a pedophile.

According to who?

He is my brother's tutor, he's touched him, those moments when I saw him helping him, rubbing his shoulder encouragingly, while showing him how to properly kick a ball.

At the time I didn't think much of it.

But now, knowing what I know.

The man has to pay.

And I'm going to make him.

Tyler swiftly jumped into the door frame, holding the pistol with both hands, pointing it directly at the man. He was taken back by what he saw.

He was just sitting there, his face white as a ghost, looking at him with his vast, gray eyes. It was clear the man had been crying.

He looked directly at the gun and then drifted his view to the man holding it.

Tyler's arms began to quiver, he changed his mind, he couldn't do this.

He just stood there, frozen solid, unable to do a thing.

The man closed his eyes and looked down at the floor. He had accepted his fate, and was now ready to face it.

Tyler's arms started to loosen, his finger started to release pressure from the trigger.

That was when it went off.

A loud piercing sound came from the weapon.

It droned out all other sounds, and traveled for what seemed to be miles.

The room filled with thick black smoke. This growing cloud blocked Tyler's vision. Leaving him there, unable to see his first victim.

His hands loosed, and he lost the grip of the gun.

It fell to his feet and caused a emphatic crashing sound, one which Tyler was unable to hear. The smoke had cleared and Tyler was left there staring at the man. There was a bullet hole in the very center of his face.

The wall had been painted red from the mans brains.

The ringing continued, and blocked out all others sounds.

It infected Tyler's brain, interrupting all thoughts he might have been having.

He fell to his feet and his eyes filled with tears.

He brought his hands up to his face, placing his face into them and he proceeded to completely break down.

There was no way he could see himself coming back from this.

The man had finally paid, and it made absolutely no difference.

submitted by /u/Viaticboss19 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/37J66eX

#Blogger #Story

0 notes

patrickalleneck · 7 years

Text

A Trumpistan Carol

A True Story Based on Truly Alternative Facts ———————-/———————— A gold-crusted LED flickers on. The sound of cheetos crunching between sub-satisfactorily hygenic teeth is quickly overtaken by the murmuring ruminations of a Fox News pundit.

“Republican congressional investigators expect a potential “smoking gun” establishing that the Obama administration spied on the Trump transition team, and possibly the president-elect himself, will be produced to the House Intelligence Committee this week, a source told Fox News.”

“Ha! Now I’ve got him!”

Donald J. Trump slumps forward in his chair to cough out a cheeto that he began choking on somewhere between “Now” and “I’ve got him”.

“Fuck! Fucking cheetos. That hot-tittied maid laced them with concrete to make them impossible to swallow. These liberal whores are out to kill me!”

Trump fumbles sideways over himself to pick up a gilded phone.

“Yeah? Robert? Get me the head of the lady who brought in those fucking concrete cheetos. Yeah! The one with the hot tits! I want her head, and I want her dead!”

“Sir.”

“What is it Robert!?”

“Sir, are you certain you wish to kill her and decapitate her?”

“What? Not decaspimate! Just cut off her head!”

“Sir. Just to remind you, she is the granddaughter of Esperanza. Esperanza brought you up, sir. She practically raised you with her children. One of their children is Julia, the woman you wish to kill and have… her… head… displaced…”

“Huh? Julia, eh? Man, did she grow a set of tits! I always told you she would, didn’t I Robert?”

“Yes sir. You did. Ever since she was 5.”

“Well, ain’t I a modern day prophet, or what?”

“Sir, you paid for her breast enhancement surgery three months ago, after telling her you always imagined she would have great big tits, and when she told you she did not feel comfortable working for you anymore, so you told her she would never work anywhere else again and that you’d fire her grandma too unless she let you buy her tits. She very reluctantly succumbed to your command.”

“Serves her right. I guess I did. Well, they turned out great. Tell you what? Why don’t you send her back so she can give me head, then I’ll have her head later. And bring me her grandma’s head too. That’ll show them.”

“Sir. Are you completely sure you wish to have all of these commands fulfilled? Isn’t it quite enough to have intercourse with her and let it be at that?”

“What are you trying to say, Robert? That sex with me is a big enough punishment?”

“No, sir, it’s just that I thought it might not settle well with the rest of the family, who have long been, well, like family to you.”

“You know what, Robert? You’re right. You’re always right, right? I mean, nobody’s always right like me, but you’re pretty right, alright?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Ok, is Tommy around?”

“I believe so, yes, sir.”

“Ok, great, put that old dog Tommy on the phone right now.”

“Ok, thank you, sir.”

“Hey sir, Tommy here.”

“Hey Tommy. I have something I need you to do. Robert is getting all ethical-smethical on me. I want his head. And when you bring it, bring that maid with the hot tits. We’re going to celebrate a little tonight, you and me? Big stuff.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trump slams the phone down and slumps back over, with his hand falling back into his bag of cheetos.

He keeps eating.

“Fucking Obama. Fucking liberals and media making me look like a real jerk sometimes. What the fuck is wrong with them?”

He stands up and paces around the oval office. There are portraits of him all around. There are also many mirrors.

“Fuck! Where’s my goddamn cell phone. I’m going to tweet the shit out of this good news!”

Trump fumbles around his desk for his phone. He finds it under a TeenBop magazine.

“Stop. Right. There.” Steve Bannon’s tinny, scratchy, impotent voice reverberates throughout the room.

Trump drops the cell phone and cringes his nose.

A brownish cloud starts emanating from behind the desk.

In a puff and swirl of smoke, a massive, steaming pile of shit starts piling up from the floor up to about Trump’s shoulder height. A bubble boils up and bursts from the top of the pile, releasing a pack of flies. The flies move in unison towards a latch in the wall, using their collective force to pull it down.

A panel in the wall opens up, revealing a mold of some sort. The giant pile of shit oozes over to the mold and piles in. Trump is watching the entire spectacle with the same dumbfounded face you will find him wearing whenever he is asked anything serious.

The mold closes shuts, a siren buzzes, a flash pours out, temporarily blinding Trump, who winces and rubs his eyes to see the panel open again. A bald Steve Bannon walks out. He grabs a chunk of hair from Trump’s head and places it on his own.

Before sitting behind the desk, Bannon pulls his pants down and takes a massive shit. That massive shit moves over to the panel, the same sort of show ensues, only this time Steven Miller comes out. Bannon puts his feet on the desk. “Donald. We’ve been over this a thousand and a half times.”

“Bannon, you smell like shit. You too, Miller. But I love you guys. You guys are great. What’s up Banny?”

Bannon does not look amused. “Donald, if you want to accomplish the agenda we have been working so hard on, you have to reign in your Twitter use. You have to also stop being such a stupid fuck up.”

Trump frowns. “You know, if you weren’t such a piece of shit, I’d have your head for talking to me that way.”

Miller decided to chime in, “Isn’t it convenient that we’re both giant piles of shit? For us, that is.”

“I never liked you Miller. I only tolerate your shit because you’re basically the same shit as Bannon, and neither of you are me. So let’s just leave it at that. What the hell are we having a meeting for anyway? I have a plane to catch. Got a hot date with the Turkish whatever the hell Turkistan has - president, premiere… nobody even knows these things. Anyways, last time the Turkey people came to Mar a Lago they had a hot interpreter. Set of legs you wouldn’t believe. Fantastic. Amazing. Out of this world.”

“That’s exactly why we’re here. Well, to discuss what you’ll discuss with Erdogan. We also came to stop you from being a fucking Twitter troll.” Bannon was consistently unamused with everything in his life.

“Fuck you, Banjo. I do what I want.” Trump grabbed his crotch and stuck his tongue out at Bannnon.

“That’s fine, sir. But make sure you read this to Erdogan before going to play golf or chasing his interpreter’s legs. Just make the point clear, then you can go do whatever your deviant ego wants you to do.” Miller was similarly disenfranchised with anything that didn’t make him look like the absolute pile of shit that he is.

Bannon and Miller simultaneously started emitting shit fumes. They spoke in unison: “We will now retreat to our lair to plot further domination of the world. White power, motherfuckers. Oh yeah, and Trump - sign those executive orders we left on your desk. Deus Vult!”

Steve Miller melted into a giant pile of shit again, while Bannon pulled his pants down. The Miller shit pile proceeded to inject itself back into Bannon, which was the only effective trigger in cracking anything close to a smile across Bannon’s ashy face. After Miller reinserted, Bannon melted into a pile of shit, then the shit pile dissolved.

“Those guys are really big pieces of shit. My kinds of people!”

Trump picked up his phone and began writing a tweet.

‘Obumer is such a coward. He wire tapp my phone…’

Before he could finish typing his incoherent excuse for a thought, smoke began filling the room again.

“Dammit! What do you and Miller want this time, Bannon? I thought you guys were done making me think and stuff?” Trump turned his attention away from his phone expecting to see the shit pile developing.

To his shock, the shit pile was far from there.

Instead, Trump was face to face with the ghost of none other than Martin Luther King, Jr.

In a very oratory style, Martin let it out: “Donald J. Trump! I had a dream, and you made it my nightmare. I had a plan for equality, and you are helping to extinguish it for good! What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Wow! I never thought you’d have the opportunity to meet me! I mean, you did a lot of things, for my African Americans, and all that, but you didn’t ever crack a billion buddy. And, you died. Come on, man? Really? Sad! How are you doing, though? Bet you’re excited to meet me? Did you know I am president now?”

King’s facial features went flat. So did his voice. In very plain speech, he commented, “You know, if it wasn’t for the fact that I realize you have the mind of a spoiled 5 year old bouncing around in your cranium, I might have taken layers of offense to just about everything you said. But I don’t think you even understand what I just said, so we’ll just make this easy.”

“I like easy. Tell me more, my new famous black friend. Man, the people are going to love this!”

“I am Martin Luther King, Jr. I am your ghost of the past. You are a modern day Scrooge, and you are destroying civility and society because of your unchecked, rotten, greedy ego. I am going to show you the damage that was done in the past, that you are now not only repeating, but making worse.”

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy. I’ve only been here a couple days. You sound like fake news to me, buddy.”

“So, I’m just going to ignore pretty much everything you say, which I’m sure you do to everyone, anyway, and just show you what I’m talking about. Come with me.”

King raised his arms up, shot them downward, and in a flash, him and Trump were on the frontlines of a civil rights march taking place in King’s era.

Tears filled King’s eyes as he re-witnessed police brutality; German shepherds biting protesters; batons cracking against the skull of peaceful marchers; and firehoses knocking women and the elderly off of their feet.

Weeping, King turned to give Trump a lecture on the traumatic legacy these acts left on generations of Americans who had to reconcile with the fact that this was actually a part of their recent history - a part that was currently not very different.

When he looked over, he saw Trump cheering alongside the police officers and trying to take a turn spraying the hose.

“I should have taken him to the part where I got shot and let him stand in my place…” King lamented, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What? I’ve been working hard these days. I deserve to have a turn playing soak the spooks.”

“You know, I have a million things I’d like to explain to you, but I’d rather we cut this nonsense about you realizing some sort of lesson out of this and I’ll toss you to the ghost of the present.”

In a burst of smoke, they were back in the Oval Office.

“Well, that works for me, because I love presents. You are quite a guy. I am going to be happy to share with my people that I have a new black guy on my team, and his name is Martin King, Junior.”

“Don’t use my name, mother fucker. I am not your guy. Any person who thinks they can take advantage of the phenomenon that has become your repugnant, racist populism by showing support for you, like that urban cowboy Uncle Tom David Clarke, can shove a rake up their asses. If they can’t figure out that they are disgracing their people’s legacy by making nice with your clear idiocy and your team’s abject bigotry and hatred of all things off-white and non-wealthy, then not even I feel sorry for them. They can all file themselves into the halls of shame, right alongside you. I’m out of here.”

Martin Luther King, Jr. then left the oval office, unceremoniously, through the garden door. “Who the hell is David Clarke? What the hell was that guy’s problem anyway? I wonder when I get my present?”

The door to the Oval Office opened up on it’s own, slamming against the wall.

Bernie Sanders walked right in and up to Donald Trump.

“I’m the ghost of the present. Yeah, I’m alive and all that, but here’s your present, you moron.”

Bernie bitch slapped Trump across the face, knocking his stupid toupee off of his head.

“Stop robbing poor people and killing the planet. Bitch.”

Bernie slapped Trump across the other side of his face.

Trump fell to the floor, sobbing like the bitch that Bernie accurately described him to be.

“That was not nice!”

Bernie left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Trump continued crying like a giant man baby, which is what he is.

The door opened again, causing Trump to sit up and hide behind his desk.

Bernie popped his head back in, “Get ready to meet the ghost of the future, you affluent fuck.”

He slammed the door behind him again.

“Whew. That hombre is nasty.”

Smoke began filling the Oval Office. It got so smoky, Trump couldn’t breathe.

“Is this the shit circus again or another ghost? I’m getting tired of this and ready for some golfing in the shadow of the Orange House - Mar a Lago.”

Plumes of smoke continued to engulf the room, to the point where visibility was completely masked.

“Donald J. Trump does NOT like it when he cannot see what’s going on? Do you hear me? I do NOT like it!”

At once, the smoke cleared, revealing that Trump had transported to the speaker’s podium in an extremely large stadium. He was surrounded by Trump regalia, and every single person in the audience had a MAGA hat on. They were all silent.

“Well, hey now, Donald J. Trump wasn’t planning on blessing his people with a rally, but who am I to turn down the opportunity?”

“Well, Donald, that’s a great question.” The voice of Barack Obama startled Trump to the point where he dribbled a little bit of shit out of his loose rectum.

Donald spun around, holding his anus, angry. The ghost of Barack Obama was standing there, cheerfully nodding his head from side to side.

“What brought you to my rally, you Kenyan Muslim Antichrist?” Donald grabbed the mic and brought it to the crowd’s attention. “Can you folks believe the nerve of this guy? I could literally shoot Obama in front of all of you, and I wouldn’t lose a single voter!”

The crowd did not react.

“Geez… tough crowd tonight. I thought you guys’ woulda loved that one. How about this: I am going to put this Barry guy into jail for a long time. He messed up, bigly, with my tapping my wires, and other things that I have read, because I like to read and my brain is so powerful it doesn’t really need reading, but I read anyway because I watched it on Fox News about Obama put the wires in my walls and microwaves himself. Let’s say it together: Lock him up! Come on, everyone! Like the good old days on the election trail! Come on folks! Show me the love!”

Trump started to notice the sheer size of the crowd.

“Jesus, how big is this place. Barry, get a load of all of those people. They all love me! They’re all here for me!”

“Donald, Donald, Donald. They are here because of you, but they are not here to love you.”

“What do you mean? Check out all of those hats they got on! I must have had a billion made in Pakistan for pennies each while I was asleep. I’m really good at business and stuff like that, even when I’m not awake, you know?”

“Well, Donald, if, uh, you didn’t get the picture from Mr. King, Jr., or from Bernie, then I guess I will be the one to put it to you bluntly.”

“Alternative fact alert!”

“Donald. I was the president.”

“Lie! I have always been the president.”

“Ok, I, uh,I can see, uh, where this is going. Let’s break it down. You see, Donald, those people out there, those fans, they did love you.”

“Whaddya mean ‘did’?! They do love me. Look at them! They’re here, ain’t they? This must be the biggest rally ever held!”

“You’re right, Donald. It is.”

“What?”

“You are right. It’s me, Barry Obama, saying you, Donald J. Trump, are correct about something.”

Donald grabbed the mic, “You hear that, folks? We got him! He admitted I’ve been right all along!”

“Let me give you a quick history lesson and a quick future history lesson. You see, every president, Donald, is very different from many of those people out there in the crowd.” “Well no shit! None of those losers is me!”

“And, you see, uh, well, most of those people… most people, really, don’t have to build the ghost rallies that we, as presidents, construct for ourselves.”

“I know all about construction. Nobody knows construction like me. The wall, people, the wall!”

“When I say ghost rallies, I mean the rallies we attend at night, when we are supposed to be all alone and away from the toils of the planet.”

“Whaddya mean? I’m alone most of the time, except for when shit Bannon or shit Miller want me, when the press is bothering me, when I’m making deals with the captains of whatever industry, or when I’m molesting a girl of really any age group.”

“You see, Donald, you are getting off the topic, and I really think that, uh, now is a good time to, uh, pay attention.”

“Ok, fine, Barry. Hurry up, I’ve got a load of small minds to stimulate out there!”

“I made decisions, as president, that cost people their lives. It might have been a bomb I dropped, a drone strike I authorized, an increase in private prison spending, a failure to produce a single-payer health care option, or simply the inability to disconnect the government from the invasive lobbying arm of the defense industry. Whatever the case may be, I, uh, made choices, and, uh, people, good, bad, and downright nasty, died because of them.”

“People, we have the smoking gun! You hearing this guy? He’s confessing to murder!”

“Donald, as president, your choices, your words, they can affect society in a way where people actually die. They die by your action or inaction. Their blood is inescapably on your hands. And you still have to go to sleep at night. When you sleep, you attend your ghost rallies. I attended mine diligently until the day I died, you see.”

“Wait a minute, you’re dead?”

“I am the ghost of your future, so yes, I’m dead. And the reason I’m at this rally, as well as all of those billions of people you see out there, is because of choices you made. You chose to remove people’s health care. You chose to plunge the minorities and disenfranchised classes (your main base of support) into the fire of economic inequality. Poverty and lack of healthcare caused a wave of plagues that wiped out huge chunks of society. Rolling back the EPA and regulations allowed tycoons to destroy the planet for a buck or two, exacerbating the problem of the plagues, causing displacement, famine, hurricanes, and other wild temperature patterns. Food shortages turned into global starvation epidemics. Things got, uh, pretty nasty. You chose to go to war. With everyone.”

“Barry, honestly, I didn’t ever really think you were that bad an hombre. What happened to you? Why are you dead?”

“Well, you tweeted about how the smoking gun about your wire tapping claims should be the one that’s pointing at my dead body, and, well, uh, one of your fans listened to you. Imagine that. They got my family, too.”

Obama pointed out his family, sitting in the front row.

“So all of these people are dead, because of me?”

“Like I said, you did hold the biggest rally ever. You killed more human beings than any other human being in history. And they’re all here, and none of them love you. In fact, the point of ghost rallies is for them to demonstrate how much they hate you.”

“What?”

“This is a dream, so ghosts can’t kill you. But we, uh, can sure as fuck fuck with your head. So I’ll get started.”

Obama grew to be 20 feet tall, then he stepped on Trump, flattening him into a tiny disc. He reached down, grabbed him by the mop, and pulled him back up into his proper, sloppy form.

“Ok, who’s next? Everyone line up for their turn!”

Every ghost in the crowd stood up and began to file into line.

“I hoped you packed your golf balls, Donald. It’s going to be a long night.”

The next person in line was Arnold Swarcheneggar.

“Arnold? What? What did I do to you?”

“Dah-nold! It’s me! Ah-nold! Did you really think that you, the compilation of every cheesy 80s action movie villain I ever had to slay, would get away with destroying the planet, without hearing a perfectly placed one-liner before I kill you?”

“Well, I don’t really ever think. And besides, Barry said you can’t really kill me, so do your worst, Robocop!”

Arnold tossed Trump a book. Trump picked it up.

It had a picture of Donald on the cover, with a Hitler mustache. The title of the book was Mein Drumpf.

Donald opened it up, only to see the same words sprawled across every page:

Open your eyes.

Donald flipped through the pages and saw that every page had the same words.

He looked up.

“What is this?”

Arnold smiled.

“I’ll be back.”

Just then, Donald was startled awake by his television set. Fox News was still on.

“In a massive disappointment, Donald Trump has pulled the plug on the GOP effort to repeal and replace Obamacare. To say this is a failure does not do justice to the immensity of this defeat. Donald Trump made a promise to the people who voted for them, and he failed in every sense.”

“No!”

The door to the Oval Office burst open with the kick of a muddy commando boot.

Arnold, smoking a fat cigar, came into the office through the open doorway, holding a giant gatling gun.

“Hey Dah-nold.”

They made eye contact. A tear formed in Donald’s eye. Arnold blew out a giant puff of smoke, into Donald’s face.

“You’re fired.”

The gatling gun ripped Trump to shreds, as well as the massive pile of shit that tried to escape through the back door.

Donald Trump then woke up on the floor of a hot cave. He was now a ghost.

Martin Luther King, Jr. helped him off his back.

“One man’s hell, is heaven for many others.”

Martin waved his hand forward and showed Donald the line of ghosts waiting to take their turns enacting revenge, from then until eternity, on the man who made their realities miserable, for as long as he was allowed to leave his stain on the planet.

“You have a dream to fulfill, and it is not at all like mine.”

The End

#donald trump #trump #murica #america

1 note · View note