The Implosion of Trump and the Cannibalization of Pence

By Mame Bougouma Diene

TRUMPPENCE 2016

To Meghan B Chadonic who supports the raving insanity I put to the paper.

 

“What was once one race is now two; one above and one below.” The Time Machine (The movie)

Mike Pence´s twenty minute absence in a Virginia restroom was presented as a joke. But the truth is much more sinister.

From the 2197 Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki (SVR – Russian Intelligence) Archive on the 2016 US Presidential Election:

  • To attain immortality Donald J Trump had himself cloned thrice, using his semen and the nanotech-infused womb of a hapless Eastern European mail-order bride. A Donald Jr., an Ivanka, and an Eric clone. But they were flawed: At 6´5 Eric was too short, Jr. was too moreno, and Ivanka was too female.
  • To support his claims to well endowed-ness, Donald J Trump attempted to have a bigger dick, tattooed on his dick.
  • For unknown reasons, Donald Trump had rectal surgery performed to increase the size and flexibility of his anus.

Don’t let the campaign signs fool you. Don’t let his soporific speeches lead you astray. Mike Pence is no more, or perhaps he still is, somewhere inside the blob of a spoiled spawn of Queens. What was one man, is now two, one outside and one inside: Trumppence.

“Mahyke! I have faith in you Mahyke! Don’t disappoint me Mahyke! This will be yuge! Yuge!”

Mike Pence shivered on the campaign bus. The press had no idea of Donald´s nefarious intentions, and attributed the shiver to the air conditioning, that Donald required remained at a chilling 45°F, maintaining the sperm stored in his amygdales at an acceptable temperature for his next cloning attempt, this time as a hebrew-negro to woo both Israel and Black Lives Matter at once.

He threw desperate glances at the press, and remembered the small laser implanted in his ear chip, sending tiny jolts of pain into his cortex, every time his master said: Yuge! And looked away.

“I´m not sure Donald…”

The Donald raised an eyebrow.

“I mean…You´re right of course.” He turned to the press his best vice-presidential smile bellying his inner horror. “I believe in this man!” and turned back to his overlord. “Of course you´re right. I should have seen it myse…” He paused, grabbing his stomach “It´s the tacos again Donald. We really need to skin all these Mexicans alive, mind if we pull over at the McDonald´s over there? I gotta unload some of this pastor.”

“We will be elected! We will be yuge Mahyke! You and me Mahyke! Yuge! Don’t be long Mahyke! I´m watching you Mahyke!”

In Pence´s brain, little lasers tingled.

In the Virginian urine-encrusted restroom of occasional hobo buttsex, where one of the dark minions had scribbled in their own diarrhea: ´Trump Comes´, Mike Pence pushed.

The greasy puerco pilbil he´d been sold en lieu of pastor ran through his bowels like the fires of hell in his masters mop.

He doesn’t mean it. He can´t really do that. Can he? There is nowhere to go. He will find me. His minions are everywhere. He thought, a whiff of diarrheic graffiti tickling his nose hairs. I have to flee.

Pence pulled his pants up without wiping, and approached the door of McDonald´s restroom, his brain throbbing as Donald spoke to journalists about things yuge and not so yuge. And he heard them talking, the Dark Guard, born and bred in the bowels beneath Trump Plaza, their empty eyes staring ahead, their empty minds unconcerned about his movements.

He crept up to the window and slowly pushed it open, pulling himself up, the feces sticking his underwear to his butt and pushed himself through, and out into the midsummer afternoon.

He fell, hands first and as he looked up into what he thought would be the shadow of an oak tree, he saw his master´s insignificant crotch, the breath of fork-eaten pizza bearing down on him, with hints of pineapple and red peppers.

“You disappoint me Mahyke! Like black people! Yellow people! Red people! Gay people! Handicapped people! And the sick! You disappoint me Mahyke!”

At least he hasn’t said yuge, Pence thought, as Trump grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him back screaming into the campaign bus.

“We will be YUGE!”

Pence´s brain short circuited, and he saw Trump´s true form for the first time outlined against a black sun, his skin a red white and blue flag, in negative colors, flying upside down, genitals hanging from his chin, a penis instead of a tongue, and his ass a huge gaping hole releasing a nauseating mix of Success Eau de Toilette and Ivanka Trump Eau de Parfum, sprinkling Pence´s face and mouth relentlessly.

“Yuge, Mahyke! Yuge!”

 

Later that year, in mid-October…

Conflicting reports from the Make America Great Again Campaign Manager seem to indicate that Mike Pence is actually well in spite of not having been seen in public for over a month now.

Governor Pence appears regularly on podcasts, but has not been seen on television either for the same duration.

While some speculate that he´s taking a backseat to his running mate, Donald J. Trump, some suspect that the presidential candidate has, in fact, booted him from his campaign, preparing for the last minute nomination of his son, Donald Jr. in what many consider an unsavvy attempt to ban Skittles from American markets.

Mark Radvan, the late CEO of the Wrigley Company, a subsidiary of Mars Incorporated, was found dead in his apartment choking on what appears to be three skittles he picked out of a bowl he was advised not to pick from by Donald Jr. himself, giving credence to the rumors.

Is all of this bullshit? Possibly. Who knows? And who cares?

Anastasia Gimey – Moorecock, on the campaign trail reporting live from Ohio for WTF News.

 

“No! I never signed up for this! They hated me in Indiana! I had to join this campaign! I had to! I don´t want any of this!”

Donald J. Trump loomed over Mike Pence, his modified anus open large and ready to swallow his VP whole, and absorb him into one supra-being, a politically invincible machine with the media appeal of Brangelina, and the sexiness of Yokozuna.

For Trump knew what Hilary did not, that LIVE is EVIL spelt backwards, and no matter what he said, no matter what he did, no matter if he sweated butter milk and swiped pancakes across his forehead naked and covered in sprinkles, as long as he was LIVE he would prevail.

“Don’t move Mahyke! This is gonna be yuge!”

Pence stood immobile, between two gravity-reversal beams, looking up into The Donald’s singularity-sized gaping maw inching towards his head, a hundred feet beneath Trump Plaza, facing the cloning engines churning out dead-eyed baby voters by the dozen, feeding the babies steroids until they reached linebacker size, adorning them with wife beaters and short shorts, old glory and eagle tattoos, generic sunglasses and gallons of urine-recycled beer, feeding them the words that would drown out any opposition:

“Oh yeah! All lives don’t matter? So you don’t like ‘Merica? Second Amendment, bitch! You some moozlum terror sympathizer, huh? Where were you on 9/11? Falafel, falafel, faggot!”

Trump’s shadow descended over him, his usually barely coherent words coalescing into one vocable:

“Yuge Mahyke! Yuuuuuuuuge!”

Trump’s anus swallowed Pence’s head whole with a hemorrhoidal suction, stretching to absorb his shoulders, down to his belly, and gobbled him whole, two leather shoes dropping from what was now Trumppence, with a final resounding fart, and Mike Pence was gone.

 

A cold morning inJanuary 2017 in Washington DC.

Barack and Michelle refused to come. Hilary had hung herself with Bill’s flabby penis the night before. America was in shock, after months of denial at the result of the 2016 General Election. The world was pissed. Really pissed. Somewhere in the vicinity of Jupiter the crew of an alien spacecraft bound for first contact with Earth doubled-back to get fucked up at the Space Bar, somewhere at the crossroads of Orion.

It was a shitty day.

But not for Trumppence, who waddled his 360 pound slob of a decayed humanity in the shadow of the Washington Memorial, that, for some bizarre reason, had lost its erect stance, looming limply over a crowd of Trump fanatics and voting clones, chanting the only word they now knew:

’Merica! ‘Merica! ‘Merica!

Trumppence glowed with sweat in the cold, his feet barely touching the ground. His fiery mop of hair blowing against the wind like Brad Pitt’s in Legends of the Fall, his eyes blazing like Angelina Jolie’s after a sex party.

He reveled inside, or rather he struggled with the indigestion of Mike Pence inflating his colon, but his plan had worked, and his flawed clone Donald Jr. waited to officiate as his purported VP, Eric and Ivanka staring into the crowd, on the lookout for spies, or Jews, whichever came first.

The Election had been a breeze, his clones had taken over all the major news networks, drowning out regular voters and crippling others at rallies and protests throughout the nation.

It was time for Inauguration, and he was ready.

SCOTUS Justice Sonia Sotomayor looked ready to vomit as Trumppence waddled up to her, and just as he approached an American flag detached itself from the Capitol and landed upon the beast, which stumbled and fell forward.

Donald Jr. rushed to help his original as he thrashed under the flag, wailing in pain, and stood up, his face exploding in purulent boils and rashes growing on his hands. Sotomayor vomited, then vomited again.

“Father…” Junior started.

“It’s ok…I’m yuge!”

Trumppence walked up to Justice Sotomayor who wiped her indignity on her robes and held out a bible to Trumppence’s pus dripping hands. He grinned at her, his winning grin of seduction, the grin he’d used so often while kicking tenants while they were down, and laid his hand upon the book.

“Repeat after me,” Sotomayor started “I Donald John Trump do solemnly…”

She never finished her words, and Trumppence started convulsing. His hand glued to the book, unable to detach it. He burped and farted foul smoke upon the steps of the Capitol, his shape jiggling like a mountain of jello, his stomach rumbling under his shirt, the shape of a face none had seen for months pushing against the skin of his stomach, its mouth opened in a scream of velvety silk and gaudy blue and pink stripes.

Sotomayor fainted. Trumppence squatted and pushed, the fumes streaming from his distorted rectum growing darker and more nauseating, until he emitted one final bellow and exploded as Mike Pence tore naked through his anus and landed on the stage covered in semi-digested dollar bills and the bile of cheap wine wrapped in expensive labels, wailing like a newborn baby, in the chunks of Trump’s body, breathing in the nauseating fumes, holding his own neck in a chokehold.

The clones, Jr., Eric, and Ivanka dropped dead, and the crowd gasped, reveling in Trump’s stench, their arms open towards a disoriented Pence who walked down the steps and onto the green.

The crowd opened up for him, their hungry eyes on him, their hands growing claws, and as one closed in on him without a sound and feasted upon his flesh as the god born of Trump.

The Washington Memorial raised its flaccid self, standing erect once more.

It is unclear what happened in the aftermath of the Implosion of Trump and the Cannibalization of Pence. We know for certain that:

  • Trump´s minions all died of indigestion.
  • Hilary was reanimated and sworn in the following morning, and was eventually impeached after a sex scandal attempted in revenge of Bill’s infidelities.
  • First contact was made with the Neronian civilization once the hangover at the Space Bar cleared out; and the world was never the same again.

 

Mame Bougouma Diene is a French-Senegalese American humanitarian living in Brookyn New York. He has a fondness for progressive metal, tattoos and policy analysis. He is published in Omenana, Brittle Paper, Short Story Day Africa, Edilivres (French), AfroSFv2 (Storytime), Myriad Lands (Guardbridge Books), and has stories upcoming with New English Press, Fox Spirit and Galaxies Magazine (French).