After the results of the election became clear, the scope of the event was altered. Soros felt that the original plan was, in light of the recent failure, slightly gauche. Better to cut the guest list down to the essentials: to exclude the journalists, the starlets, the hangers on. It would be a night, they all decided, to get back to basics. Just the old gang: George, Bill, Hillary, Enoch, Alexander, Bob, Morgan, Cooper, Marston, Shmul and, on mutual if begrudging agreement, Barrack. The pizzas were restricted to twenty-eight of Hollywood’s finest, pruned to satisfy the acme of present taste. They had no breasts, no hair, no tongues, no fingernails and no eyesight. They were, in fact, the “salamanders” grown in Epstein’s caves: pale nymphettes with wide, dark-starved eyes. The orchestra was reduced to a string quartet, and the seating chart discarded. The fully coursed menu (contrived, on special request, by Hiroyuki Sakai) was replaced with a buffet.

When they had all assembled, bedecked in golden masks and robes, they found making conversation difficult. The undressed girls, collared and chained to doric pillars around the grotto of Kurt Eichenwald’s Georgetown mansion, were enjoyed quickly and perfunctory by the younger men. Barrack, taciturn and silent, ran through girl after girl -- entering each with wild abandon and spilling load after load in preteen pussy after preteen pussy. After each exertion he pushed the used receptacle aside and grabbed for another, roughly, like a writer running through a pack of menthols. On that night, as on that night eight years ago when he had won, Barrack was insatiable. It made the older men wonder if he could even tell a victory from a defeat. His generation seemed to respond to intensity alone. 

Hillary remained aloof. She sat, with Bill and Kurt, in the Eastern parlor, staring out over the barely-moving treetops from the great eye-shaped window above the ballroom. She splayed out of a red-leather easy chair, free of clothes and make-up, relaxed at last. An underage sex slave was eagerly licking her clit, to little discernible effect.

She looks like a disease of blistered ballsacks, thought Bill, lovingly. So tired. So bruised.

“Hey,” said Bill, breaking the general silence. “How ya doin’?”

Hillary shot him her usual expression -- a knife, speaking volumes.

Bill dropped the act. “I’m worried, is all. Losing this thing... Hell, it’s not what we wanted. But there’s more to life than that job. I know.”

Hillary snarled. The tongue-horn growing from her concealed second head began eagerly lapping at the point of her left nipple: a mossy disaster, dripping ambergris upon the head of the young prostitute.

“Shut, up,” she grunted. "Shut up," said her second throat. 

The general silence again resumed, until it was broken by Kurt Eichenwald. “I think I know just the thing for this,” he said, as he excused himself. He returned moments later leading a newcomer by the neck by a silver chain. “This,” he said, “is Percy. Say hello, Percy.”

Percy was an adorable shota -- a bright, innocent boy of 14 with a bright, innocent body. There were no burns on his arms and legs, no bruises on his knees. He was, to the the eye of the connoisseur, a virgin. And the room was full of connoisseurs. “Hello mommy,” he said.

Hillary snorted, wiping the mucus from the corner of her mouth with her left bubonic paw. “Bring him here,” she said.

Eichenwald, as usual, obeyed. The boy stood before the woman who would be king, his brown eyes wide and watery. His mouth was open, but awkwardness betrayed his tongue. He’d been trained, she knew, in the finest shota schools -- his rude dick was ready to satisfy lewd grown women, and his rude mind had been narrowed to the meanness of pure desire by the sphere of endless televisions used to bathe his uncolored body with the necessary degenerating radiation. He was beautiful; a true innocent. “I like to play minecraft a lot,” he said.

“Stand up straight, boy,” Hillary commanded. "Straight," croaked her hidden mouth. 

Percy did as he was told.

Bill, who was sitting on the edge of the ebony wet bar, felt his skin crawl. He’d been one Hillary’s preteen conquests once too -- not that anyone outside of himself would believe it. Who would believe, after all, that Hillary’s geneaology traced back to that degraded chapter of the Whateley family noted for its occult activities in Dunwitch, Massachusetts between the wars -- a series of experiments which resulted in the intermixture of Whateley blood with something not fully human? Who would believe that young Todd Salkin, an orphan from Pennsylvania had been given to her as food had maneuvered his way, by sheer cleverness, into the ceremonial position of the leader of the free world? Who indeed?

There was a sound of garbage shifting as she stood, the rolls of her immensity pouring like jell-o from the rough container of the throne. “You’re good, boy,” said Hillary. “Perfect.” With a tortured grunt she moved forward, fell to her knees, and began beating little Percy to death.

She hammered at his sternum until it smashed inwards. She clawed at his eyes, pulling fingernail sized scoops out of his vitreous humor and then flicking them away, with contemptuous distaste, onto the mahogany floor. She punched his stomach, and his spleen, until he spilled from both ends -- filling the parlor with the smell of shit and vomit.

“I’m with her,” said Hillary. “I’m with her.” She emphasized the last word, so that it was heavy as an anvil. “I’m with HER,” she commanded. “I’m with HER.”

Kurt Eichenwald was beating off. “I’m with her,” he panted, greedily. "Her," said the monster's second mouth. 

Bill, looking through the slits of his mask, smiled sadly. That could have been me, he thought. It almost was -- but I was clever. I was Ragged Dick -- making my way in the world, however I could.

He imagined, and not for the last time, the life he wanted. Open spaces and cloudless skies: a trailer home, an acre of land, firearms. It was all, he knew, a boyhood fantasy -- and his boyhood lay twitching on the floor. Hillary Clinton was making use of its dick.

Bill’s melancholy lasted until Eichenwald, hilariously, came.

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