It seems that there are only three things that interest mainstream media these days: sexual allegations, Russia and everything related to Trump. News outlets are obsessed with the President, stalking him like a goddamn creeper, reporting on every little minuet detail. These news outlets talk about him so much you would think they ogle him like teenage girls ogle those boy bands. Love him or hate him, the constant coverage is only feeding him attention. But it’s much worse than that. When you have reporters following and reporting the sort of soda the man drinks, then you have unhealthy levels of obsession. You have paparazzi to report on every trivial thing.
Let me stress something. I don’t give a fuck what the president drinks. I don’t give a fuck if he drinks Diet Coke, regular Coke, Pepsi, or straight-up rhino piss. I don’t give a flying fuck at all. How is his soda of choice fucking news? How is the unhealthy habits of President Trump remotely news worthy? Next, CNN will report that Trump scratches his ass, maybe even gives the ole crack check to make sure he wiped good enough. NBC may even come out with a ground breaking report on Trumps choice of doughnut, or his preference in steak. Wait, I believe CNN already covered that. Well-done, which is just awful.
This is part of the reason why hardly anyone takes mainstream media serious.
Trumpocalypse is no available in a 6 x 9 format that is easier to take around and read on the go! It’s insane that Mr. Deadman would work on a Sunday, Superbowl Sunday, instead of sitting on the couch and increasing the amount of shame and self-loathing he’ll feel tomorrow by consuming a mass amount of chips and guzzling beer like he’s in a fraternity.
President-elect Donald Trump slams BuzzFeed by calling trendy news source a ‘failing pile of garbage’ over a report that Moscow has been blackmailing the businessman with past sex adventures in Russia.
On Tuesday, CNN reported that a memo that eluded that Russia has compromising materials over Trump was shared with the Barack Obama and Donald Trump by the US intelligence community.
Later in the day, Buzzfeed published the entire set of memos, which were allegedly “prepared for political opponents of Trump by a person who is understood to be a former British intelligence agent.”
The report alleged that Trump has “personal obsessions and sexual perversion,” including graphic sex acts.
As Trump nears inauguration, heat from liberal camps and liberal slanted news outlets continues to grow. Bombarded with headlines of election foul play, Russian hacks, and hiring hookers the president-elect may get smoked out before his day to sit behind the desk at the oval office can come.
At least, that’s what hopeful liberals would like to think.
I doubt that Trump was blackmailed to go through the process of running a presidential campaign, a campaign that face a gauntlet of opponents, and was victorious despite overwhelming odds.
Trump had already had a sexual scandal of “pussy grabbing” leak out and it did not seem to even put a dent in his campaign. Trump has made very lewd and disgusting remarks about his own daughter, Ivanka Trump, even when she was present. What could Russia possibly have on Trump?
What sort of material would Russia have to have on Trump to motivate him to be their whipping boy? Is there a sex tap with Trump as a gimp for a gang of Russian midgets? Did he pay Pussy Riot for golden showers?
Deadman’s Tome Trumpocalypse befalls on Kindle and for the price of an overrated Starbucks coffee, you get entertainment that will last longer and stay with you so that you can read it where ever you go. Trumpocalypse features ten demented satirical horror stories that chronologically illustrate the Trump’s time as President of the United States of America, from his first day to his last.
Trumpocalypse explores Trumps twitter habits and actually predicted that Trump would get into an argument on Twitter with Kim Jong-un. The collection of satirical horror also includes stories of genetic experiments, battle royale, Trump VS zombies, mass executions, and ends with life on American soil after a terrible virus.
While this issue includes a political theme, it really isn’t all that political. Deadman’s Tome’s official position on Trump is that every president deserves to be ridiculed. It’s a practice that shows the strength of the 1st amendment. It’s a practice that is very American.
While liberals will probably enjoy this issue more than conservatives, the stories themselves are not really that divisive at all. Conservatives, some of them anyway, seem just put off by the title and subject matter, because Trump is the target. To them I say stop being a special snowflake and develop a sense of humor. The most offensive story is Fired Works, which is about the forefathers coming in to send a message… But, even conservatives would enjoy it, if they took the time to read it.
Conservatives ask me why isn’t Hillary in this, or where is the Hillary issue? My response is that Hillary Clinton is a loser. Why beat on a candidate that lost? That’s kicking while they’re down, which is spineless. Yes, Trump is the focus, and it would be unAmerican for me not to target him. He’s the president.
Despise Trump? Think he’s the worst thing to ever happen? Then fuck him.
Even Trump supporters must admit that the cabinet selections are a giant red flag that the Bush years are making a comeback, but with even more doubling down. But, we could prevent that by using his own ego against him. Deadman’s Tome Trumpocalypse is loaded with stories, images, and an interview that will surely piss off the orange faced baboon. Help operation #FuckTrump by sending copies of Trumpocalypse to the Whitehouse and\or Trump Tower!
Due to a goof when navigating the new Kindle Digital Publishing interface, the print edition of Trumpocalypse is now available!
Deadman’s Tome Trumpocalypse is loaded with dark twisted stories featuring the President, riffing on his ego, his micro-penis, and his love for his daughter.
Trumpocalypse delivers more laughs than scares, but the dark tones and demented edge is everything Deadman’s Tome. Check out the interview with Donald Trump where he confesses a bombshell.
Get a copy of Trumpocalypse and join that campaign of getting Trump’s attention. I have purchased two copies and have sent one to the Whitehouse and another to Trump tower. One package may not get Trump’s attention, but a dozen would.
Are you ready for an all out satirical Trump-bash? Loaded with dark, twisted stories at Trump’s expense, an interview with S. J. Budd, and an interview with Donald Trump himself. What? Is this legit? Is Deadman’s Tome going to get sued? It’s not my fault Trump is so forgetful. Must be dementia.
But, in case I do get sued. Please pre-order a copy to help pay for my inevitable legal fees. Deadman’s Tome Trumpocalypse is available through Amazon Kindle for $2.99 and will release January 6th.
Looking for artists to have some fun creating pieces for the upcoming Trumpocalypse issue of Deadman’s Tome.
Dark, satirical pieces involving the Donald could include WWII style nazi propaganda, for example.
Submit art to me via email firstname.lastname@example.org
Alexis stared at her reflection on the elevator door as if searching for the slightest imperfection. Her face a canvas for a cosmetic obsession. A mole appeared just below her right eye, but then disappeared. Light freckles formed to compliment her red hair, but were discarded for being too ginger.
“Alexis, you’re obsessing,” said Loca, rolling her eyes. The Mexican FuckBot wore a skin hugging black leather dress that could hardly contain her dairy cannons. “Just go with the dimples, these old perverts love that sweet sixteen look.”
“These old perverts also love it when you call them daddy,” said Lotus, as she smacked on a wad of gum. Her blue wavy hair obscured the right side of her face. Her black leather mini jacket was opened, revealing a leather bikini with a rack so plump and juicy it would make Hitomi J-Cup blush. The pale smooth flesh of her midsection was exposed like a blank canvas ready for some sploodge art. Her curvy Asian cakes spilt out from a tight leather short-shorts too short to conceal her black thong. “And they’re gonna be on me like flies on shit.”
“I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me. If I don’t want to fuck me, then its not good enough,” said Alexis, as she bent forward to get a closer look at her reflection. Her gargantuan golden tits hung low, restrained only by a lacy bra and the sweetheart neckline of her low-cut strapless dress.
Her round plump ass covered only by a thin layer of skintight red polyester.
Lotus grabbed a handful of white privilege and moved a thirsty finger for that sweet American honey. Alexis slapped her hand away. “No lollygaggin until we’re done with the assignment,” snapped Alexis. She stood up, smacked her lips for a flush of red, and found confidence in her motherload of debauchery wrapped in a coat of that good ‘ole sweet southern charm. She embodied that three gallons of crazy in a two gallon bucket stereotype that them southern boys tend to flock to. “Them old perverts are gonna love me.”
The elevator doors opened, and a cacophony of indiscernible chatter, shrill whoos, and guttural yeahs accompanied by a loud pulsating soundtrack greeted them. Vivid hues bled together and illuminated the dark interior like a gay bat cave.
“This here is definitely a republican convention.” Alexis led the way with a modest hip sway, capitalizing on that sweet and innocent southern gal trope. Her green eyes scanned the room, lifting several threads of raw data from the faces, moving bodies, and inanimate objects. The information rushed through her sensors and uploaded on to her memory banks for cross examination. Her auditory sensors delivered a continuous string of chatter to a central processing unit that filtered for keywords and trends. “Y’all, I’m having difficulty locating the target. A lot of bodies to sort through.”
Lotus scanned a pocket of suits as they raised glasses to celebrate their latest political gains. “I located a few closeted homos for you Loca,” said Lotus, through an internal channel.
“Let me guess, it’s the fat ones. It’s always the fat ones that yearn for a good ole backcountry fuck,” Loca retorted.
The full-bodied bombshells walked over to a crowded bar. Lotus placed a seductive hand on the shoulders of an older man as her moisten lips whispered in his ear, “You wouldn’t mind if I take your seat, would you?”
Panic struck his face as his lips contorted, “Oh Jesus, I hope my wife isn’t around.”
Lotus’ arms wrapped around him. Her lips released Asian fever on his ear. “Oh, such a powerful man like yourself deserves a little something extra, right? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind.” Her lips kiss the old wrinkled flesh of his neck, and a surge of his sexual perversions flooded her mind. “Your wife doesn’t let you have fun in the backyard, does she? You play your cards right, and I’ll give you an all night invitation to mine.”
The balding man hesitated. His wrinkled, liver spotted mouth folded into a frown. “Are you could just leave before your wife sees you with me,” she said. The old fogie awkwardly fumbled out from Lotus’ clutches, and shuffled away. Lotus shook her head in dismay and straddled the stool like giant robocock. “Geez, who invited Bernie Sanders to this party?”
“Seems like a fish out of water, sugah,” said Alexis, as she sat next to her. She motioned the bartender for a drink.
“You should be impressed, you managed to find the one honest guy. Might be the only one in this fucking place,” retorted Loca, as she sipped on her margarita. Her organic taste buds, assisted by artificial sensors and relays, simulated taste. The alcohol absorbed and transmitted through what’s left of her organic tissue.
The bartender came around to Alexis. A baby-faced Aryan race with a hard-on for old bigots, which was evident by the swastika pupils. “What do you want?”
“A whiskey sour.” Alexis glanced at Lotus. “Darlin, make that two. Two whiskey sours.”
The bartender rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. Alexis’ face furrowed as if exposed to a fart from a sweaty ass teeming with wet butt-nuggets. “What’s the problem? You’ve got no money,” said the Hitler youth. Alexis leaned in and he cut her off before she could even send him a wink. “Your boobs do nothing for me.”
“How did Loca get a drink,” asked Alexis, discombobulated.
“You know why.” Lotus redirected her to a sight of a man’s hand grabbing a handful of meat that poked out from Loca’s dress. “I have a feeling we’re going to be wallflowers at this event.”
“Don’t be jealous,” retorted Loca, through internal channels. “If you’re nice, I might get you a drink but I’ll want something in return.” Loca gave them both a coyful wink.
“Darlin, these guys can’t all be gay. Most of them are married, and their wives are present,” said Alexis, as her processors continued the scanning through the bodies.
“Seeing Kommie Sanders swap spit with a Limbaugh in front of his wife does not bode well,” said Lotus, as she shook in horror. “Loca, where’s my drink dammit!”
“Don’t worry I got you covered,” said a dark haired, crooked jaw motherfucker, a smug sense of pretentiousness thick in every word. He inserted a ChipCard into the bar, and instantly the Hitler fag greeted him with a smile so white it must’ve been glossed with cum. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat. And she’ll have a…”
“Whiskey Sour. Make that two. One for me and for my friend.” Lotus’ smile sealed the deal.
“I’ve never seen such an incredible rack on an Asian before,” he said, as he stared at her skin trench.
“You’re one with words, aren’t you.” She maintained her smile.
“My mother always said I was gifted with a silver tongue.” He laughed as if he disclosed something that resembled a fun fact, grossly ignorant to the obvious fact that Lotus did not give a fuck.
Alexis spoke on an internal encrypted channel, “I found our target. He’s in the back booth with loaded security.”
“Neato. Does that mean we can waste him and blow this joint,” Lotus responded, while laughing at another stupid joke about some con man’s childhood.
“I reckon you didn’t catch that he has security. Fully loaded security. We gotta do this discreetly. Let’s see if this southern belle can get his attention.” Alexis chugged her drink. Her synthetic taste buds registered a flavor to transmit from a database. The alcohol, however, was broken down for material determined useful for body maintenance. Momma had yet to approve of the inebriation augmentation she had requested a year ago.
Alexis navigated through a den of snakes and smirked with cute dimples as she approach the dead squirrel wearing buffoon. The orange faced butt plug boasted about his business and claimed his father’s success as his own with arms that swung wildly. The Asshole’s moment at the helm of the glorious ship that is the U.S. of Fucking A had long since passed, but his insistence on his significance had not.
“They said I wouldn’t do it, but I did! And, I got Mexico to fucking pay for it. Oh, you better believe I had something old El Presidente! My huge, and I mean huge American cock!” The Don erupted with bombastic laughter.
Alexis blushed as she approached The Don. “Oh, dear.”
“Well, excuse me miss…”
“Don’t worry about little ole me. The name’s Alexis.” Alexis beamed with manufactured modesty. “Excuse me, Mr. Drumpf, I just wanted to thank you for your brave sacrifice for our country.”
He puckered his face, looked through her with piercing eyes, and frowned. “What’s your angle, tuts?”
“Bless your heart,” she said, confused by his sudden defense. “I’m only wanting to give you gratitude for your.”
“Bullshit,” interrupted The Don. “You waltz up here with your pornstar body and want to shower me with gratitude? No. What you want is to shower my dick with kisses, but for that you’re gonna have to wait in line.” He glanced at his black companion. “Chocolate Thunder, give the bimbo a number will you.”
The muscular bald black man pulled a card from his jacket and placed it on the table. “Look at that. You’re number twelve.”
Alexis grabbed the card and glanced at it as if stunned.
“Don’t worry, tuts. The card will buzz when your number is up,” said The Don, as he took a sip from his drink. “I’ll need you to be committed to your turn for dick sucking. To make sure you’re committed, my guys will come and get you.”
The Don squinted, spasmed as if passing a stubborn fart and then sighed. A brunette emerged from under the table, licking the Asshole’s essence off her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Drumpf,” said the brunette, glowing with enthusiasm.
“You still got a few more drops, baby.” The Don shoved her head back down. “There you go, eat Mr. Drumpf’s shit, baby.”
Alexis forced a smile and turned around. She walked away tearing the card into shreds. “The motherfucker has a fucking list! You believe that shit!”
“Jump ahead,” responded Lotus.
“The carrot skinned fucker is being serviced right now.” Alexis returned to the bar. “Lotus, where did you go.”
“I’m getting rid of a distraction,” she said, internally. Her hands roamed over the senator’s body. He snapped, grabbed her arms, and pinned her face against the tiled walls. “You fucking whore. I’m gonna fuck the sin out of you.”
“Finish up, will ya? I think we need to try something else.” Alexis’ voice flowed through her.
“Did your mom also teach you how to talk dirty,” said Lotus, as she licked her lips. “You should tell her that this little Japanese hoe loves it.”
The sleazy senator’s fingers spread her cherry blossom, while his head swelled with purple torment. “I’m doing this to teach you a lesson.” He shoved his cock into her wet pussy.
“Alexis, I see you’re not concerned about your Mexican sister. Did Mr. Drumpf’s racism get to you already?” Loca’s saucy accent transmitted internally.
“So am I.” Lotus moaned. Cytotoxic fluids gush out from her insides, flooding her vagina cavity with acid. Instantly, the Senator’s dick dissolved down to a bloody pulsating stump. He cried out for help, but a quick stab of a well-timed blade rendered such alarm impossible. Lotus sheathed the blade back into her wrist, and positioned the bleeding body on the toilet.
“Hardly,” said Alexis, while she sat at the bar, trying to sucker someone into buying her a drink. “I figured you’re so deep in the closet that you’ve found Narnia.”
Lotus stabbed the senator’s throat with her fingernails. She drained blood from his body, while a free hand searched for loot. A thin black wallet with a ChipCard, a dozen Benjamins, and presidential clearance card. She pocketed the wallet in the inside pocket of her mini jacket. Satisfied with the amount of sustenance received, Lotus dislodged her fingertips from his neck.
She squeezed her leather short-shorts over her thick thighs and plump ass. She freed one of her Asian melons and aimed an enlarged and enticed nipple at the metal privacy bolt. A thin arch of acidic substance shot from the pink love button and melted the bolt into the latch. She climbed over the stall.
“If Narnia is somewhere in the depths of Kristi-Kream’s asshole, then I’m about to find it,” said Loca, as she made waves out of the bloated pig’s ass cheeks.
“That’s disgusting,” Lotus added, as she checked herself out in the mirror. “Not to add pressure to this assignment or anything, but we’ve got a gift with an expiration date in the men’s room.”
Alexis slammed her fist into the bar, cracking the surface just beneath her hand. “What the fuck? I thought you understood that we need to be discreet.” She glanced around as she covered the damage from curious eyes.
“The motherfucker had it coming,” said Lotus, as she adjusted her hair.
“Lotus, meet me near Mr. Drumpf. I’ve got another plan,” said Alexis. The triple-D redhead bombshell snuck away from the bar, navigated through the throng of corporate owned, family-value praising, self-loathing homos. The roaming waves of light illuminated elder men engaging in all sorts of carnal activities. The wives drank their wine, and watched, while recording future blackmail material.
Alexis bumped into a suit. The tall form turned, revealing a face that triggered her alarm. A white bearded canvas with a familiar face tattoo. The entity did not speak, not even to apologize. The beast of a thing just lumbered away awkwardly. “Lotus, you need to hurry.” Alexis watched as the lumbering giant forced his way through the crowds. Her sensors failed to lock on. “Those guys that beat the shit out of Loca are here.”
“Are you certain,” asked Lotus, as she slithered out from the darkness to join Alexis.
“Yeah, I’m certain.” She shook her head and fixated her vision on Mr. Drumpf. Alexis glanced at Lotus and gave her an assuring smirk. The smoking fire bunny and her buxomly fucky-fucky strutted towards the bombastic carrot. Without any warning, Lotus leaned in on the man, and whispered a thread of hot lust into his ears.
“Pardon me, Mr. Drumpf, but I’m not waiting in line for you dick.” Alexis bent forward with her hands on the table, and watched as Chocolate Thunder and Mr. Drumpf’s other friends stared into her flesh chasm. “When I told my friend the news, that I would have to wait, she just couldn’t bare it.”
“No deal,” said The Don, as he shoved off the thick dose of Asian persuasion. “I get offers from bimbos like you all the time. You losers want it too much. No deal.”
Lotus and Alexis shared a look of confusion. “I was rejected, again!” Alexis yelled through their internal intercom.
“Blackmail might work,” responded Lotus.
“Not likely. He’ll double down and then we’ll be on the defensive.” Alexis body language matched her silent dialogue.
“Ladies, I’ve got this.” Loca emerged from the thick crowd. “I hope these two sluts aren’t bothering you.” Spanglish fell from her black lips in heavy waves, as she approached the booth.
The Don examined her up and down, and his wrinkled frown relaxed. He motioned for her to come closer, “You must be the black rose of Mexico.”
Loca blushed. She placed her feminine hand in his, and leaned in for a whisper. A sweet gift for one wrapped in a promise of political gain escaped from her lips. The Don stared through his people, captivated by the intoxicating offer.
“Leave a man to do what two hoes can’t,” joked Loca, as The Don escorted her towards the elevator.
The Don led Loca inside a small hotel room and closed the door behind them. Loca sat at the end of the bed, smiling at him as he fixed himself a drink. “So, what did my people tell you?”
“They’re your people, Miss Mexico. You should know,” said The Don, as he poured whiskey over ice.
“You and I both know my people are idiots. Blundering businessmen that aren’t willing to play ball, but they’re not me.” Loca examined her nails, and sighed. “That’s why I’ve come to you directly.”
“I’ve already got my hand in just about every export Mexico has, what more could you offer,” said The Don as he leaned against the desk with arms crossed.
“There’s a whole market that you have been blind to this whole time,” she said, taunting words seethed in a thin veil of courteous advice. “A market that would give you leverage over your rivals. So what if it involves exploiting children. They’re Mexican children, right?”
The Don furrowed his brow, squinted his eyes, and crumpled his wrinkled mouth into flabby folds. “Why would you want to go against your people? What’s your angle, Miss Mexico?”
“I want the same thing you want: Power.” Loca swayed her hips as she slithered closer to The Don. Her arms wrapped around him.
He pushed her away and chugged his drink. “What do you want from me right now.”
“Your full cooperation.” Her dry tone raised The Don’s guard. She shoved her long black nails into The Don’s neck. “No screaming for help, Mr. Asshole!”
She felt his blood pump through her fingertips. She slammed her knee against his junk, delivering a catastrophic world of hurt. She bashed her whoreknee against his damaged goods, again. His balls popped and white gunk and blood sprayed like a busted water hose. A mess of ball juice and dark crimson dripped from his saturated slacks. He fell to his knees.
Loca withdrew her fingernails and blood leaked from his perforated neck. “You want huge? You want to see huge? I’ll show you huge!” She inched her leather dress up her thunder thighs.
“Is eleven inches of pure Mexican meat huge enough for you?” She grabbed her thick flaccid cock like a bat and slapped it across his face as if going for a home run. A splatter of blood and saliva shot from his mouth.
“Remember, what goes around comes around!” Her thick meat smashed against his face like a raw 8lb steak. A tooth rolled along the carpet, with a trail of red driblets.
“Now open your fucking mouth,” she roared!
Air bubbles seeped out from his neck wounds, as his lips attempted to mumble something. Loca grabbed a handful of blond roadkill. “If you don’t open your fucking mouth. Miss Mexico is going to skull fuck the shit out of you!”
More air bubbles.
Two-feet of erect Mexican meat slammed against The Don’s right eye like a battering ram, and delivered a jack hammer lobotomy.
A pounding at the door shook Loca from the thrall of a good cranium fuck. She pulled out. Chunks of brain matter stuck to her cock. “Who is it?” She scanned for heat signatures, but did not detect anything near the door.
“Girls, is that you,” asked Loca, as she approached the door. Pieces of brain gunk fell from her stiff member.
The door flew open. Loca ducked as it slammed into her. The wood splintered, while a shockwave pushed her back. A fist battered through the door frame like a sledge hammer, clearing the way for a massive beast of a man. Its blue rageful eyes locked on her, while the familiar face tattoo seemed to glow.
“I’m guessing you’re here for round two,” muttered Loca. She touched the flesh behind her ear to communicate with her sisters, when the beast picked her up by her hair. Its titanium fist pounded into her chest like a battering ram and sent her plowing through a wall. She pushed herself from off the floor, and rolled to escape an incoming wave of mini-rockets. Explosions ate through the interior. Shattering the floor, scorching the carpet, and blasting chunks of gooey gibs from the frightened dudes that held each other in tender embrace.
Loca dodged another close encounter with a rocket. The side of her dress melted into charred flesh. She clinched her fist. Three gun barrels slipped through a small compartment on her wrist, and immediately released a dose of hot lead. Small bullets pierced through the colossal’s suit, picking at bits of flesh.
“You want me that bad, do you?” Loca charged at the roid-raged freak, while she liberated her chichotas from their leather restraint. He fired another mini-rocket from his shoulder cannon. The volatile shell blew through her thigh, taking with it a chunk of flesh and metal. She seethed with gritting teeth, and jump on the muscle-on-muscle freakazoid. He flailed around to get her off, while her nipples doused the fucker’s face with a downpour of cytotoxic fluids. His fleshy face boiled and bubbled to the sizzling chemical burn, as he collapsed to his knees.
Loca forced her milk bags back into the dress. A bit of acid leaked from her left breast and burned through the leather. She limped her way through the devastated hotel room, and into the hallway. The ceiling sprinklers released a stream of water, while an alarm wailed like a banshee.
“So much for discretion,” muttered Loca. She pressed a spot behind her ears. “No one’s worried about little Loca this time?” She dragged her injured leg as she inched her way towards the elevator. “Ladies?” She seethed, and punched the down arrow. No response. She punched it again, and noticed an emergency decal that advised to use stairs in case of fire.
“Jesus H. Christ, I’m not walking down a flight of stairs with this fucking leg,” she mumbled to herself. She pressed her index finger on the emergency switch on the control panel.
“Alexis! Lotus! C’mon, answer me.” The elevator doors opened and revealed a smear of blood. “I take it you two also had a party.” She limped into the elevator. “The silent treatment isn’t cool, ladies.”
The elevator doors opened and Loca stepped into a bloody warzone. Body parts strewn here and there like discarded bones after an all you can eat buffalo wings buffet. Blood ran down the walls and rained from the ceiling. Mutilated bodies with minutes of life flopped on the floor like fish out of water. The wounded crawled under tables and other obstructions for safety.
“Looks like the latina Turbo Slut is ready for round three!” the voice echoed throughout.
“Loca, over here!” Alexis’ voice shouted from the shadows.
“I hate it when they help each other.” The voice resonated along the walls. A slender bearded wonderbread with a face tattoo and cybernetic eye stood on a balcony. He fired a series of slugs from massive machine guns with rotary barrels that ran under his forearms. Chunks of wall splintered, tables shattered, and burst of blood pumped from the scattered bodies.
Two full-bodied silhouettes ran from booth to booth, barely escaping the line of fire. Loca did not need her visual sensor to know that they were Alexis and Lotus. She raised her gun hand at the cybernetic cyclops, when something that had to have been a silverback gorilla pummeled her. She found herself snug in a bear hug, ensnared by tree trunk of arm painted with the blackest of black.
“NiggaPunk got you, bitch,” grunted the gorilla before he executed a body slam. Loca’s vision fluttered. Pixels and static scattered throughout.
Loca kick wildly. Her legs clutched and held in the grip of a wild ape. Partially blind, She fired rounds from her gun arm. The sound of punctured flesh and wet blood, followed by the guttural grunt of pain, told her that she hit her target.
“NiggaPunk about to get fucked up!” She wiggled out from his grasp, and fired at the bastard until the magazine ran dry.
NiggaPunk hunched over and ribbons of blood seeped through his hands. Metallic spikes ran along his head like a morning star. Shades covered his eyes like a Blade wannabe. Golden teeth poked out from behind thick lips that folded into a snarl. NiggaPunk ripped off his red muscle shirt, and pounded on his chest like a fucking ape. Thick globs of saliva flung from his foaming mouth, while the bullet wounds sealed to a close.
“Your ass ain’t nigga cheap,” said Loca, as she backed away with her dick in her hand like a shotgun.
“I’m gonna use that dick as a toothpick, you fucking piss flipper!” NiggaPunk charged the Mexican tranny. Loca cocked her erect dick and shot wad cytotoxic jizz. The acidic cum splattered on the gorilla’s face, but his animalistic rage drove him through it. NiggaPunk rammed his spike head against Loca’s chest, knocking her into a mess of scattered tables.
“Fuck me,” she said, as the winced at the sight of her ruptured fun bags. Blood leaked from the craters in her chest, while fractured titanium exposed sparking circuitry. “Someone needs to put this fucking gorilla back into its cage.”
Like a goddamn stereotype, NiggaPunk pounded on his chest like an alpha ape high on testosterone. Even more typical, he pounded on the floor like a frenzied King Kong boasting for territory.
Loca rolled on to her stomach. She raised her ass up into the air. The ground shook as the wild ape drew closer. She closed her eyes, and waited. The ground shook harder. The chairs, the tables, the bodies all vibrated as the beast drew near. The ground around her splintered as the silverback gorilla honed in on her. His hands wrapped around her lower back. She smiled. “I hope NiggaPunk is an ass man.”
NiggaPunk’s chest cratered. Chunks of dark meat and organs blew out from his back. His arms and legs grew weak like wet noodles. The wild beast collapsed on his ass, where he bled like a blood piñata.
“Fuck Harambe,” muttered Loca, as she pulled herself off the floor. The flesh on her chest had begun to reform, but the dented titanium and exposed circuitry remained. The huge gash on her thigh had reformed, with flesh rebuilding around the exposed electronics.
She grit her teeth, fought through the pain, while scanning for Alexis and Lotus. She found them. Alexis’ voluptuous triple-D breasts bounced as she showered cycloptic Wonderbread with a slew of bullets. Heavy machine guns attached to her wrists smoked as the rotary chamber spun.
Lotus’ thick thighs and big ass wobbled as she ran towards a burly thug. Blood splattered on her midsection, as she punched through a motherfucker’s chest.
Loca attempted to communicate with her sisters again, but no response. She noticed Wonderbread had pinned Alexis under fire, and raised her gun arm to rectify the problem. A quick burst spurted from her barrels. A stream of tiny bullets nipped at the red-eyed cyclops’ face. The face tat motherfucker grabbed his face, and groaned.
Alexis exploited the distraction and sent the squirming cybernetic cyclops a fatal dose of headshot. A gusher of blood sprayed from Wonderbread’s mutilated neck, as the remains of his body plummeted to the ground.
“Loca, are you okay,” said Lotus, internally. “I found the fucking communication jammer.”
A wide grin grew across Loca’s battered face. “I’m alive. Fucked up, but alive.” Toxic milk leaked out from her punctured breasts. “Alexis, what happened?”
Alexis groaned as she limped over the slew of bodies. “These motherfuckers knew we would be here.”
Loca limped towards the bar. “You’re sure about that?”
“They blocked all communication with a jammer, and used tech to throw off our scanners and heat sensors. Yeah, I would say they knew.”
“I think she was being sarcastic,” chimed Lotus.
“You ladies made a mess of these fuckers,” said Loca. Her hands feeling through a jacket on the bar. “I think the military will be looking for us now.”
“It’s not our fault,” Lotus exclaimed. “Five billion changes people, and those thugs and gangbangers did most of it.”
Loca rifled through the contents of a purse, pulled a few cards and a wad of cash. “Just don’t let them go to waste.”
“We don’t have time for that,” said Alexis, tone rushed and alarmed. “These fuckers knew we would be here and there’s a reason for that.”
When you’re asked to compare Donald Trump and horror, you damned well better be qualified to do both. I am.
My book Trump This! The Life And Times Of Donald Trump (Riverdale Avenue Books) is not just a biast gasbag of a political tome. I wasn’t going to make it easy on readers. I just presented the facts and nothing but the facts. The real horror will come when you enter the voting booth come November and decide whether or not to mark your X for The Donald.
As to the horror aspect. I was a journalist for Fangoria Magazine for the better part of two plus decades and, in the process, learned from some of the great horror minds what made good scares. And what literally pulls the wool over people’s eyes. Which has ultimately led me to the following conclusion…
Donald Trump is not the monster. He’s not Jason, Freddy, Pinhead or Frankenstein. What he is, quite simply, is the manifestation of some very real zombies who follow him like lap dogs, cheer and boo on command and basically see in their psychological political creation, the justification of every uneducated stereotype, blind, rascist attitude and the willingness to believe anything that comes out of Donald Trump’s mouth without, for a nano second, even stopping to consider that he might be full of shit.
Yes the monster is you. And with less than 70 days before the election that will decide who will lead this country for the next four years, it is already too late. The monster is loose and out of control. Or, more succinctly, those who created him and now control him are thumping their chests and preparing for the apocalypse. The dark forces of human nature are abroad in the land and anyway you look at it things are looking mighty black.
Stopping to think that your personal and professional failures might be your own fault rather than some Mexican taking your job or that that people who do not look, speak or pray to God the way most God fearing white folks do is the delusion that has led you down the garden path of blind hatred. None of what makes your life a living hell is your own fault. At least that’s the way you see it.
At the end of the day, if Trump wins, the darkest aspects of human nature will have been given carte blanche to come out of the shadows and ply their nightmarish trade out in the open. If Trump loses, the people who don’t read, think, or question will have found their way out of the night and feel emboldened that their way of life, hate and dark horror have been given a legitimate voice by the Trump monster they have created. Trump may ultimately skulk off into the night. But he will have left a legacy; people of no conscience, thought or love taking to the streets with only one thing on their minds…