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onald Trump sat alone at the table on the porch. A gold toilet sat in an adjacent room. Upon his shiny, cold, hard throne, he was safe. The tensions, the push, push, push and final release were easy and animal enough for him to understand. The pleasures of cleansing his bowels, eradicating all that he found toxic within the lining of his potato, squishy, sugar-fat temple was his sole pleasure in life. He had a purpose there, a task which he could complete without thought. He could shit. He raised the fork to his mouth. The fourth Trump Steak made the fears go away. The tender meat sat in his stomach acting as a pillow that smothered those pains, burnings, like molten rising from the acid in his stomach. It compressed. Then, it built. Bubbles formed, grumbling ensued. He could feel it rising, crawling up into his lungs. The steaks could no longer hold back the hot insanity, rolling through his esophagus. “SAD,” blurted out from his pursed, white lips. It bounced off of the walls of the porch. No one herd him. No one cared. He put his fork down. His old eyes hung in his skull as he glared at the TV on top of the microwave. “SAD,” he said aloud again to no one in particular, as if it were some compulsion like a bird crying or a priest masturbating. His old, dried up orifices that were so used to “accidentally” caressing the post-pubescent bodies of the Miss Teen USA changing room, now honed in on a motorcade that flickered across the TV.


By Dalton

unholy anus of Judas. Donald sniffed. It was a long sniff, a hard sniff, a gasp through his rotted nostrils. It rose. It thundered through his lungs. Kennedy smiled. The remote begged, pleaded, called to Donald. He was unable to acknowledge it. He could not look away from Kennedy’s all-encompassing grin. He knew it was coming. He lunged for the remote. The air rose and launched the steak at the screen. “SAD, SAD, SAD, GROSS, SAD,” poured out in a hysterical release. A bang rang out from the TV. He clicked pause. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t want to. But, he could feel all those teeth separate and open as American mouths gasped fifty years ago. He knew Jackie had leaned over the edge of the motorcade to scoop up the remnants of a “great America” now veiled by bits of chewed steak. Donald got up from the table. Without looking up, he dragged his pathetic lump of flesh to his golden throne. He pulled down his pants. He sat. He sniffed. It was always hard to start. The push came without though. His tight bunghole coughed but with nothing. He pushed harder this time. Sweat built in a jagged line across his hairline. Red overtook his face in a flush of distress. The veins on his throat bulged in desperation. He had to. It had to be purged. He gripped the edges of the seat. He clenched his teeth. He screamed like being born, “SAD, SAD, SAD, SAD, SAD.” His body sat like it was melting. He began to sob. The TV flickered, alone, in the corrupted gore of the idealized past.

He was waving. She wore her pink dress and pink hat that day. It was all a good little show. Donald scooted closer. His favorite part was coming. People smiling, happy, waved back, cheered, loved, and pulled out their Super 8 cameras. Even through the old grainy footage, Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas was bright and green. All those sets of teeth seemed to reflect the sun like blissful mirrors brightening the hue of the parade route. Donald looked down at his hands. Tan and veining, they needed a purpose. He wiped them through the thinning blonde fibers that were sewn into his head. The motorcade entered a turn. The energy bled through the screen. You could feel Jackie’s smile like the sun shredding. Donald felt a pang rip through his stomach. He pressed those tiny, tan skin-gloves to his belly. He grabbed the fork shoved steak down his throat, almost choking. He coughed and gagged. Drool lightly dripped down the weathered sides of his mouth. He needed to smother it, to plug it. Kennedy’s eyes pierced through the screen. Donald had no option but to stare. His mouth pried open by an overflow of meat, he started to quiver. Their eyes were locked like Mike Pence’s fingers in the


What To Expect When You're Electing — Side A  

The "Trump Presidency" section of this issue! Check out Side B for our projections of a Clinton presidency!

What To Expect When You're Electing — Side A  

The "Trump Presidency" section of this issue! Check out Side B for our projections of a Clinton presidency!