Some months later, it was the eve of the election. Pilder had already won the Democratic nomination by default. Meanwhile, Bubble had easily demolished the few remaining stragglers, who simply couldn’t compete with his relentless barrage of cruelty, crassness and viciousness.
The Presidential debates had turned out to be every bit as horrific (if horrifically entertaining also!) as expected.
And even the Machiavellian cunning of Pilder was at times lost for words; the Democratic candidate only had partial and half-hearted support from the party establishment, as he had never been supposed to win in the first place. Dark rumours persisted that the private view of the party hierarchy was that the Democrats would actually benefit if Pilder were to crash and burn; because it would kill off radical change in all forms, for a generation; if not ten, or twenty, or a hundred.
At the moment, it looked like Bubble was a shoe-in. This was not to say, of course, that support was universal. Some juvenile college students and professional grievance peddlers still doggedly clung to the corpse of Democratic progressivism; Bennie Pilder seemed to represent the dying scream, the final, desperate death throes of a doomed party. It was rumoured that the party might split completely if Pilder ended up suffering the commonly predicted electoral massacre. But nobody seriously thought that would make any difference, no matter what they said.
It was rumoured that the Bubble Body Count had misfired somewhat, insofar as Marcus’s mother had now joined his sister Sandy, and many other people who were alleged to have been destroyed by Bubble. Of course, Bubble was essentially untouchable. Thus, even though there were at least three cases were Bubble’s hands seemed to be all over the deaths, and many other at least half-plausible cases, none of the police were remotely interested in asking too many questions, or probing too deeply into something that was, as they had it, absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with them.
Still, it was Adams who was openly stigmatised and denounced as a murderer. Adams was left mute by the incident, and struggled to defend himself in court. However, the trial was rigged, and there was a surprising lack of drama. As high-profile murder trials go, it was surprisingly speedy. On the eve of execution, news filtered out, regarding some contentious comments, ranging from the ridiculous, to the rampantly egotistical, to the downright treasonous. These, of course, were deliberately distorted and misquoted, in order to make Adolph guilty by association with the likewise guiltless Saul and Deborah. Among these were:
1. I do not advocate the national interest.
I advocate the interests of American individuals.
2. If we are going to save welfare, we are going to have to be clever about it. Let’s stop talking about the good of society, and let’s start talking about individuals, as we used to do. Otherwise, there is no hope.
3. Serving Humanity, as such, is a mistaken venture. Individualism must be defended.
4. If loyalty to Humanity is treason to the Individual, and if loyalty to the Individual is treason to Humanity, I have no other option, but to be disloyal to the ideals of many in the misguided political class of today.
Surprisingly enough, the dishonest fake news rumour mills made numerous false accusations of impropriety on Adams’ part, regarding leaked documents concerning surveillance and warmongering; being bribed and funded by white nationalists; and even being in the pocket of the NRA, which at this point in the history of America, was an almost indistinguishable accusation…
At least in certain circles.
All of this was highly gratifying to Senator Bubble, who was about to become the President of the Once-United States of America. One of the first things he did was to threaten Jordan and Lebanon with absolute destruction; two of the very few remaining countries untouched by the Centrist Empire’s endless campaign of humanitarian aggression.
Bubble grinned widely and hollowly, addressing the entire planet (or so he thought), revelling as the self-appointed leader of the self-styled Free World; greater, more patriotic, and freer than ever before.
On Election Day, he warned the people that he was for the Many, not the Few, and that all the enemies of America, both within and without, had better have a care for their necks! Speaking of hurting necks, he ostentatiously hugged a well-bribed rape victim; although some would say ‘well-threatened’ was nearer to the mark. This bone-cruncher hug, brutally imposed on one of the victims of the aforementioned abortion clinic shooting, might never have happened, had the constitutionally ignorant Bubble known she had been an HIV activist. The shrewd tactician and sexual terrorist Dickie Klindel knew well what to speak of, and what to bury beneath the shadows.
Of course, after some initial hesitation and grunting, he also made some inappropriate and flippant quips about the abortion clinic shooting; the media did lap it up, however, because Bubble said the jokes in such a way as to make Adams look bad. And if the media hated the Republicans, it hardly hated any less the man who had contributed towards slaying their baby, Marcus Seamus Riddle.
The future for America was now looking extraordinarily bleak; people could not have believed things could get any worse. But in certain key respects (Why ask? For time is fleeting, as every patriotic citizen knows!) the national crisis deepened ever darker, and more brutal.
Not least because the few remaining heroes and heroines in public life were finally fading into the shadows. And not Adams alone. For, the despicable race-hustler who blackmailed Adams also finally exposed Willow’s talk with Adams on the mountain-top, as well as her HIV-positive status (after the false negative that we saw some months back). This was bad enough; but the selective video footage of her naked swim with Adolph finally led the fragile Willow to a desperate suicide. The media tut-tutted on the fact that she was heavily pregnant when she murdered herself; although it was an open secret that the father was really Marcus Seamus Panthera Riddle (although he was normally discreet about his second middle name).
Saul, utterly disgusted at the news, staggered as best he could to what he hoped was the last surviving honest journalist in the USA. He wanted to tell the journalist about Riddle’s brutal violation of his beloved Deborah; but as he tapped his cane along the pavement in the utmost agony and torments of body and soul, his body ravaged by the early stages of Parkinson’s, Saul tutted and spat to himself, bitterly bemoaning his betrayal of Deborah in Yunnan; the innocent, gentle, tender warmth of the younger woman, and his hateful defensiveness towards the woman who could not but love and admire to the very depths of his being, even now.
Eventually Saul made it to the door of the person he was intending to meet.
The door swung open and, as though in a dream, Saul thought he had seen the curious tormented catty-boy again.
‘Quod scripsi, scripsi!’ screamed the ragged, running tormented letters of blood, on a squished-up cat face so lamentably yowly and tragicomic, Saul burst into hollow laughter.
Just then, the entire place went up in flames.
Sally’s grim, tear-stained eyes viewed the terror attack dispassionate, unemotionally, un-vindictively.
As Benito and Dickie suddenly pinned her from behind, muffled her trembling lips and pulled her underwear off, Sally went limp and numb. She felt nothing. It wasn’t like rape. It wasn’t violation. It wasn’t like anything.
When she finally came to, ten hours later, she was dimly aware that if she didn’t pick herself up and try and get home, she was sure to perish in the cold; especially given her recent inexplicable racking cough.
K’Simah saw her.
And he walked on by.
The priest who had so enraged Cassie some months ago saw her.
He walked on by.
The once-generous pastor who had given the Bible to Sally saw her.
He walked on by.
The once-kindly imam saw Cassie.
He walked on by.
Sally started to wonder if she was imagining things.
Was it really just a dream?
Or was the rest of it just a dream? Who can say…
She closed her eyes. She knew her death was near.
“Fare thee well, person of white extraction,” Otis sniffed. “Phat ass white girls always snuff it better!”
Gideon Truman snorted, his meaty bullneck snapping to attention as best it could, his bulbous, streaming eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“FAKE NEWS!” he roared, as Palmer Miller nonchalantly strode over and spat on her tits.
Bennie Pilder knelt down to suck ‘em (fuckin’ awwwwwwesome, duuuuuuuuude!), but Su Chun pushed him away. As she knelt down to finally lick her out, Sally felt her vagina moisten, freshen, self-invigorate, bristling with a boundless energy never seen before in her life. As Su Chun’s tongue made her body thrill with unimaginable pleasure, Sally opened her eyes and screamed, as she found Big Xian ruthlessly biting her cunt to shreds…
With the eyes of the ginger waster, and ten thousand comrade beady eyes in his hands.
Dizzy with fear and terror, Sally tried to tighten her vagina, in the hope the eyes would fade into oblivion.
She sensed the eyes were gone.
“Where are you, Sally?” plaintive Jim mourned.
Sally burst into tears, finally finding a burst of death-strength to embrace her brother.
All of a sudden, Allan screamed ‘Bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Sally screamed, as Allan roared maniacally, plunging his dick into her dried-up pussy, and sending endless streams of blood and pus upwards into her barren womb.
“Stop! I prayed for forgiveness!” she sobbed, despairing that now her soul was lost forever.
“Come to daddy!” her aborted infant roared, in the form of Marcus Bubble.
Ruby stood over Sally, gaily pissing in her hair.
“Well ah didn’t never seen no empty cunt ahhhhh didn’t like! Who said the President can’t inhale them thaengs! Nah listen here mah precious bawwwwwwwwwz!” Lynton Goering slobbered.
“Fuck that fuckin’ bitch in every goddamn hole!” Cassie laughed, ramming her twenty-foot dick into Sally’s mouth.
“Is there room enough for me?”
Sally, unable to speak, pleaded with them to forgive her.
“Forgive us for what? Forgiveness doesn’t mean shit?” they cruelly guffawed, as one.
“I don’t know… I don’t know… Anything… Anything… Anything…” she trembled.
“Bitch! Shut yer damn cunt!” Allan roared. “We told you, you had to become a real American before we could let you go!”
“But I am a real American!” Sally screamed.
“FAKE NEWS!” Gideon screamed.
“So why did you murder your offspring?” Cassie groaned.
“I prayed… I prayed that they… that they…”
“Bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Otis spat.
Last of all came Saul, bound and shackled, with a giant cunt just like this ‘un, in his salty forehead.
“What would you want to do with a pussy like this?” Bubble grunted.
“Not Saul… Not Saul…”
With mounting horror, Sally realised Saul was now a clockwork robot.
“We won’t turn him back on unless we do as we say!”
“And as you desire!” Ruby roared.
“What have you done… Saul, Saul, Saul, dear Saul… Put him back the way he was!”
Gideon Truman dealt Sally a crushing blow in the skull.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Cassie laughed. “This is the way he always was?!
“No! He wasn’t! You’re lying!” Sally screamed.
The naked body of Lucy appeared before her eyes, momentarily bursting into a pyrotechnic blast of fire, blood and stones.
The maggots fell upon Sally’s tormented, twisted, tortured body, and started furiously devouring her meagre flesh.
“In the Name of Our Common Humanity!” High Priestess Ruby struck up the satanic liturgy of her metropolitan jihad.
“In the Name of the National Interest!” Marcus Bubble solemnly intoned.
The whole place was ablaze with fire and ice.
“Hail, O Hail, Almighty Global Village!” the infernal choir dinned…
“And may the National Interest bring the Holocaust upon the enemies who hate our Freedom!”
Sally, hideously aquiver like a trembling mouse in the final torments of a savage feline, begged one last time for mercy:
“I don’t hate anyone. I’ve changed. Please, please, please, let me do some good in the world. I want to love everyone. I want to help everyone do some good.”
All of a sudden, the whole universe came crashing down with a hideous gong.
All was empty.
Sally’s bleeding, aching body wound its way beyond all hope of consolation.
Was there anything left, in all of time and of eternity, other than this?
She was condemned to drift like this; the one, the only, the sole existent conscious being left, the only one who was awake.
How could she bear to be left alone like this forever?
Sally’s lips trembled, and she piteously sobbed a little.
But she must spare her tears.
For Eternity was sure to disclose the rest.
Dimly, Sally saw a black hole before her.
‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here,’ the swirling sang.
‘Forgiven me, Levi,’ she whispered, as her infant gazed upon her, gently, from a cloud.
Beyond all hope, the infant’s chubby cheeks broke out into a smile, as he finally recognised his mother.
Sally closed her eyes, and she finally felt the baby’s gentle hands caress her.
“There is only you and me,” she whispered.
Finally, at last, they could fall, without ever dreaming of the rise.
“I’ve waited so long to find you,” she thought.
She knew that here, the forgiveness was absolute.
The love was unconditional.
For there was nothing left on earth for her now; least of all in America.
“I think I’m ready to come home now,” she murmured, and she felt the baby’s heart leap for joy, at one with hers.
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