To the deafening screams and shouts of what could easily be the largest turnout in American history, the newly elected forty fifth President of the United States walks onto the stage of his inaugural pronouncement.  The location for this policy setting speech is deliberate and telling; nestled between the Museum of American History and the Department of Agriculture at the National Mall with the large phallic visage of the Washington Monument providing the backdrop, the POTUS hopes to emphasize both the revolutionary character a non-political billionaire narcissist will undoubtedly bring to the White House and to let the world know that “we” possess a huge throbbing white cock and the will to wield that meaty stallion against all those who stands in America’s way.  Of course “America’s way” is his way, after all the people have spoken and chosen this man amongst men to lead them.  A man with the most elegant hair of any who have served in the office of president, a man whose rather wall centered foreign policy struck a large nerve with the great majority of Americans, a man known on his reality show as “The Donald,” and now a man whom you may call President Trump.

The stage upon which Trump stands in akin to what one might find amongst the drugged and drunken rabble at some festival show.  Scaffolding posts holding aloft a canvassed roof adorned with a giant image of Trump’s face, the campaign slogan “Make America Great” alongside simple reminders of the new president’s name plaster the façade with giant American flags acting as sentries.  All the canvassing was the signature Trump blue of his glorious campaign, along with random red and white stars dotted the scene adding to the ambiance of patriotism, and the sheer greatness of a man who possessed the sheer will to topple the centuries old political establishment armed with nothing more than misogyny, xenophobia, casual racism, and the promise of a big fucking wall!

The crowd is absolutely tremendous.  Nobody previously realized or took seriously the numbers of support Trump was able to garner throughout the thickened arteries of all points between the coasts.  NYC, LA, Chicago, and other leftist leaning metropolises might not have supported him, but every Bum-fuck Virginian and Johnny Suburbs were scooped up into The Donald’s fear mongering arms like scared kiddies who need daddy.  What were they so afraid of?  Well aside from the propaganda about all peoples not American, there was the fear of dynasty that runs through the depths of the American psyche.  Two Bush’s had their turn in office and the Clinton’s were not going to get that same opportunity.  In the minds of the majority of Americans, they were faced with the choice between the woman whom embodied the very fabric of a political system virtually nobody trusted, and the man who made jokes about how he abused that very same corrupt system.  Oblivious to hypocrisy and with bellies full of ignorance born of propaganda, America chose its new face and they stood in veneration and awe.  They acted as though there were some high-speed automobiles continuously veering left or some group of athletes were trying to score points against some other group of similar athletes.  Jumps of joy, hand-clapping, fist pumps, hooting and hollering, screams of ecstasy, patriotism, campaign slogan chants, and varied racial slurs all swarmed together forming a deafening vortex of dumb rendering useless any hopes of hearing oneself think.  The crowd was awash in patriotic colors, whether it be hats, shirts, Zoobas, and/or shoes, these proud people numbering around half a million showed up in force to celebrate the individual freedom Trump touted so heavily during his campaign by ironically cheering in unison and dressing near identical.  Perhaps oddest of all were those few wearing Trump styled wigs as a symbol of their unwavering loyalty.  That fashion choice alongside their choired chants of “our leader is chosen” and “all hail the new chief” would have seemed to others in attendance as cult like had they not been caught up in their own fervor which was quickly approaching its fever pitch.

Standing at the epicenter of this raucous melee of ravenous sycophants while being surrounded and shadowed by both secret service and his own personal bodyguards was the man of the hour, President Trump.  The mythical star of Bethlehem paled in radiance and majesty in comparison with the magnificent fashion in which Trump stood over his people, and yet not a wise man was to be found amongst this hoard of flatterers so eager to consume his mighty word.  Gazing out upon his fleshy mass of followers, Trump couldn’t help but contort his anus like mouth into an awkwardly lopsided grin.  “Finally” Trump thought, “after all these months spent travelling around meeting and greeting all these losers, after dealing with cunts like Megyn Kelly and Hilary Clinton, after having to put up with Mexican trash interrupting my perfectly crafted speeches…FINALLY!  I’VE DONE IT…I’VE WON!”  Adjusting the microphone and pausing momentarily to let the crowd simmer, Trump began addressing his flock:

My fellow Americans today marks a great new day that will be looked back upon throughout history as the day America started becoming great again.  You know, when I first started campaigning I knew that the people…that YOU people wanted a leader who would do what’s necessary to make America great again, to turn America back into the winner it used to be and now you’ve elected me to do just that.  I have developed a three part plan in order to make America great again.  It’s a finely constructed plan and I believe it is the best way to do what we want to do.  First, we will deal with the illegal immigrants plaguing our great country, second we’ll deal with the Chinese stealing our jobs and business, and finally we’ll deal with those terrorists in the Middle East once and for all.  I know we can accomplish these things because we are a strong people capable of anything and I know I am the man to lead us there.  The days of career politicians giving our country away to the highest bidder are over!  It’s time to take America back!

The crowd roared to life as Trump paused to absorb the energy and sheer magnitude of this his greatest feat.  The fervor and unyielding loyalty were almost too great to be believed.  “How can they be so loyal, I must truly be the greatest leader of all time” the newly anointed leader pondered as he stood proudly with hair shimmering in the spot lights almost as if it were illuminated from within.  Unfortunately all good things must end and Trumps gratuitous id feeding frenzy was no different, for unbeknownst to all who bore witness to this fateful day the seeds of treasonous intent were being sown beneath the Donald’s feet, and the consequences would shock and change the face of the world.

“It’s way too fucking hot under this stage! Let’s hurry the fuck up all ready” the exasperated Hispanic man quipped.  “Shut the fuck up, we won’t hear the cue over your bitching!” his partner snapped back.  Both were similar in stature, small and slim, in the mid-twenties, and of Mexican descent.  Both were born in America to legal Naturalized immigrants, and sick of the racist tidal wave unleashed upon them by the man standing two feet above their heads.  But this is not the sort of terrorist plot normally thought of, for there are no bombs, no guns, and no lethal intent whatsoever.  In reality it would be more appropriate to call what these two young men have planned a prank, though the public mood is far too uptight, defensive, and scared for that sort of analysis.  The unfortunate reality of the situation is that crime will be overblown, the national rage against all things Hispanic will boil over, and repercussions will be brutal, but since when do college aged kids properly think through all the ramifications of their actions?  Trump’s speech was feverishly working toward its crescendo and the boys prepared to execute their plot.  The rigging was amazingly simple to setup considering the high level of security present.  Apparently all the heightened vigilance concerning Mexicans didn’t translate well when it came to two nameless workers feigning help in constructing the stage.  Uniformed in blue overalls, nobody said a word as they helped carry materials from tractor trailers to inside the perimeter of security.  Once inside they anonymously set to work installing pulleys and rope which had no business on that stage, all the while being completely ignored by the bevy of workers and security too consumed in their own duties to pay any mind to “the help.”  Attached to the end of that rope and centered perfectly above where Trump would be standing was a bucket, which perhaps constituted the gravest breech in security for how could an unknown minority stand atop a ladder pouring a red viscous fluid into it without being noticed?  Regardless of the holes in security, it was this fluid that was to provide the exclamation point to the boy’s protest against the unfettered racism Trump implicitly endorsed; see the buckets contents did not consist of red colored water, fruit punch, or even human blood!  For this point to be made properly a very special sacrifice had to be made, and what better way to make it than to use the thick, putrid blood from one of the ever-elusive and very dangerous Chupacabra!  Calling the blood of this epic destroyer of goats and all other things small farm animal vile would be far too kind; it is the sort of disgusting that will force the uninitiated into involuntary fits of vomiting and possible diarrhea.  In other words, it would leave a taste in Trump’s mouth that he wouldn’t soon forget.

Nervously the two vandals waited for the climax of Trump’s speech to unleash their Carrie inspired hoax.  Sweaty hands gripped the rope with white knuckles of pure intent.  The time was finally upon them to earn their place in history.  If only they knew how correct that statement were then maybe they would have reversed course.  The six little magic words they were waiting for “It’s time to take America back” were uttered and with solemn determination they both yanked on the rope for all they were worth.  Topside the crowd was caught up in a fit of pure hysteria as their leader stood proudly in front of the podium, arms outstretched with a look of pure ecstasy upon his face.  Then, as if in slow motion, blood fell from the sky.

The dictionary describes a miracle as an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.  Perhaps it’s a severe lack of understanding that has since led some to use that word to describe the events of that fateful day, or it could simply be the blind devoted faith of the possessed.  In any event, the day of Trump’s departure from humanity and simultaneous ascension to benevolence has been referred to in miraculous terms such as The Rebirth, The Resurrection, and The Second Coming by more than a few.  But this is jumping ahead a bit and a full exposition of that day’s events is in order if full understanding is to be gained of our current situation.

Blood fell from the sky that day drenching President Trump from head to toe in the viscous, vile, vital fluids of that great ruiner of livestock the Chupacabra.  Moments of time seemed to collide like an interstate pile-up as the roar of the crowd was instantaneously replaced with deafening silence.  Every eyeball was fixated on the sacrificial offering now enveloping their savior of apple pie, white picket fences and two and a half children.  Then a lone hissing began permeating the ubiquitous silence; at first so slight that only the police dogs reacted with growls and barks aimed at the stage, but it soon grew audible to the audience and then much louder.  Blank stares of astonishment soon turned to contorted expressions of terror as increasingly voluminous hissing was accompanied by a cloud of steam cyclically swirling round Trump.  One might think shrieks of terror or agony would accompany a man caught in some sort of invisible pressure cooker, but Trump simply stood there in silence as his bodily host began liquefying into a gelatinous, amorphous mess.  One observer would later note how eerily similar the whole affair was to that famous scene from The Wizard of Oz.  The hissing eventually ebbed and all that remained of The Donald lay smoking behind the podium.  The crowd was singularly motionless as those contorted expressions of terror slowly relaxed into doe-eyed astonishment.  Faint sounds of shoes tapping on stage signaled the arrival of various members of security, guns drawn and completely clueless to what they were witnessing.  Two men moved the podium to side in an effort to conduct investigative work which allowed the crowd access to the gelatinous remains of their commander-in-chief.  Security gathered around as the crowd took in the sight; the President had been reduced to a revolting pile of goo along with smatterings of Chupacabra blood strewn about the place.  Perhaps the most perplexing aspect of the whole maddening sight was the toupee, perfectly preserved and resting just beneath the oozy surface of Trump’s remains.

At this point something fantastic occurred, the Trump goo began to jiggle!  It was very slight at first, then with increasing momentum the whole pile began to almost lift off the ground.  The motion seemed to be generated by the toupee as it wiggled about beneath the surface. Then with a loud *POP* the toupee shot out of the muck and spiraled skyward reaching a height of about thirty feet before slowly descending to an average human height where it remained suspended in mid-air!  Besides those who went faint from the sight, every person present remained motionless and transfixed; so did the toupee for a few intense moments as it quickly adjusted itself to being without a host.  Then strings of hair began flipping and flopping about as it turned ninety degrees to reveal its face to the crowd; two big bulging bright yellow eyes almost glowing with intensity, and a mouth which perfectly mimicked that of its former host being small and puckered like a butthole.  With some quiet thuds a few more of the audience collapsed at this impossible sight.  Only the security stood fast as if under some secret spell that forbade them from acting in the appropriate human manner.  With all eyes and television cameras fixed on the floating monstrosity it addressed the world, “My fellow Americans…” That voice, it was Trumps! –and it seemed to be being transmitted psychically.  The hair piece continued, “…and YES, you are MY fellow Americans for I am one of you.  I was born here in this great land and I was attached to my first and only host here.  The man you knew as The Donald and I have been together since both our infancy, as were his parents and mine, our families have been a part of each for generations and now he’s gone.”  Those bright yellow eyes seemed to glare into every person’s very being and for a moment one could actually feel this being’s pain and anguish at losing such an intimate aspect of its self.  “Rest assured those responsible for this travesty will be properly punished!” bellowed the incensed toupee as two young Hispanic men can be seen in the background being dragged away by security.  “For now I suppose it will suffice to explain what happened to the Trump host and where we as a nation need to go from here.  First I must offer an apology for I have not been completely forthcoming with you when I spoke of the Mexican threat to our country.  It is true that Mexico is sending a bunch of rapists and murderers into our country and yes the illegals streaming across our borders are stealing our jobs, but there is something more to the blight of the Mexicans that I have hitherto share.  See my race has been able to fully adapt itself to coexistence amongst humanity on Earth.  We have been here for a long while now and have lived our lives in plain sight playing the role of soothing your self-conscious fears of male pattern baldness.  You call us by many names: rug, wig, piece, toupee, and others.  Our native name is not comprehendible to your primitive primate minds, so I suppose for the sake of brevity you may call me Trumpee.  Now, while we have been able to adjust to mostly everything on your planet, the disgusting blood those damned Chupacabra possess still proves quite lethal to our hosts whenever and to whatever degree we are exposed.  That is the further reason I hold contempt toward that region, but make no mistake they are an affront to everything we hold dear as Americans!”  At this point Trumpee fell silent as it’s piercing stare mesmerized all those foolish enough to gaze upon it.  Trumpee’s race is psychic and the unprepared are always quick to fall prey to their hairy whiles.  It continued, “so what then of the future my fellow Americans?  Unbeknownst to your planet’s primitive defense systems a colonial expeditionary force has been in orbit for some time now, and has been waiting for the proper time for incursion.  Do not fret, the feeling of joining is like what you humans think of as “divine” and preparations have been made to ensure that what happened to my host will never happen again.”

With the end of that sentence Trumpee utilized its tremendous mind to flick a non-physical switch which changed the course of human history.  Down near the U.S. Mexican border the ground began to shake as if the Earth itself were being torn asunder.  From Texas to California giant patches of land were heaved into the air as a giant steel wall slowly emerged from the Earth and rising to an incredible five hundred feet high.  As the wall rose skyward the colonial ship sitting for months in deep orbit began its decent.  Our defensive measures were neutralized; the people watching the inauguration were hypnotized by Trumpee’s incredible mind and those who skipped it were clueless to the invasion leaving them no time to prepare.  The military decimated itself while the populous either sat quietly mesmerized or were taken completely off guard and had little to no chance.  The space carrier reached an altitude of roughly fifteen thousand feet somewhere over Nebraska and released its load upon the continental United States.  Hundreds of millions of flying toupees moved swiftly across the land attaching themselves to every person they could get their strands on.  Once someone is taken as a host their free will and possibly consciousness are subverted as they become nothing more than fleshy vehicles for the toupees to operate as they see fit.  Many a great head of hair was ruined that day.  Some of us were able to escape hairy corruption and fled underground.  We were able to form small pockets of resistance and under the leadership of the great Colonel Sanders have been able to survive freely.  Eventually he was cut down, but we still fight on in desperate hope of a better tomorrow.  It’s been 11 years since that fateful day and most of the world has been turned into mindless toupee wearing automatons.  The only hope we have is this letter reaching into the past in order to avoid what your future will become.  We’ve found a way to transmit small quantities of information at the quantum level allowing me to send this letter to you in my past.  If you’re reading this then please stop this from happening!  Don’t let this future happen; don’t let your future come to an end.  Don’t let the aliens come to power, don’t vote for Trump!

The End?

4 Chan sometimes produces pure liquefied shit and sometimes it produces pure fucking gold.  Here’s the best story ever from the /pol board.

I was still young when the Trumpening finally happened. Suddenly full of vigor and enthusiasm, defiantly hopeful after having endured several years of diabolical sin and degeneracy. Reinvigorated and optimistic in the lead-up to what would have been Patriarch Trump’s glorious six-term presidency. But my joy would be short lived. Exactly eighty eight hours before his inauguration, Mr. Trump unexpectedly fled into some nearby woods, and was never seen again. No explanation. He simply knew something the rest of us didn’t. He had no choice.

The walls were never built, and the Mexican border-toads continued to multiply exponentially. Then the nukes fell, and the new pandemics arrived. The rampaging diversifiers continued to swarm across the civilized world, bringing a cataclysmic wave of cultural enrichment and peace to every last inch of Earth. AIDS became mandatory. Vatican City was dismantled and reconstructed using trillions of Common Core text books. Artificial womb-children were instantly dissected and reassembled at birth, fashioned into ambisexual pan-gender omni humans before being reanimated and married into polygamous otherkin sects. The children were injected with estrogen, liquified cancer, and watermelon iced tea, their trans-human brains genetically engineered to run exclusively on Windows 10 (the last operating system to ever exist). Women and men began perpetually menstruating, so we started calling them “bleeders”. Tampons and bandages were made illegal as symbols of hate speech, so the bleeders gushed into state-issued Swedish bike shorts while communicating entirely in emoticon sign language.

The universal television news network “Salon & IKEA Broadcasting Service” kept us all informed as the EU engaged in a massive space-battle, annihilating over 6 quintillion alien UFOs with kale-powered ebola lasers that they had hidden on Ceres. But it was all a lie. A giant psyop orchestrated by President Chelsea and VP Malia. They were not actually fighting extra terrestrials. Their enemy was seen as much more problematic. In reality, they were secretly exterminating the few remaining white cis-males left alive. After hiding out in the sewers, I too followed Trump’s lead, and fled innawoods. The planet was left in ruins, and smoldering death and Tumblr posts touched every last corner of the globe.

Decades passed, and memory of the previous world had all but faded. It had been several days since my last meal. I scampered between desert shantytowns, scavenging for pieces of discarded Skittles and edible panties. I had wrapped my entire body in several layers of scrap metal and identified as a Google self-driving car, so the authorities wouldn’t detain me. I was starving, but reluctant to blow my cover by heading into the center of town. I had no choice, I was on the verge of passing out. I spotted a plywood shack in the distance, a faded cardboard sign hanging above the door. I squinted in the blazing midday sun, unable to fully make it out. Something about the spray painted brass-colored block letters looked vaguely familiar. Dizzy now. I stumbled inside while clumsily bumping into the door frame. Pieces of metal rattled and dislodged, scattering across the floor. My eyesight further blurred, and my vision faded to black as I was caught by dozens of powerful arms scooping me up to safety.

When I regained consciousness I could make out ten cloaked figures, their robes made entirely out of blonde hair. Beautiful, blonde pads of manly hair. I was surrounded by glass bottles of un-fluoridated German carrot juice, chilled to perfection. A determined voice broke the silence as I was handed a drink. “We know who you are, and you’re not alone” I immediately recognized the voice. Could it be? The robust figure leaned forward, brushing away the loose pieces of metal covering my head before slowly removing his blonde hood. Before I could clearly view his face, he held up a card and muttered “Tap tap tap bing bing bong. This your card?” That voice! Mr. Trump? He must have been over 100 years old, but still as clear-minded and regal as ever. I muttered in amazement “You’re a-a-alive? What’s going on? Where am I?” There was a brief pause as the robed figures shared glances before holding aloft their cards. Cards that were identical to the one I had kept in my wallet all these years, so faded and worn. Donald tapped me on the shoulder and declared reassuringly before handing me an assault shovel. “You’re home, son. Remember, sometimes by losing a battle you find a new way to win the war. Now we finally build that wall, and win that war.”

I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes, tears of joy running down my face. All those cards, held aloft by white cis-hands. I smiled politely to the others before looking back to Chieftain Trump. His last words before we all set out will stay with me forever. “Anon… You’re hired. Mark my words, son. You are hired!” The cloaked figures began cheering and boisterously singing Twisted Sister songs as we trekked nonstop to the Mexican border, ankle-deep in toads. We began digging, and just kept on singing. “We’re not gonna take it! No, we ain’t gonna take it! We’re not gonna take it… anymore!” Trump looked on proudly, silently mouthing the lyrics.

>We’re right
>We’re free
>We’ll fight
>You’ll see

The razor sharp lines separating responsibility and reason from other more base instincts slowly dull and chip under the weight of thick glass chalices overflowing with delicious, frothy poison.  Clock hands twist and turn as time breaks loose from its cosmic principles, becoming paradoxically malleable.  “How is it already one, it was just ten-thirty?  Christ, I’ve been standing in this line thirty minutes!  What, it’s only been five?!?”  Yep, there’s no two ways about it, I’m drunk.

Meandering through a gelatinous sea of flesh, I squint one crooked eye trying to focus in on this evening’s prize. Unfortunately big, tall, fat, and small all stay in flux as space itself seems to follow time’s leap off rational cliffs into the chaotic depths. Perhaps length, depth, and breadth have grown wary of their conformist ways and wish to live out their own rebellious teen drama; or maybe space simply feels as lubricated as I and cannot muster a single fuck to give. As I press forward, I am both of these feelings personified.

At some point the bubbling brew inside my head reaches critical mass forcing power outages in the frontal cortex. Speech slurs, forethought rescinds to the shadows, and consequences are thrown out with the bath water. In other words, the “rational animal” withdrawals from the scene and his place a wild beast resides who’s only purpose consists in satisfying every base desire. As is the case with every other unthinking creature in the wild this one covets and seeks out what it desires with vigor, preying on that which is weakest. But this is a different sort of weakness than say a lion or bear looks for; it is a weakness in character which this predator seeks. He seeks someone easily seduced, someone willing to throw their pride out the window just to feel loved if only for a moment. In short, he seeks that which I will hate in the morning.

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

The memories…they’re there…they’re just so hard to focus on.  All I know now is the hunger, the gnawing at the blackened husk of my soul for delicious flesh.  Those who still feel all that choice blood coursing through their veins simply can’t understand the need, the drive that consumes us.  Back when I was living, before I became rotten and putrefied, I was many things; a teacher, a husband, a father, a home owner, an upstanding member of society.  Then the plague came.  I was home trying to board up my family within the best wall of defense I could manage…it wasn’t enough.  A hand-less arm, ripped down to jagged points of bone, broke through my shoddy woodwork and caught me in the side.  All those horror zombie movies say you have to be bitten to catch this undead hell, this hunger consumed numbness, but in truth all one of has to do is break skin to spread our gospel.  I fell quickly to the floor; hot buzzing filing my body like a million little bee stings on my very being.  My vision started to blur and turn reddish as I saw my wife kneeling over me.  Oh sweet Sharron, you beautiful, darling fool, how could you not have grabbed  little Ginny and ran for all you’re worth?  Once the famine of flesh took full hold I could do nothing to stop it.  I didn’t even want to…all I cared about was quieting the screaming for sustenance ringing in my ears…I still had ears then.  I left nothing of my family but well cleaned bones on the floor.  My family and my home left bare, skeletons of what we once were.  I think I feel something about that, something like the emotions I used to feel when I was living.  There are no emotions anymore, only hunger.  Even these memories are fading as I push onward trying to curb my insatiable appetite.  My skin slowly decays as chunks of rotten dead flesh fall from my frame here and there.  The only thing that keeps me going is whatever is inside me now.  I don’t know what caused this, but it seems to be bringing us all together.  Memories are disjointed, but once all the living flesh was gone I started walking as if toward a great beacon on the horizon; my fellow brothers and sisters also have heard the calling and make their way as well.  I feel nothing for their rotten, wrecked bodies as they hobble, crawl, and drag themselves toward whatever is calling us.  I feel nothing for myself…I don’t care if I “live,” I don’t care if I “die.”  Whatever is left of my cognitive center reasons that I should be praying for some sweet release from this hell, but I couldn’t raise that much of a stink even if I wanted to.  I only WANT one thing and woe to any of the living flesh whom I come across.

A scientific explanation from back in my IRC chat room days:

21:58 < Explodingpiglets> Well, it is an interesting question.

21:58 < Explodingpiglets> “How did donkey get the dragon from shrek pregnant?”

21:59 < Explodingpiglets> Through scientific reasoning, I have figured out how it worked

21:59 < Explodingpiglets> Now obviously, donkey’s dick was way too small for dragon’s cloaca

21:59 < Explodingpiglets> So Donkey did the only thing he could do:

22:00 < Explodingpiglets> he crawled into dragon’s cloaca

22:00 < Explodingpiglets> and swam through her bodily fluids

22:00 < Explodingpiglets> until he found her ovaries.

22:00 < Explodingpiglets> Then Donkey preceded to perform self-fellacio

22:00 < Explodingpiglets> since he had hooves instead of hands

22:01 < Explodingpiglets> Donkey sucked his own dick until he reached his orgasm

22:01 < Explodingpiglets> then he ejaculated all over Dragon’s ovaries.

22:01 < Explodingpiglets> and that is how Donkey got dragon pregnant

22:02 < Explodingpiglets> I should also mention that Dragons have huge periods

22:02 < Explodingpiglets> So Dragon had to use Donkey as a tampon.

This is a small excerpt from a draft of a short story I’m currently working on.  There’s nothing overtly offensive about hanging an already dead cop from the top of a church, right?

Stepping out onto the rooftop lugging unexpected baggage over his shoulder was not a position Sam wanted to find himself in.  He needed to get rid of this body quickly and make his way out of this soggy deathtrap before any other unsuspecting lawmen came snooping around.  Undoubtedly this man has an entire team nearby that will be checking his status momentarily, then the church would be experiencing a different sort of flood altogether.  Sam quickly grabbed the rope from the dead officer’s belt and began to harness him up.  Sam’s mind worked ten steps ahead planning out his escape route and trying to foresee any possible problems as he prepared the corpse for his final decent.  After the harness was secured Sam began wrapping the rope around various appendages and around the man’s neck several times.  This should confuse the shit out of them Sam thought as he secured the other end of the rope to a pipe on the rooftop; then with a mighty heave Sam threw the dead man over the side.  His body fell about twenty feet before snapping back under the tension of the rope.  The ligature marks previously made by Sam were now well masked as the body gently swayed back and forth, brushing up against the Church’s exterior wall.

All I’m missing is the serial killer.

Sam then took his knife and with the tip of the blade started turning it in a circular motion on the bit of rope that was tightly hugging the pipe.  See, if someone just cuts through a piece of rope the n even the NYPD lab geeks will be able to tell, but forcing the rope to start fraying on its own would leave no trace of foul play and that would help bring Sam’s plan to fruition.  When the rest of the squad come across their dead comrade the only conclusion they will be able to come to is that for some odd reason he decided to repel down the roof, and in the process became entangled in his own rope and accidentally hung himself before the rope snapped causing him to plummet to the ground; since the body will be lying amongst the flooded out rubble below it will take longer for it to be discovered giving Sam a greater window of escape.  With a no-so-loud *snap* the rope frayed apart and the cop’s body fell to the street below.  Looking down at the torn up corpse lying amongst the broken remnants of city Sam was solemn; sorry it’s gotta be this way buddy, but it’s either you or me at this point.  Then with a pivot of his foot and a forceful push Sam was off in a dash toward the other side of the roof and his freedom.

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