In the
shadow of the White House, now crowned by antennas that seemed more designed to
summon demons than to emit signals, the air was permeated with an indescribable
stench. The Capitol dome, or what was left of it, glowed faintly under a sky
saturated with military drones and clouds of radioactive ash. It was a gray,
overcast day, the wind blowing with a coldness that made even the crumbling
statues of ancient American heroes shiver.
On the
White House lawn - or “Bosch risen from the dead” as its new occupant called it - a
79-year-old man, dressed in the white robe and hood of the Ku Klux Klan, moved
with an energy that defied both his age and common sense. His face,
crisscrossed with wrinkles as deep as tectonic cracks, and his eyes, which
looked like two headlights lit by madness, glowed as he held a gray cat that
meowed in despair. The poor animal had a little sign hanging around its neck:
“Dinner for the President”. Everything had to be labeled so that the president
wouldn't get confused and end up dining on one of the last operational
smartphones on Earth while trying to talk while holding a Chihuahua embalmed in
peanut butter to his ear.
Donald Trump, self-proclaimed “Supreme Savior of the Flat Earth,” had resumed the presidency amid cheers from his followers and flat indifference from the inhabitants of the flattest part of the Earth, whose encephalogram is also flat by geometric imperative. His first executive order had been to redecorate the presidential gardens in a style he described as “medieval chic.” Now, the White House looked more like a biomechanical post-apocalyptic castle than the center of global power: a rusting barbecue sizzled in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by rows of cages filled with terrified animals. Some were pets that had been confiscated under the new “Patriotic Culinary Austerity” law, others could be models for Giger, heaven be damned.
Trump, who
watched the scene from a gold chair mounted on armored wheels, slowly chewed on
what looked like the ear of a golden retriever. All around him, holograms
projected his inaugural address on a loop:
“America
is back! Stronger, bigger and flatter than ever!”
Ectoplasmic
bombs continued to fall on Moscow, the perfect backdrop for the grotesque
banquet unfolding in the garden. His advisors, a collection of lunatics and
sociopaths with rudimentary Acme-brand cybernetic implants, cheered each
explosion like New Year's fireworks. A psychic advisor, wrapped in a cape made
of fox fur (who was probably still alive), stroked a crystal ball connected to
an artificial intelligence system, muttering unintelligible predictions about a
future in which Tesla would no longer manufacture cars, but electric coffins
that would fly into outer space so as not to take up space on the planet.
Meanwhile,
the old man in the white robe was placing the gray cat on a roughly carved
table. The wood was decorated with wrought iron knives and utensils that seemed
designed more for satanic rituals than for preparing food. Trump, from his
rolling throne, watched with a smirk.
-That cat
looks delicious! -he roared, raising a glass of red wine that, according to
rumor, contained the blood of a vegan influencer executed for gastronomic
treason.
The old man
lit the barbecue with a snap of his fingers, and the flames danced with an
almost supernatural enthusiasm. Each leaping spark seemed to form little demons
that whirled in the air before vanishing in ghoulish laughter. As the cat
meowed for the last time, the wind whispered dark secrets that seemed to rise
from the cracks of a world that no longer made sense.
-Let's
toast! -Trump shouted, raising his glass to the cameras broadcasting live to a
global audience of frightened slaves and crazed fanatics. To World War III,
which will prove once and for all that the Earth is flat, because we're going
to flatten it until there's not a goddamn mountain left!
The old man began to cut the cat with a dexterity that could only have been learned on Anibal Lechter's YouTube channel. All around, councilors were helping themselves to chunks of charred meat from what had once been a herd of robotic pigs, genetically modified to sing the national anthem before being slaughtered.
Drone
shadows danced over the lawn, casting chaotic images on the walls of the White
House. Trump, his mouth full of meat, pointed to the horizon where a giant
nuclear steamroller was slowly advancing eastward, leveling everything in its
path.
-There you
have it! -He shouted, with sizzling, sticky hot barbecue sauce dripping from
his chin. The ultimate proof that I was right! Somebody call Elon Musk to make
a rocket and paint it my favorite color: nuclear gold!
In the sky,
propaganda holograms continued to repeat oxymorons as the world crumbled. Bombs
fell, shadows faded into a glow beyond white, and at the center of it all, a
demented old man devoured what was left of humanity, one bite at a time.
And so,
amidst the barbecue of the apocalypse and the unbridled madness of a president
obsessed with his own reflection and the dimensions of his watering cylinder,
the world slid into an abyss where reality, the grotesque and the comical
merged in an endless spiral of shame.
Signed: Muhammad P & Muhammad V
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