Kinkshame the president

“Delilus, grab my coat. We are going to kinkshame the president of the United States.”

He spoke with such raw, foolhardy resolution that Delilus could not, dared not to suggest there were other ways, more sensible methods to go about political furtherance. He obediently took his master’s coat, a lavish, garish thing made from expensive leathers pissed on by expensive animals including the American consumer. Although his official function was ‘advisor’, he was never asked for advice. Other things, certainly, equally-scandalous things, oh yes, but right now he’d feel uncomfortable suddenly playing the secretary. Turning from the coat hanger made from the screaming, compressed forms of his boss’ enemies, he faced him, his patron, his enthraller. The enthrallment spell had long since worn off, but he liked the financial stability and the thrill this job constantly provided. He gently laid the coat over his smooth, curved form, coquettishly stroking his surface with slender, black fingers as he had done so many times before.

His boss. An ancient, magical orb.

Unearthed from a set of two cardboard boxes in the deepest, most dustiest shelves deep within the forbidden basement of the White House, he took the political arena by storm (literally), descending from blood-red skies to announce he, too, would be running for president, instantly killing most candidates present in the debate. Neither party was willing to forward a twelvefold assassin/mythical death orb as their candidate for presidency that year, but one Democrat candidate managed to survive under mysterious circumstances, so they won by default. There was little any authority could do, however, to keep the orb from taking office up in the White House. He may hold no true political power, but for almost the entire running term now, no one has been able to set foot inside of the Oval Office without having their body vaporised, disintegrated, or turned into an avant-garde piece of decoration like a gaudy coat hanger. No one but his faithful assistant Delilus, that is. Despite the towering illegality of it all, he has somehow won the hearts of many voters without overmuch use of fearmongering and mind control. Also, he might become the second-ever gay president? Which is cool.

“It’s me, Delilus. I’m calling to confirm the president’s location – is it still in the Pentagon? Right. Thanks.” Delilus slams his magenta flip-phone with an impressive show of force, destroying it completely. He takes out another flip-phone, cyan this time, from his suit pocket and dials to arrange for a federal transport. “Goddammit Delilus, we’ve no time for your horny hijinks. We can’t wait for your ‘escort service’ to show up, we have a president to kinkshame.” He seems cunning, ferocious. Determined. He has a plan. His antique circuits, lost to the understanding of history and science, make a revving sound, that of papyrus rapidly torn by a hacksaw. A fierce flash of red blinks from his oculus and the Oval Office fills with force and light. The dust settles, stacks of paper float cinematically through the air, the presidential bobblehead collection vibrates at a speed approaching that of light.

Eagles begin to sing. The pungence of apple pie fill the room. Who needs a second amendment anymore, when you’ve got…

//ORB   CANDIDATE   MARK   II//
He   is   somewhat   bigger   now

“Get on me.” He commands Delilus, raw sexual static exuding from his new, shiny metallic frame. The assistant agrees, putting away his phone by crushing it in his hand. A single, long tear exits his eye as he climbs on top, crystallising into a beautiful tattoo. They burst out of the Oval Office; structural damage be damned, these boys are on a mission! The detritus spreads far beyond the rusty gates of the White House, the great American bloggers, modern scavengers for the ruined cities, will thank him in the years to come for supplying them with the aesthetics they so desire. The two race through the American badlands en route to the Pentagon, dodging rockets and hailfire from other opportunists. Delilus, ever the prepared, grabs a rocket launcher from his suit pocket and retaliates. A pair of J. F. Rey Sunglasses jettisons from the flaming carcass of an unfortunate political pundit, nestling perfectly on Delilus’s perfect face.

They arrive at The Pentagon, an evil fortress surrounded by an impenetrable mist. All presidents must go there to have sex in utmost secret. Right now, it is a battlefield; news reporters, police officers, and other forms of men locked in mortal combat for the right to penetrate inside and uncover its dark secrets. Politicians evade the combat zone with a slickness equal to their false promises. Understand how the nepotism of American politics works: don’t kinkshame with your cohorts. The key to becoming a politician is to pluck a single fruit from the tree of holy promise, tell the hungry grandstands that’s all there is, and offer the rest of the tree’s spoils to officeholders who will proceed to fuck them underneath their bureaus. Not to do them a kindness and statisfy their needs, but to catch them in the act when you’ve waited long enough. Bursting through and dissipating the Pentagon’s enveloping mists, they strike deep into the innermost chambers, the burrows where kinks lost to time and sexuality still exist, our heroes arrive at such a scene.

The president, in all their naked glory, on a purple bed, against a background of a brightly-lit American flag, fucking an ancient, magical orb.

“Jesus H. Christ, my own goddamn brother.” Delilus grabs a fake prop hand from his suit pocket and covers his eyes with it. “Did you forget so easily, Orb?” The president stops their lust and turns to face the would-be kinkshamers. “You and Globe were always a pair — there were two cardboard boxes after all — How else did you think I survived your first day on the job?” They laugh, sinisterly, left-handedly. “Oh, I’ve always known.” “What?” “I just wonder what the people think of having an Orbfucker as their president.” Having been deprived of its defences, the naked Pentagon is stampeded by press persons from all stations. With nowhere to go and trapped in their own patriotic sex chamber, the combined flashes of their cameras and the puritanical cadence to their shocked screams assault the president like a powerful laser blast from a hero’s hands.

The President of the United States, purified in the holy light of kinkshaming.

“Delilus, remove my coat.” Delilus proceeds to do so, also removing his own eyewear and placing both inside of his suit pocket. His thick eyebrows are arched quizically. “A wonderful scheme, sir, but I have to know… How did you know now was the time?” The hovering orb rotates to allign its oculus with Delilus’s beautiful brown eyes. “Well, Delilus, that’s what family is for.”

From the purple bed, another, ancient magical orb, turns to the camera and winks.

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