Category: Hillary: The Becoming

“Bring me The Vessel!” Hillary called across the blasted plain.

Two burly women stepped through the dimensional gate, each with a hand around Huma’s arms. She was dressed in a white nightgown, filthy, the lace yellowed by age.

“Hillary!” Huma cried and tried to free herself.

“Let her go,” Hillary instructed. Freed, Huma ran to her and threw her arms around her portly lover.

“Where have you been?” Huma asked.

“Shh,” Hillary said, guiding her to the first step of the dais and smoothing her hair behind her ears.

“The Vessel!” she told the horde.

“The Vessel!” they cried back.

Hillary ran her hands down Huma’s body.

“She is fertile and fecund!” Hillary declared. “Our Master will be born through her and He will rule for a thousand years!”

The crone cackled and lightning flashed.

“I’m sort of uncomfortable with the word ‘Master,’” someone in the horde said.

“And I feel like a very unfortunate connotation of masculinity has crept into our conception of the ultradimensional being we worship,” said another.

There were murmurs of agreement all around. Hillary buried her face in her hands. She was about to explain it to them all again when a voice piped up.

“Honey, are y’all about done with y’all’s meetin’?”

Through splayed fingers, she could see Bill’s disembodied head poking through the ragged gash they had torn in reality to travel to the cratered hell plain.

“Billlllllllll…” she began, the old rage inside her.

“Hi-ya, Ruthie,” Bill said, waving to the crone. “Ladies,” he said to the horde and winked.

“Lllllllll! Get the fuck out of here,” Hillary screamed.

“Ah, now, sweetheart, don’t get upset,” he said and smiled.

“Hi, Billy,” one girl said.

The seasoned rake looked back to the horde. “Y’all’s pussy hats are so cute. I like pink pussies a lot.”

Hillary was shaking with rage, spittle building up in the corners of her mouth.

“Anyway, you all finish up with yore meetin’; I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to tell Hills that the chicken fingers for dinner are all done heatin’ up.”

His hand came through the enormous energies of the interdimensional rift and waved to the horde.

“Call me!” said one of the horde as he returned to Earth.

“God-fucking-dammit,” Hillary muttered.

Huma hugged her fiercely. “Strength my love. Show them strength.”

“Look at The Vessel,” Hillary said without much enthusiasm. “I shall implant her.”

About half the horde looked at their programs and gave the reply: “She shall be implanted.”

“Behold,” Hillary said. She dropped her robe. The horde gasped at her twisted form, a few vomited. Her pendulous breasts were covered in a suppuration of sores. Her stomach seemed in constant motion like writhing eels were about to burst forth. Meaty keloids ran down her arms and legs, the remnants of past attempts at transformation–abstract horrors the human mind forced into shapes it could comprehend: faces, fists, inhuman genitalia, half-buried burrowing insects.

“I am woman reborn!” Hillary said, the old fire returning, and let out a plangent howl.

“Reborn!” the ones not vomiting or fainting replied.

Hillary squatted and let out a piggy grunt.

“What the fuck?” one girl said.

“Shh,” said another. “She needs to concentrate.”

Hillary began making hooting noises, interspersed with deep grunts. Something appeared between her legs and it grew.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, fuck,” one of the horde up front said.

Huma brushed the hair out of Hillary’s eyes and kissed her forehead tenderly.

With a final grunt and a scream and a gush of thick black liquid, the pseudopenis slid out, making a sizzling plop as it hit the ground.

“BEHOLD!” Huma screamed, pointing, as Hillary struggled to stand. More vomiting and fainting.

Hillary–standing, smiling, triumphant–spread herself apart and a clicking clatter arose. A brave few, fatally curious, stepped close enough to see that Hillary’s clitoris and vulvular hood had been replaced with a glossy yellow and black beak. Ringed in blind questing cilia, it snapped and gnashed. Huma dropped her knees, the cilia straining for her face, drawing her in, caressing. Huma began licking the beak.

The remaining few of The Pussy Hat Horde still conscious began chanting: “BLUE WAVE! BLUE WAVE! BLUE WAVE! BLUE WAVE! BLUE WAVE!”

 

The winds across the barren plain howled, cold, with stinging flecks of rock picked up by gusts.

“Tell us of 2020,” the crone whispered.

“Many plans are in motion, Grandmother,” Hillary said. “Plans within plans, plans for plans.”

“Speak plainly or not at all,” the old woman said.

“The plan is largely the same as 2016,” Hillary said. Someone behind her groaned loudly.

“BUT THIS TIME, I will succeed!” Hillary said through gritted teeth.

The Pussy Hat Horde behind her shifted their weight and scuffed the ground with their expensive shoes, but otherwise fell silent.

“Our servants in the media will attack the fool at all turns. There will be TV reports of his malfeasance, scathing articles in The Atlantic and New Yorker, and many women will come forward to accuse him of sexual misdeeds. He has groped and mishandled many women, old and young, beautiful and ugly, fat and only a little chunky. Something will stick this time. Surely something will stick!”

“His powers against holy rage are various and sundry,” the crone said.

“He cannot hide behind the power of the dingus forever!” Hillary said through gritted dentures.

“Hi-yo!” someone yelled.

“We have #metoo on our side now,” Hillary continued. “It won’t be like last time. Comey isn’t…”

“Say not his foul name!” the crone snapped, suddenly animated.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Hillary said.

“Emails!” the horde wailed in terror.

“SILENCE!” the ancient figure thundered.

Grumbling and crying and squatting to pee in fright, the Pussy Horde took some time to calm, even with Hillary chanting Sarah MacLaughlin lyrics to soothe them.

“And who will be your running mate?” the crone inquired.

“Harris or Booker, whichever of them submits first.”

“Intersectionality,” the crone crooned contentedly.

“Intersectionality,” the horde sighed.

“Like totes intersectional!” a deformed 14-year-old in the front row said brightly.

“Booker has the power of the dingus on his side,” the crone said.

“And charisma,” Hillary said. “Like Barry.” She spat on the ground and it sizzled.

“You might not be able to control him. He might be a danger in the primary,” the crone pointed out. Hillary spat again, a fat black blob of corruption.

“Harris might be better. More… malleable,” Hillary said. “She isn’t too bright, though, and I can’t afford a Palin on my ticket.”

“Joe served Barry well,” the crone observed.

“I love Joe! He’s just so dreamy!” one of the horde said. Those around her groped her back into silence.

“But a double female ticket,” mused Hillary. “Someone so thoroughly and amazingly qualified as me and a… person of intersectionality like Harris. We could be unstoppable. We could wash the Republican taint from America forever!’

Some in the horde giggled.

“Victory will be ours,” the crone said dustily. Rivulets of piss were running off the edge of the dais.

“I just don’t know what to do, Grandmother,” Hillary said, kneeling painfully before the crone on the dais.

“Lose not thy hope, Daughter,” came the reedy, thin voice, like the rubbing of insect wings. The widow’s hump on the crone’s back had forced her head almost down to her chest and she could barely open her eyes.

“My failure has put a rapist on the Supreme Court,” Hillary wailed.

“A rapist on the Supreme Court,” the assembled women of the crowd echoed, pussy hats pulled low to cover their faces.

“I don’t know how he could have beat me,” she said, thumping the hollow between her diseased teats. “Me. Hillary Clinton. The most qualified and the most ethical and the smartest person ever to run for President…”

Somewhere behind her, a couple of bepussyhatted figures snickered. One way in the back might have even chortled. She whipped her head around to glare, a blue light rising in her eyes, and the crowd fell into a fidgety silence.

The crone lifted a thin arm, eyes burning with ancient hate. “The fool has great powers on his side,” the crone rasped. “The hat. The hair. These creatures work against us, offal from sidereal hells unknown.” She closed her eyes and lowered her arm. “But we too have powers, gods of the Elder Races that ruled this Earth when we mammals still scurried between the strides of titanic beasts, their cyclopean cities rising from fetid swamps.”

“O’ mighty they were, the Fe’tyrol and the D!ga!” She reached out and stroked the huge misshapen skull on a pedestal beside her, the fangs yellowed and the eye-pits stained red with the blood of a thousand thousand maidens.

“The Fe’tyrol!” the women said, their voices rolling out over the blasted plain where they stood, lit by the sickly orange light of a dying sun hanging sullen in the sky.

“The D!ga!” they said, the glottal stop clicking like the cocking of a hundred guns.

The crone cackled and pointed with her right hand and blue lightning flashed in the sky and she pointed with her right hand and fire boiled out, twenty feet of flames, individual ribbons weaving into a pillar. The crowd cooed and clapped. A few turned to take selfies with the demonstrations of seething demonic power.

“Stop that!” Hillary yelled. “This is a holy event, not a fucking Rihanna concert!”

The crone waved and the cellphones crumbled to noxious dust.
“Kavanaugh,’ she croaked when the crying settled.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Hillary said. “Let me be the instrument of your divine will. I will kill him.”

“No,” the old woman said. “He is too powerful. Powerful magics protect him or else the accusations would have been enough. He has some phallus talisman or totem of the dingus, and it is by the dingus he must be betrayed. I am close to him now. It must be me.”

The crone stood painfully and pulled off her sacred vestments, letting the SUPER DIVA! sweatshirt fall to the ground. Grooved and fissured, the twisted labial extrusia of her flesh quaked as she raised her arms and thrust the tomb of her vagina toward the women.

“I SHALL SEDUCE HIM!” she said, her voice the thunder of the lightning she summoned.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders Was Asked to Leave Restaurant Over White House Work

“I can’t believe they would treat Pie like this,” Donald said, fuming and shaking, the silk lining of his pants sliding over his semi-hard penis as he strategized in his War Room, splayed in a web of straps and nutrient feeds. He paused his rant long enough to lap at a Diet Coke reservoir like a manic hamster.

“Stay calm, Donald,” the hair said, riding out the convulsions of the support system as Donald writhed. The notification tones of incoming messages rattled like machine-gun fire as tweets, replies, retweets, and sub-tweets rolled up the LED wall.

“PIE!” Donald screamed.

“Womp, womp,” the hat said and yawned.

*****Melania dabbed eye-cream on the crow’s feet forming on the thinning skin at the corners of her eyes. They seemed to deepen every time she even thought about squinting.

“Vroom, vroom,” Barron said as he ran his fire truck along the bedroom floor. The furrows in the carpet were deep, down to the underfloor in places. “Vroom, vroom,” he said, “Vroom, vroom,” over and over again.

“Barron, my love,” Melania said, her accent thick, tired.

“Vroom, vroom,” the boy said.

She leaned into the vanity’s mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and milky. She wondered if she needed a few more days in the clinic. “Be best,” she whispered as she dug her right thumbnail into the nailbed of her left thumb painfully. “Be best.”

“Watch out, Mommy!” Barron said as he rammed the firetruck into her ankle.

*****Sarah vomited into the toilet again, thin streams of bright yellow bile that lingered on the roof of her mouth and burned. She groped for the handle and flushed the toilet. Her chest and abdominal muscles ached and her whole face hurt. Stomach acid had etched the enamel off the back of her front teeth and the nerves there seemed to shoot bright bolts of pain all the way into her scalp.

She wiped the tears away and staggered to the bathroom scale. She looked at the ceiling while waiting for it to beep. When she looked down, she had to blink a few times to read the numbers. She sobbed and kicked it back under the sink.

She forced herself to look in the mirror. Raccoon eyes and dark streaks of mascara, blotchy and bloated and pale. She started crying again.

“Mr. President,” she said and sobbed.

“Mr. President,” she said. She willed the emotion from her face. She pushed down the pain.

“Mr. President,” she said, a quaver still in her voice. She washed the tears and make-up and snot off her face. She scrubbed until her skin hurt.

“Mr. President,” she said. She smiled and it broke on her face after only a second. She began putting on a thick layer of foundation.

“Mr. President,” she said. Her stomach clenched like a fist, but she held her smile. She reached out to touch the Sarah in the mirror.

*****“How could someone be so cruel as to deny Pie food? What kind of monster would do that?” Donald asked wonderingly.

“You literally slapped a piece of cake out of her hand at the office birthday party yesterday,” the hair said.

“Fake news,” Donald said. “Never happened.”

“Womp, womp,” said the hat.

*****Ivanka had a money fight with Jared. She got him good in the face with a banded stack of crisp 100s and she laughed.

*****“I don’t want to be President,” Chelsea screamed at her mother. “That was your dream, it was never mine. I hated the White House, I hated the attention, I hated everything about it.”

“I was cheated out of it,” Hillary said. “Russians and Facebook and Putin and the entire media and redneck, KKK racists all got together and cheated me. I was cheated!”

“Now, honey,” Bill rasped. “Maybe we should let her…”

“Pipe down, intern-fucker!” Hillary snapped. “I would have been President if it wasn’t for your tubby-punching!”

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Chelsea screamed.

Hillary closed her eyes and held her head in her hands. “I was so happy when they pulled you out of me and you didn’t have a penis. I thanked God you were a girl.”

“Whatever, Mom,” Chelsea groaned.

“I said to myself, ‘She can grow up strong. She can grow up proud. She doesn’t have to be led around by her disgusting penis like Bill.’”

“You’ve told me this a thousand times, Mom.”

“But you’re weak, Chelsea. Weak.  You could be President. But you refuse. Weak.”

“Hillary,” Bill whispered. Her hand hit his face before he even saw it move.

“You are all terrible disappointments to me,” Hillary said in a low, sonorous voice.

“Mom…” Chelsea began.

Hillary held up her hand. She squatted on the floor without a sound and shat a black egg out of her womb. She picked it up and wiped off the corrosive slime.

“Infertile,” she said, inspecting it. She tossed it to Bill. “Put it with the others.”

*****“Donald, please get off Twitter. Please,” the hair whispered.

“Womp, womp,” the hat said and giggled.

The Martyrdom

No one could possibly say that she hadn’t suffered for her faith, the faith she had in America. Oh, how she suffered. As the arrows did pierce the tender breast of Sebastian, as the skin was peeled from brave Bartholomew, so did Hillary suffer. The ignominy of defeat at the short-fingered hands of Donald Trump would have been more than a lesser person–a Gore, say, or a Biden–could have possibly survived. To have Her Election stolen, to have been Betrayed by the Jew Zuckerberg and the Godless Russians and the Traitor Comey was Calumny and Disaster. It was Her Turn and in Denial thus was Hillary Martyred.

To be denied Her Turn was a living death, but, cruelly, did the Church wait for her actual death before giving her the honor she deserved. And when that box that supposedly held Her Body was lowered into the ground, the process was begun.

 

The Trial

Who could say that Hillary was not a Servant of God? Her Deeds, Her Works, Her Words, Her Thoughts leave no doubt that She was a Servant of God. She sought to heal the sick. She sought to shatter the glass ceiling. She battled the Bearded Patriarchs in their lair. She graciously stepped aside for the Black Man to be President.

And who could say She was not heroic in Her virtue? Did she not defend Her marriage against all who would assault it? Did She not serve Her Country, Her People with no thought of personal gain? Did She not know poverty and abjection? Did She not wander in the Wilderness?

Being Venerable, it was appropriate and correct for those who loved Her to pray for Intercession. A blind Black Child who kissed Her Grave was restored of sight! A prayer to Our Lady of the Turkey Neck did cause the ICE handcuffs on a Dreamer to spring open! The pleading of a non-binary labor organizer resulted in them petition being filled with signatures without their even having to leave they van! At the very beginning of Foul Trump’s 2nd Inauguration Speech, Her statue at Yale began to menstruate!

 

Advocatus diaboli nullus

Unsure of what to make of all this, Commie Pope sent an old priest and a young priest to investigate. They were appropriately suspicious of this Methodist who was clearly a Catholic saint. But, Lo, what did they find? The blind child could now see. The Dreamer did go free. The Girl with the Ugly Haircut did have a filled petition. Clots did flow sluggishly from cloven stone.

What choice was left?

 

Hillary, Our Lady of Sorrows, Patron Saint of Stolen Elections, forgive us our trespasses as we must never forgive those who have trespassed against You. Lead us from the Temptations of Fake News paid for by Putinbots and the baskets of the Deplorable Nation. Beset on all sides by enemies, lend us Your Strength, Sweet Lady. Amen.