The Decameron 2.0

Day 1.4: HEA Love - AFTER BLOOD Fallen_Tear

We sat in awe, wondering how our Murv could have told such a powerful tale. I wondered if perhaps this evening shared together produced a special kind of magic, something that could revitalize the mind, body and spirit in ways of which one could only dream.

My notion proved incorrect, as—finished with his story—Murv deteriorated before our very eyes. His jaw hung loose, saliva depending in thick ropes from his lower lip. Both his index fingers were now jammed so far up his nose I could have sworn I saw slivers of fingernail poking out from beneath his eyeballs.

"My thtory bigly, how?" Murv asked us. 

"Yes," I told him. "Yes, Murv, your story was as bigly as stories can be." And the emotion racking my body compelled me to retreat to my safe place by the waterfall, so I could cry in peace.

Damn that Trump. Damn him to his horrific home in hell, for forcing us to flee the lives we'd lived for so very long. Damn him for bringing about forced-sterilization programs, for making even his staunchest supporters victims to his cruel and terrible regime. How many had he killed? How many generations had he terminated prematurely? How many babies had he aborted after they'd been successfully delivered, just so he could harvest their stem cells for whatever twisted scheme he'd created, before tossing them into a newly rebranded Trumpster to die?

Too many. His sadistic nature ensured more would follow.

Before we'd fled the city, Murv was meant to be castrated with a soldering iron. This was after he'd been forced to perform erotic favours for the city's entire department of Trumpolice, after he'd been thrown into a gladiator match with a starved lion (of which he was the victor, surprisingly), and after he won fifteen games in a row of Russian Roulette. They just couldn't kill him, couldn't break his spirit. Yes, after all that rotten madness, poor Murv was supposed to be rewarded by the man he'd voted for, rewarded with his nuts getting melted down so they looked like the flat crotch of a Ken doll.

Bastard.

I wiped my eyes and looked back at my gang of exiles. They were happy here, together.

I smiled as I watched Seth and Coltrane whip each other with Twizzlers. Those two, forced to give up their adopted Chinese daughter, because Trump owed Chinese investors either money or blood. Naturally the psycho chose blood. Now little Ling-Ling was decomposing in a ditch somewhere, her emaciated husk of a body drained of all its fluids for arcane Chinese rituals, no doubt to help rejuvenate some ancient Chinese vampire investor so he could live another thousand years. And those two—Seth and Coltrane—they looked so happy, but I knew they were hurting inside, haunted by their memories.

Trump banned love, but he double-banned gay love, said it made him sick to his stomach to watch, and that he watched it very, very, really, very much, more than anyone ever has. His right-hand man, Mike Pence, turned out to be a closeted homosexual, a textbook case of religion gone wrong. When he found out, Trump put the man through gay-conversion therapy, seeking to electrocute the gay from his brain, which left Pence a tremoring, diaper-wearing wreck. After being passed around like a dildo among Trump's inner circle, he was quickly executed via the new-and-improved Trump electric chair: a metal vibrator hooked up to 20,000 volts of electricity.

Use your imagination.

Naturally, the duties of our group involved a secret protest: We would be the ones who ensured love—love in its purest form; happily-ever-after love—never died. This was a world going loveless, and day by day, as the planet's parched earth wept to the universe for salvation, we would be its saviours. One day.

If we were still in the city at that very moment, we would be saying our nightly prayers to Satan, and then the Trumpolice would come and sodomize us to sleep on the boss' orders.