The Decameron 2.0

Day 1.8 HEA Love - FIRECRACKER Emmalee_Sky

"And Michael and BBX lived happily ever after," Dora-Mae concluded, giving Mr. Hardon his sweater, which featured a surreal depiction of Sigmund Freud smoking a crack pipe. "They adopted two hairless cats from a shelter and eventually bought a goldfish, once Michael got himself a job as a valet driver at a casino, of course. The goldfish was eaten by one of the cats and a replacement was never purchased."

"Awww, that was so s—" Seth's comment was cut short as an explosion sounded from somewhere outside. The walls rumbled. Pieces of stone fell from above. A large one skimmed by Dirk's head, nearly painting primitive cave art with his brains.

"We've got to get out!" I screamed to the others.

Passionfruit— I haven't mentioned Passionfruit, have I? Well, we had one more member of our group: Passionfruit Slice, a hooker from New Orleans in a previous life. She was now wheelchair-bound after a tragic car accident, where Trump—messed-up on a rainbow of uppers, downers, squealers and squeamers; furious over his monetary advances being denied—ran over her, reversed over her, then ran over her again. The paramedics who'd arrived on the scene thought she was dead. They were surprised when she coughed up coagulated blood and came back to life. The doctors said she'd be paralyzed for life. They were surprised when she regained all movement except in her legs. Passionfruit was no quitter.

I grabbed her chair and wheeled her fine ass on outta there while the others ran ahead of us through the deity-stoppered waterfall. I noticed her nose was gushing blood, as were the noses of most of our group, myself not included.

The cave collapsed behind us. Up above, maybe fifty feet, a squad of Trumpolice were using sticks of dynamite as target practice, laughing, drinking, doing hard drugs, harming small animals, listening to heavy-metal Devil rock (Nickelback, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Justin Bieber; you know, the usual suspects) and being generally quite rowdy. That was what triggered the collapse.

"Keep it quiet, gang," I whispered. "Seems they didn't know we were in there."

Those who'd been bleeding wiped their noses but strangely found no blood on their knuckles.

I led the way—or, more accurately, Passionfruit led the way—through the forest. We linked hands like a parade of elephants joined trunk to tail. The city was ahead of us. Giant neon lights advertised dog and donkey shows, and I knew the Church of Trump was putting on a final performance of The Passion of the Christ-Killer. I wasn't looking forward to visiting those sordid streets again, had no desire to wrestle with Trump's dark forces. But God demanded a little effort on our end.

Deranged howls filled the night. Trumpanzees, the result of a special gene-splicing program initiated by Trump: A freakish Doctor Moreau–like plan, combining the DNA of his sterilized supporters with ordinary chimpanzees—an attempt to create the ultimate idiotic, feces-flinging fanatic. Murv would've been one of them if I hadn't saved him. I kept a handful of those little marshmallow-banana candies armed and ready, just in case.

Andrea, the ex–kindergarten teacher, mentioned she had a story to tell. We opened our ears, one to hear her tale and the other kept vigilant for evil.

"This one is based on a true story," she said. "I call it

FIRECRACKER by Emmalee_Sky

Water engulfed Siora as she plunged into the lake. She surfaced, smiling as she treaded water. She watched the trees that circled the lake, providing cover. Her father would lose his mind if he knew she was swimming naked, but it only made her smile more. Closing her eyes, she laid back and floated, soaking the sun into her skin. She moved her arms, creating waves that rippled against her body. This was how the day should be, not worrying about her town and the ceremony that would take place in a few hours.