Chapter Thirteen: Best in Show
(In which a bunch of bribed politicians shoot up a high
school in Florida)
AKA Seventeen Corpses
(A Western remake starring Ronnie Raygun and Jane
Russell’s tits in a tight sweater)
The Drumpfster, a soft
and soggy insufficiently bullied draft-dodging teenager, hides out in the
bowels of his Mafioso father’s golden tower. He contemplates revenge on his high
school for the insult of algebra. (That and the fact that almost every other
student in the school is smarter and poorer than he is.) He combs his hair over
his bald spot until he sees a troubled teen in the mirror. He regrows his acne
and his ears stick out like the ferret-man who runs the Department of Justice. (Klansman
Sessions is one of Dr. Moreau’s less successful creations—he still bites, but prefers
dark meat.)
Better yet: the teenage Drumpfster
hides the effects of radiation on his thinning hair with a red MAGA (My Attorney
Got Arrested) cap and contemplates just how to make Trumpistan great again. He
decides that teenage Jews are the biggest threat to his dictatorship and the Trumpistani
way of life. Going to a high school and gunning down as many Jews as possible
will be a good start to white Christian greatness—and the Rapture. He will march to South Florida and shoot his way
to freedom from algebra, alcohol, almanacs, alfalfa, Ali Baba, Al Capone, and
all of the other Semitic plots undermining the greatest white trash redneck
shithole country on Earth.
He spends a few hours practicing a
Nazi salute in the mirror before putting on his makeup, getting into the
hairspray, and heading out to do God’s work.
Donald Duck Drumpf received
$30.3 million directly from the National Rifle Association in campaign
contributions—perhaps much, much more through PACS and Super PACS—much of this
money reportedly coming from Russian oligarchs and merely laundered through the
NRA.
Good
dog! Stay—no, stay-y-y-y. OK, stand on your hind legs and beg.
Paul Ryan sits in
his parents’ home polishing his saber, oiling his rod, jerking off to NAMBLA
porn—gazing at his own white face in the mirror with a great deal of affection.
He prays for the strength to carry out the orders of his superiors. He will be
Superman (a real/fake man, that is to say, a brainless killer), Batman
(avenging his white parents against the ethnic scum who murdered them), Thor (a
real/fake purebred Aryan), Captain America (that unique combination of
exploitable loyalty and rabid racism in a leotard), Wonder Woman (a token dose
of sensitivity in her big-chested, motherly violence), Black Panther (a politically
correct token), Silver Surfer (he’s not
a nerd, he’s cool!) and even Deadpool (Reaganite irony destroying empathy through
smug cynicism).
Paul Ryan—his Eddie Munster’s
puppy-dog face erased in this palimpsest of superhero lore—loads his AR-57.
Paul Ryan has
received $49,650 directly from the NRA in campaign contributions over the last
twenty years, probably much more through hidden channels.
Here’s
a treat. Beg—now beg-g-g-g.
Marco Rubio climbs
into his mom’s SUV to give his gun a lift to school. Along the way talk radio
(Rush Limbaugh) tells him that illegal Mexicans are killing innocent blond Trumpistani
girls on piers in evil queer sanctuary city San Francisco; that all liberals
are sneaky idiot/geniuses who hate his freedom and want to take away his
penis/gun/right to be an asshole racist; that evil Jews in suits in banks are
helping us Christians arrive at our much-desired Armageddon but that we should
hate their shifty lawyer ways anyway; that feminists are all hairy-legged
lesbians aimed at cutting off his still flaccid penis, one painful slice at a
time; that feminism is a communist plot against his ever getting hard or having
the pleasure of dominating some bitch and turning her from a whore into a
mother with his theoretically hard cock; that the police only shoot blacks
because they resist God’s law (arrest); that the only thing utterly against divine
law is saying no to a white man; that Millennials are pampered snowflakes in
need of a good war to toughen them up; that filthy Muslim commie Taliban
goat-fuckers resist bowing down to our warlord flag in Afghanistan and Iraq; that
Iran can’t be trusted; that only a dumb black man with a Muslim name like
Barack Hussein Obama would trust those Middle Eastern scum—so we need to nuke
‘em behind their backs, the sneaky rag-head bastards; that Russia is our best
ally now that they’ve adopted our own mafia-style economic system (and are also
the only other sensible white nation left in the world);
and that in the new New World Order we two white nations will rule over all of the
darkie shithole countries together.
After
Rubio blows apart seventeen teenage bodies at the school, the radio
personalities quoted above will blame video games, bullying, and mental illness
for the deaths—anything but guns, white male anything, Drumpf’s incendiary
speeches, or their own fear-mongering.
Marco Rubio received
a paltry $5,000 directly from the NRA in contributions to his first campaign, but
an additional million when he ran for reelection—after proving that he was an obedient
pup. He’s such a kiss-ass he would have done everything they wanted him to do
for much less.
Who’s
a good boy? You are! You’re a goo-oo-oo-d boy!
Rob Portman pulls
into the parking lot of the Marjory
Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, stoned out of his mind on
talk radio, red baseball caps, Drumpf rallies, and comic book heroes. Trumpistan
teaches young white men mostly only one thing: violence will solve all of your
problems.
Today
Robbie Portman’s going hunting. The more Jew kids he
shoots in the next half hour, the greater Trumpistan will be in the morning.
Little Robbie carries his erect
assault rifle through the glass doors and into the school. His actual, fleshy
penis is a shriveled and useless lump in the pants he’s about to wet in
excitement and fear. (Yeah, this is all about hating mommy—his teachers and Hillary
Clinton. Guns are the anti-mommy erect steel cocks to which envious male white
babies cling; they signify the coward’s dream of uniting sex and supremacy through
bloodletting.) Little Robbie’ll show ‘em what it means for a boy to become a
man: it means killing bad guys. Ronnie Raygun killed bad guys in Hollywood
movies. Well, actually it was John Wayne—but, by 1980, Wayne was no longer
available to be cast as president of the New World Order. Trumpistan settled
for the B-movie version. Trumpistan always prefers remakes to originals.
“Ronald Reagan is my avatar of white
masculinity and though I walk through the valley of the liberal media and gun-hating
hippies I shall not want for bullets to smite the fuck out of anybody who gets
in my way, Jack,” Portman mumbles before opening fire.
Robert Portman
received $29,455 from the NRA for his first campaign and an additional $731,400
toward reelection.
Pee
on the paper: down, boy! Do-o-o-own! Now pee on the paper while we all watch.
Inside the school,
gun raised and cocked, Ted Cruz lets the bullets fly in sweet relief, thrill-pee
pulsing down his thighs. There’s almost no kickback from the compliant gun
(just like a real/fake Christian woman). The flesh, brains, blood, and bone
spurs of children fly about the classrooms like confetti at a birthday party.
Amid the hysterical screaming of those not yet dead, children run in circles around
traumas that will brand them, their DNA, and their descendants for eternity. It’s
nothing personal, just our way of life in action, business as usual in
Washington, DC. It’s the price you pay for believing in democracy, for trusting
the rich, for the indifference you have to force yourself to feel to support
all of the Human Centipede administration’s attacks on human rights—from Aleppo
to Tuskegee, from Saigon to the homeless encampments of Los Angeles. (Behind
every great fortune, a greater crime.) You’ll never take away little Teddie’s
freedom to spurt bullets, to smirk at you from your TV screen, to feel infinitely
superior to the sheeple, to laugh at you and your liberal bullshit. Nobody
tells little Teddie what to do with his pee-pee gun.
Superman’s Kryptonite cum rips
through these kids’ clothes and skin with hands of steel. Children’s bodies
tear like paper in his superhero grasp, heads bouncing around the gym like
deflated footballs. Gore rains on the wounded and terrified faces on the linoleum,
as their parents and teachers, as Trumpistan, its military and its police, have
taught them to do. This is the position of the patriot, face down on the floor,
ass up for whatever an authority figure wants to shove in it.
Trump/Reagan/B-movie cowboy/superhero/NRA-bought
Senator boy then stomps on the shivering, writhing, and still bodies—the still
living playing dead, fighting back their screams—the corpses rapidly cooling to
room temperature. He stomps ‘em good with his leather boots and cowboy spurs,
grinding their bones to chalk against the orange linoleum. (Even this is
useless as chalk has long been replaced by disposable markers in Trumpistan’s
“schools”—they pollute better, cost less, and make industrialists richer faster
than chalk ever did.)
Ted Cruz received
$11,900 from the NRA during his first campaign, plus another $65,000 for his
2012 Senate bid.
Speak!
Now Speak! Tell the people about the price of freedom, then go sit in your
basket until I call you again.
When feeding time is
over, Wayne LaPierre locks the gate and walks away from the kennel as the
barking subsides to the reluctant silence of a neglected kennel.
*
* *
Good guys always
kill more people than bad guys—that’s how they get to be called “good guys.”
They win the war by killing more people than the bad guys. Then, once they’ve
won the war, their historians write that they were the good guys, that they
were on the right side, the winning side, the side that killed the most people,
took power, and kept it—at least until the time when those history books got
written.
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