“You’re the superpredator,” Joe said to his reflection in the mirror of his campaign bus. “You’ve still got a good head of hair and most women you touch don’t have a problem with it. Presidents have been made on less.”
“Is that enough?” the makeup girl asked.
she’s got nice tits they are right on the back of my neck i can feel the weight of them i can smell them
“More,” he told her. “More foundation. And maybe a little rouge to bring out my cheekbones.” He gave her a too wide smile in the mirror and she shuddered at his dead eyes.
she’s on her period I can smell it smell it smell it meat she smells like meat
“Superpredator,” he whispered as she worked, the brushes moving over his face. The comb going through his hair as she smoothed it against his head.
“Get it good,” he said. “There’s only room in this race for one crazy-haired old man and it’s not going to be me.” He gave a hollow avuncular laugh and winked at her.
laugh laugh laugh laugh damn you laugh i’m funny everyone knows i’m funny
“What do you think, Mr. Vice President?” she asked.
“It looks fine,” Joe said. He searched around his mind for her name and drew a blank. He reached to pat her hand instead but her chaperone reached forward and slapped his hand.
“No touching, sir,” the large woman said, her voice gravelly and thick.
fucken dyke fucken dyke fucken dyke can’t find a man that will fuck you
Joe bared his teeth in a smile at the chaperone.
There was a polite knock on the door of his dressing room, the thin door rattling in its flimsy frame.
“Mr. Vice President?” Michelle asked through the door. “Are you ready? It’s time.”
“OK, OK, just hold your horses,” he said, sliding on his folksy personality like an ill-fitting glove. Joe tore away the tissue paper protecting his dress shirt and put on his suit jacket.
“How do I look?” he asked his assistant.
“Just great, Mr. Vice President!” the girl said, shooting a thumbs up from behind the glowering chaperone.
“Michelle!” he said, opening the door. She backed away from his outstretched arms until he dropped them to his side.
“Make sure to hit all the points we talked about this morning,” she said.
yellow meat yellow meat that tiny little body i want her to land a triple axel on my dick
“Hit points,” he replied. “This morning. Hit.”
“Shake hands only. No holding babies. No hugs. Don’t autograph anyone’s cleavage.”
“Not even the guys?” he asked, hurt in his voice.
“Not even the guys,” she said firmly.
“And makes sure to launch the new slogan,” she said.
“New slogan?” he asked, lost in a fog of suck suck suck thoughts.
“Make America Moral Again?” she prompted.
“Is there a hat? I want a hat,” Joe demanded.
“No hat,” she said firmly. He had asked a dozen times already.
“Make America Moral Again,” Joe said, rolling each word around in his mouth. “MAMA. MAMA. MAMA versus MAGA.” He looked down into Michelle’s eyes and asked, “Did you like your mother?”
She ignored the question and turned, walking off the bus. Joe darted forward to smell her hair. Lilacs. Musk. Frangipani.
i want to jizz in her hair jizz jazz jism i jizz in her hair i was jazzing her hair i have jazzed her hair i have been jazzing her hair i will jizz her hair i will have jazzed her hair i will be jazzing her hair i will have been jizzing her hair
He was still savoring it the smell of her as he stepped out into the bright sun of the rally stop. The tepid roar of the crowd washing over him, faces turning to track him, hands out-reached. The pleading. The yearning. The need in them hitting him like a drug.
fuck them fuck them all fuck fuck fuck fuck
He shook his head and then started shaking hands.