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THE TRUMPE NECRODEMENTIUM



Ace Nighthard



TABLE OF CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

















Twitter: @AceNightharder



Art by Chynna Jenkins

madeinchynna420





Copyright © 2017

All rights reserved









What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets!


Castlevania: Symphony of the Night



















Chapter 1


The amount of depravity was psychotic. Feces were splattered everywhere, mixed with blood and vomit in an approximation of early abstract expressionism. Also, there was jizz. Though he gloried in the transgressive, the tortures the man was subjected to strained even his limit for eroticism. Wounds covered his body, turning his six foot six, three hundo frame into a Talmud of unimaginable degradation. His orifices, both those he had been born with and those recently added with a power drill, had been dual-purposed into entrance and exit ports, a maelstrom of bilious effluvia arcing between his body holes in the eldritch improbability of the chamber. His nipples looked like they’d gone through a cheese-grater, but his dick, even after being nailed to a two by four, still looked awesome.

Nooo,” the man whimpered, his voice and thoughts one in the post-truth physics of this dying cinder-verse. “Trumpe’s President. Nooo…”

His name is Ace Nighthard,” The Chief Inquisitor said. “Former homoerotic assassin and erstwhile Trumpe-buggerer. Polyracial, he was bred in a laboratory from the seed of a polyracial father and all three members of 90’s pop group TLC.”

I’ve heard his name,” The Chancellor of Abomination said. “Or rather, I haven’t, because the first two Nighthard books are unknown outside a small circle of highly-suspect Smashwords readers.”

It’s true,” the Chancellor replied. “The Trumpe Supremacy and The Trumpe Presidency: MPREG on the Tides of Time both underperformed critically, for the simple fact that male pregnancy Trumpe erotica is not the sure-fire moneymaker the author thought it would be.”

Sad, really,” The Sepulchral Imperatrix added. “Another self-published author fallen by the wayside, unable to make even the meagerest of their dreams come true. Everyone wants to be Tingle.”

Tingle gets paid.” The Chancellor added.

But this Nighthard fellow,” The Imperatrix said, trying to steer the conversation away from leaning too heavily on the whole meta thing. “What’s his story?”

He killed himself,” The Inquisitor said. “Several times, actually. First was after Pussygate, which was like, shit, a million years ago. Shortly thereafter he went on Twitter and claimed he went back to his home planet or something.”

Because everybody needs another Simpsons reference.”

Then after the election came a sorry-ass apology letter, swearing Ace Nighthard was buried forever. The second time he promised that.”

Noo…” The Nighthard-revenant whined. “It’s about meeeeeee…”

Well then that should have been that,” The Chancellor of Abomination said. “You look at how bad the South Park guys got pwned, should be a lesson. Election humor is supposed to be funny because it’s topical, but everybody laughed at Hitler’s diarrhea too. It’s that whole false equivalency again. Be, like ‘Hey, everybody’s corrupt! Ain’t that wacky?’ You lump in Baron Harkonnen with a great politician with a Ten Point Plan and no baggage. She had a Ten Point Plan, for fuck’s sake!”

Well,” The Imperatrix scoffed, “we shouldn’t of even had to deal with her ass. If they didn’t rig the primaries, none of this would be happening.”

Sure,” the Chancellor scoffed. “Because rigging the primaries is something that’s actually possible. And everyone was clamoring for a 1000 year old socialist in Ohio. Must be why you voted for Tofu Palin.”

I didn’t…I mean…who I voted for is none of your business! And, besides, it’s not like we’re in some fucking flyover.”

Yeah, no, makes perfect sense. Be sure to remind yourself that when you’re getting your birth control from Mexico.”

Enough!” The Grand Inquisitor shouted. “The fact is, Trumpe is president, as as president we need to support him.”

A cold wind blew through those sere, necrotic halls, and at some point in the future, the Inquisitor was defriended twice on Facebook.

Then why are we here?” The Chancellor of Abomination said. “It’s already been *mumble mumble* since Trumpe became president. Nighthard’s dead, and shit isn’t funny. Can’t we get just on with our awful, awful lives? I, for one, find the Americans very boring but keep feeling the need to get into it.”

We are here,” The Inquisitor said with a flourish, “because shit still is funny. The pee tape. The fact that Trumpe is afraid of stairs. Covfefe. No matter how terrifying it is to live with him, the man is his own Insane Clown Posse. He’s a cartoon from a cartoon reality, unfortunately it just so happens to be the reality we’re all also living in. So what can you do? Provided you read Indivisible, and spend all your time on Twitter anyways, what can you do? So, minions of hell and people of all dimensions, I present to you the long awaited book three: The Trumpe…NecroDementium!”


Ace Nighthard!” a voice called out, booming off the iron walls with dark and merciless precision. “Rise, for death is not the end, and even the gayest of Alphas may do our bidding!”

I was strapped to a bloodied iron frame, thorny with metallic protrusions twisting my flesh and jagging up my butthole. My body, once so hard and juicy, had been rendered into quavering sweetmeats. From crotch to gullet I had been splayed open, my intestines scattered and fought over by a pack of hungry playful dogs. My face had been peeled off, soaked in orange juice and mayonnaise, then sewn back on my head badly so that ants could get at it. I was hard as a rock through all of it, and yet, I couldn’t even enjoy myself.

Whu?” I croaked, my voice rough as my throat was full of scorpions. “DGAF. Why you buggin’?”

We are buggin’,” the voice replied, “because you are in hell and our servant. Face the gaze of thy overmasters!”

My sight came into focus and I saw the three of them in front of me. Demons, or possibly humans using demon-enhancing drugs, set behind a table crafted from human limbs and organs. Two of them were men, unbelievable foine and tasty. Black leather bondage gear in a criss-cross of straps and buckles, strained over muscled torsos marked with scars and strange protrusions. Their lipless, gaunt faces started at me with dead eyes, under elaborate headpieces rising like monuments of inequity. There dicks…I didn’t get a look at them because of the table. But I wanted to, and for the first time since the boner-shriveling tragedy of 11/9, I felt the stirring of erotic longing inside of me, quickening my loins and filling my thoughts with a silent, reverential ‘bowmp bowmp’. Also, there was some kinda woman there, with a vagina or something, doing the whole mid-to-late Nineties rivethead goth thing. Meh.

I am the Grand Inquisitor,” the lead sexy demon-man said. “And this is the Chancellor of Abomination and the Sepulchral Imperatrix. We have called you here, Penitent Nighthard, to discuss your early release from hell. Word is, you’re not enjoying yourself.”

Whatever,” I said. “It’s a’ight.”

Hell is not meant to be ‘a’ight’,” The Imperatrix said, doing nothing to firm up my semi by talking. “It is the absence of God, the Emptiness Which Negates Existence. And you seem to be reacting to it like a High School senior after they’ve finished their AP tests.”

Yeah,” I said. “I dunno. Just wanna serve my time, I guess.”

Are you not the Nighthard, world’s greatest Alpha and homo-demented seeker of fortune?”

Yeah.”

The same Nighthard who was told by Satan in the mildly-accurate book two, ‘If I send you to hell, you’d probably fuck all the bigger demons and be gunning for my job within a week’.”

Yeah, I heard that,” I said. “Maybe was even true at some point. But, look, the last few months have been a wake-up call. All I want to do now is be a gentle SJW and cluck my tongue sadly at the sorry state of the world.”

And, is that working?” The Chancellor of Abomination said.

Nothing’s working! I tried having sex with Trumpe in a vat full of nacho cheese, I tried impregnating him with a full-sized Nighthard clone he had to give live anal birth to. I even tried cutting his dick off with a cat food lid and engaged in multidimensional quantum scissoring to save the timestream and fix what once went wrong. And that orange motherfucker still went on to be president, and neither of my books have reviews! #Depressing, yo.”

#Depressing,” The Imperatrix said. “#Diarrhea-inducing, also. But right from the start of your journey, there’s been one truth that’s irrefutable: Trumpe can’t be stopped. Despite the polls and expert commentary denouncing the man as a shit shingle dipped in orange poison, he’s broken through all barriers to achieve the highest office in the land. You’re part of that now, Ace, and can no more escape it as we can escape Trumpe being president.”

But…” I said, “it’s just…the normalizing! I can’t keep devising shocking-but-consensual erotological set-pieces as the world burns around me. I’m done. This was a stupid idea in the first place. Now leave me in hell, where I belong.”

Oh, ok,” she said. “I guess we’ll just get Riddick to do.”

W-wait. Riddick? Vin Diesel? He’s here?”

Oh yeah,” The Grand Inquisitor said. “The whole Trumpe-porn thing started as a Riddick ship anyhow. You only came along when that concept got too confusing and we needed an original character.”

Like fuck!” I said. “It’s always been about the Nighthard experience, right from day one! Nobody needs that heteronormative non-Nighthard running around like he’s King of the Necromongers! Like that’s a thing!”

Oh, ok,” The Imperatrix said. “But I think we’re gonna go with Riddick anyways. Got polished eyeballs, don’t’cha know.”

Like that’s a thing! Ok, guys, mind-change. Even though this is ill-advised and a whole new kind of soul-crushing, I’m gonna do the third novel. The Nighthard brand is just too important to me.”

I’m glad you’ve come around on it,” The Imperatrix said. “Compose yourself, and when you’ve prepared come meet me in Ready Room Foxtrot. Ace Nighthard is back in action.”











Chapter 2


Meditating silently, I let the calm of Ready Room Foxtrot wash over me, a soothing oasis after months of unceasing torture. I was excited but anxious, angry but horny, a little hungry, and most of all filled with a bleak, black lust for destruction. No doubt, my greatest mission was ahead of me, but it would also be my most challenging. Erotic Trumpening. Like the K2 of molestable figures, Trumpe was an enticing but technically-difficult colossus, testing the mettle of all those who dared climb him. And yet, having made that climb so often before, I could not resist its siren’s call yet again. Ace…the mountain of Trumpe’s flabby body seemed to cry to me. I’m president now…don’t you want to get up in me?

But did I? At times, I wondered if it all was an illusion. Was my torrid affair with Trumpe truly a sign of deeper infatuation? We had done so much stuff already, like, a crazy ton of stuff, every high-concept erotically sadistic encounter leaving me craving more. More insertions, more food stuff, more sex out by the dumpster. I told myself I did it because it was funny, seeing him symbolically humiliated like that. But was there more to it? What if there was something I wasn’t seeing, the possibility I actually liked Trumpe?

The Ready Room offered succor, but no answers. I gazed intently at the room’s only poster, a 70’s era ‘Hang in There, Baby!’ print, the dangling tabby a grim reminder that the mission was everything. No doubt the room’s second most impressive feature was its gleaming arsenal, hell’s armaments ready for the taking. SCAR-5’s, military flails, cybernetic assault armor and pointy sticks coated in dog shit. All for show, I thought casually, totally smooth and not awkward that I’d be thinking this, it’s important to point out that all my actions regarding Trumpe are consensual, and no intimation of violence is suggested. And, furthermore, let me be clear here that Trumpe is a composite character, based on such figures as King Lear and Rich Board Game Guy Uncle Monopoly. And besides, gazing in the demon-steel mirror they had set before me, it was clear my most potent weapon was my Nighthard.

The lesions of my torment had sutured themselves, but they had also transformed me. No longer a simple homoerotic pansexual and Former World’s Greatest Underwear Model, I had drunk deep from the Well of Oblivion. I was hell-blooded now, a creature who’s name was ranked among the Princes of the Fallen. My skin was bright red, with some horns, and this cute little tail right above my butthole. My eyes were glowing, doing this cool cat-eye thing you’d usually have to buy contacts for. Well, not any more, bitches. I was way more ripped than I used to be, previously a tiny four-hundred pound twink, I was now huge. Or, wait, as we’re saying it now, yuge. Also, I breathed fire, and my dick was pretty much a horse dick. Twenty-two inches, enough that if I put it inside someone I’d seriously hurt them.

Oh, fuck, I thought. I’m gonna have fun. But the parameters of the mission still eluded me. ‘Do another Trumpe-thing’ they had said. But what did that even mean? My last two missions had been stopping Trumpe, clearly I hadn’t succeeded since that bitch-tits was already president. And I couldn’t help wondering if there was more to this mission, facts I didn’t know, revelations that would change my perspective. How easy it would be to fall into bed with Trumpe, resuming our cozy-but-nightmare-fuel relationship like nothing had even happened. And wasn’t that what part of me always wanted?

How many times, Nighthard? I thought to myself. How many times have they used you as a weapon? Kurl, Tacos Kröz, even Peether Steele, who it turns out is openly gay and not in the closet like I thought earlier. To them, you were just a savage beast. A rogue Nighthard.

But Trumpe, Trumpe was something different. To him, sexual energy was power, a dynamo of erotic tension that could catapult him to the presidency. And, like the American voter, Trumpe understood me. Understood that I was ill-informed and motivated solely by cruelty towards others. And he promised me that cruelty on the campaign trail. Whispered it to me in the darkness. Tweeted it on Saturday morning.

The doors to the Ready Room opened with a whoosh, and the room went twenty degrees colder as The Imperatrix strode in with menace. Still doing the rivethead goth thing, she was nearly naked except for a string bikini with elaborate flared shoulder-guards and a cloak made out of raven’s feathers. I tried checking behind her if any dudes came in as well.

Ace Nighthard,” she said, throwing her hand up as a wave of green mist enveloped us. Almost as if drawn from a wound, a four-poster bed rose up out of the carpet, its heavy frame graven with perverted acts of sexual horror. “The confusion on your face betrays you. Do you wish to know what really happening in America?”

With an elegant push I fell back from her, the silk sheets writhing as they ensnared me. Iron chains shot out, binding me mercilessly as I lay helpless under her gaze. I nodded, wishing very much the fuck to know what was happened. She smiled.

The it’s time for some game theory.

Her vagina was right up against me, feeling like a sea slug or something. It was confusing.

1/,” she said, “Russia entered the Game with a broad agenda, flexible tactics, and numerous acceptable outcomes. 2/ This subversion could take many forms, including weakening NATO, general chaos, and frog memes appearing as avatars.” She began rubbing up on me with her body, a female body, which seemed weird to me. Not because she was goth, or a hell-demon, but simply because she was a woman. It’s like, chick’s bodies get that whole Andy-Warhol-can-of-soup-is-it-art reaction from me.

Y’know,” I said, “I say I’m a homoerotic pansexual, but that really means I’m just gay. This vaginomancy is just not squeezing it for me.”

Quiet!” She snapped. Like hills passing over the horizon, the walls of Ready Room Foxtrot drifted away from us, the bed on a sea of darkness. Somewhere, I could hear the agonized screaming of children, the bleating of lambs led to slaughter. “3/ The Game has been developing for many years, but it asymmetric and cheaper than building an aircraft carrier. 4/ While the West is frivolous and lazy and ‘Post-history’, the clever take advantage.”

An infinity of atrocities gaped above us, all pain and horror from every possible timeline. That got me aroused, kinda, and as soon as my semi revealed itself she plunged it straight inside of herself. ‘We’re both in this together’, my dick seemed to say, and I shrugged back at him, as if to give a steadfast ‘whatevs’.

5/ Flash forward to 1995, the release of Street Fighter Alpha.”

Wait, what!?” I shouted.

6/ SFA introduced Dan Hibiki, perhaps the franchise’s most annoying and ill-regarded character. Largely useless, Dan was noted for his armor-breaking moveset. 7/ Spammed properly, this moveset frustrated even talented gamers, and undermined the norms maintaining Street Fighter competitive gaming.”

Further down we went, past reflections of myriad infinities. Past dimensions that were likely or plausible, towards realities that seemed suspect or unlikely. Slowly, with the drunken lurch of a minor league baseball player, I began reaching towards orgasm.

8/ Early message boards were divided, pro and anti-Dan factions schisming towards a blind antagonism. 9/ Thus the lethal joke character was born. 10/ Meanwhile, a shirtless former KGB agent noted this gaming disruption, and arched his fingers menacingly as he began consolidating power.”

Downwards and downwards, towards realities that had never been. Dimensions where the Nazis had won, and were busy frogging each other to death. Dimensions where the dinosaurs had discovered fusion power, but later went extinct frogging each other to death. Wrecked, impossible monads. Ancient Carthaginians frogging each other before graven altars. The pompous courts of medieval Burgundy, busy with prodigious frogging. So much frogging. Closer and closer to the bedrock of eternity, the splayed viscera of infinity splattered against the adamant wall of the Gib Gnab. Nevertheless, we persisted.

14/ Fast forward to Jigglypuff, introduced as a Smash Brothers character…23/ Kuma made Tekken garbage, but the real problem was when Gon and Doctor B were introduced…”

Towards the mouth of the void, where the last, most cursed dimensions linger on the edge of nothingness.

45/ Now, everybody’s playing League of Legends, which I don’t play, but is big money. 46/ Pick Teemo in a competitive setting, you’re likely to get stabbed…138/ Lost my train of thought here, insert obligatory Star Wars reference…256/ Which brings us back to American politics, where you now expect any serious candidate to get curbstomped.”

Nooooo!” I screamed. “Your conversation is so OT and rambly, like a jazz concert performed by Medium.com articles. What the fuck are you talking about!?”

Causality shattered as we crossed the final threshold, the borderline between absolute and binary. I came, not because I felt great about what was happening, but because The-Something-That-Was-Also-Nothing had touched my prostate with its finger.

Aaazzzraelllll!!!” I screamed, become the negative one that brought plus one back to the cosmological constant of zero. The Imperatrix howled in victory, having dined on my fluids, demon-sated, exultant.


I was in a White Room.

257/, she said telepathically, no use for words in a space where nothing existed, What I’m talking about is that Trumpe’s always been president. 258/ In the Kingdom of Stupid-ass Motherfuckers, the Lethal Joke Candidate is king. 259/ But there still may be a way to stop him.”

I’ve heard this before,” I said. “It usually ends in me killing myself.”

260/ Just listen. Certain information is rumored to exist, detailing Trumpe’s secret corruption and hidden connections with Russia.”

I don’t think Trumpe’s corruption is secret,” I said. “Or let me put that a different way. Trumpe’s corruption and secret ties to Russia are what’s commonly referred to as a ‘Hugh Jackman secret’.” Hugh’s a friend. “People knew what they were getting when they voted for him. I don’t think they care.”

261/ And yet, there still may be a way. Some things still remain hidden, secret facts that could turn Trumpe’s supporters against him…

Like a photo of Trumpe reading the Atlantic? Or opening a door for somebody’s grandma? Trumpe supporters back him because they hate liberals and 99.9% of them want to have gay sex all the time, but are afraid to admit it or explore that, so they’re angry and spend all day watching Hannity. You can’t expect them to change their minds on anything, that would require minds. Also, the ability to read, which, according to the author of Hillbilly Elegy, they don’t have. All we can hope for is that they all die of cancer without health care, but hopefully before we all die of cancer without health care. Expecting anything else is pretty much impossible.”

262/ True, Mr. Nighthard. If you had told me a year ago Trumpe was going to be president, I’d’ve said said it was impossible. And I’d be right.

No, wait!” I said, watching her evaporate in a swirl of moaning ghosts and letters from the words ‘Skinny Puppy’. “You would’ve been worse than right! You would’ve been…oh, wait, I just saw what you did there.”

The Room churned with dimensional energy, ready to birth me back to reality. The Imperatrix had returned to hell, where the rules were tough but fair and uniformly enforced. I was headed somewhere worse, because, unlike hell, on Earth Trumpe was motherfucking president.











Chapter 3


Are we almost there yet?”

Shut up, just a little bit further.”

I don’t like it when you tell me to shut up, Charlie. Besides, I did not bring the shoes for this.”

If your shoes are the only thing getting ruined tonight, consider it a win. Here we are.”

It was a thing of legend. A place, perhaps once like any other place, but now varnished in mystique and storytelling. A power place, where the invisible and all-too-subtle energies of our world eddy in a whirlpool of attainment. It was, to put it simply, a mattress lying in the storm drain.

Wow,” the guy who wasn’t Charlie said. “Just the way you described it. Is this really where you want to do it?”

Dragged half up the lip of the culvert by an enterprising homeless, the mattress had the sodden, well-loved look of a spot that had been recently occupied. Glass one-hitters and cleanly-licked cans of cat food ringed the site, along with a lender’s library of water-damaged paperbacks. Terry Goodkind. Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. Fantasy literature, the good stuff. The mattress had been abused savagely, rimed with secretions, it had also been punched and kicked a lot, as well as slashed open with a pair of seemingly inhuman claws. Many of the stains suggested screaming faces, and, if you listened closely, you could still hear their pained voices on the wind.

Yes,” Charlie said. “This is the place. This is where we come to make love.”

The mattress made a squishing noise in acknowledgment of their presence. Mildly sentient, it seemed to crave their lovemaking. Two men, both over a certain threshold of gayness, their spirits buoyant and ebullient after an evening of rum drinks and just a dusting of Molly. It wanted them there, to feed off their sexual energies. And yet, the guy who wasn’t Charlie seemed like maybe he wasn’t into it.

Or…” not-Charlie said, “we can take the party back to my place. I got a six-pack of Sparks, I got my Queercore playlist all cued up. Everything we need for butt-banging, but indoors, and not on top of a creepy blood mattress.”

But where’s your sense of adventure!? This mattress was once used by the Nighthard.”

The Nighthard?” Clearly getting sucked in, against his better judgement. “The same Nighthard who killed himself, many times, after a torrid-but-consensually-violent affair with our president, and I still throw up when I say that, Dagwad Trumpe?”

One and the same. There were few of legend more sexual than Ace Nighthard, some say there were none. But, by doing gay butt stuff here in the storm drain, we have a chance to bask in a shadow of a fingernail of his glory. For, we are gay, but we are men.

Yeah, but…look, Charlie, it’s time for some game theory. We don’t have to. We’re responsible adults and, sure, we get grindy. But I’m a partially-employed Slate.com law journalist and you’re a highly respected Games Workshop Battlemaster in Westminster, CA. Let’s use some sense about this.”

No,” Charlie said, speaking with more certainty than he had ever said anything in his life. “Because back at the bar when we did Molly, I did a little bit more than you, and the amount that I did makes it feel really, really good to do this.”

Ok, I’m in. But, for God’s sake, let’s get this misery over quickly.”

Poor fools. If only they had known. If only they had listened. But, all too often, the price we pay for ultimate pleasure is ultimate pain, and, that night, as the gulls sang and the night air filled with the gentle squish of anal penetration, the mattress awoke. Awoke, and it was hungry.

Iron chains shot out of it, drawn forth by the unmistakable sound of docking. With a strange life of their own, the chains coiled around the gay dudes, locking them in a caress that was neither kind nor caring. White fire erupted from them, not heat but a kind of burning coldness, searing them, cooking away their imperfections. Locked in coitus, the two men screamed, each one thinking what could I have done to avoid this, but also, of all the negative outcomes, this is not the one I was expecting. And, were they wrong? No, they were worse than wrong. They were right.

A pair of metal masks locked around their faces, the strange energies of hell transforming them. Their bodies became stretched, distorted, the wet sound of bones breaking and organs reshaping themselves. From the undifferentiated chaos of their transformation emerged new bodies, equine, but also preserving the freshness and now of their male masculine physiques. They had become hell’s horses, steeds of self-punishment harnessed in despair and torture. Again, not what they were expecting, but I could see at least Charlie was having a bit of fun with it.

They tried to run. They knew to flee. And yet, they did not comprehend that hell was now dragged behind them, an annex of punishment they themselves carried. Around them. Within them. And still, they tried to run. They knew to flee.

Hhhhuuuuuurrrooouuurrrggghhhhh!!!” I screamed, birthed from the mattress in a fountain of brackish blood, pulled by the leash of my demonic steed. I came forth, triumphant, cauled in viscera, my new incarnation drinking deep of the crusted bisque of the mattresses fluids. Each muscle gleaming, butt-ass naked, my waving dong a pennant of Satanic pride. Beneath me, a sleigh, pretty much the kind you’d see parked behind a mall Santa at Christmas, except that this one was covered in skulls and scrawled with crude graffiti and pictures of dicks. I laughed, a laugh of pure demonicism as my incarnation was complete, my new phat ride and fun wacky sidekicks besides me. With a lash of the reigns, we were out of the culvert and onto the highway, maddening laughter and madness-inducing screaming all intermingled. The world was Nighthard’s for the taking.



Hey fucker, get out of the road!” someone shouted, man in a red Honda Civic.

Yeah, fucker! I’m driving here!” Woman in a white Range Rover with a Bernie sticker.

Get yer queer-car ass back to San Fag-cisco.” Charming fellow in a pickup truck.

I learned very quickly that the Nightmare Sleigh did not handle well in traffic, and also that people weren’t used to seeing a demon man in a sleigh pulled by two horse dudes. They weren’t woke enough to handle it, and that was very sad to me.

But, as the cars piled up behind me, the sleigh barely making thirty with my two guys huffing and puffing to pull it, I came to another realization as well. People seem pretty pissed off these days. I realized how little I knew about Trumpe’s America. Sure, I had already done a book on the subject when I thought it was a hypothetical, and didn’t want go over that again. But so much had happened while I was in hell, like, a million fucking things a second, and awareness of Trumpe’s rule was critical to the mission. I needed information.

I pulled the sleigh to a halt, making sure to block all traffic as I parked it across the freeway.

Sorry! Sorry!” I yelled as I got out. I pulled out my smartphone, a little uncertain that I had one as I was still naked, and took a deep breath as I prepared to catch up with the news cycle. I mean, how bad could it be? Yeah, Trumpe was president, but really. It’s not like there were Neo-Nazis in the White House. Ultimately Trumpe would need the help of smart, rational people to run the country, and there was a lot of shit even he couldn’t get away with. Not like congress would give him a free pass.

Whhuuuuuuuuuuut?” I said, scanning the headlines on a terrible liberal newsblog that will remain nameless. “No…that can’t be…Jeff Sessions!?” As I read down through the articles on HuffPo, the news didn’t get better. I felt the sickness overcome me, like the effects of a deadly poison or too many mimosas at the brunch table. My body could only fight to reject the information.

Huuurrggh!” I projectile vomited, classy enough not to diarrhea but also diarrheaing a little bit. But, as the cold vomit hit the asphalt, a funny thing happened. As if by magic, the spew formed an image of a cartoon dog in a hat, standing in a burning house. ‘Everything’s fine!’ the dog said, apparently unbothered by the fire. And, you know what? Maybe the dog was right. I didn’t know yet, but I wanted to believe it. And perhaps it was worth believing. I was so confused! Knowing there was one person in the world who could set my mind straight, I left the sleigh on the highway and wandered off into the woods. It was time to see a friend. Perhaps the only friend I ever trusted.











Chapter 4


The President stared at his hands, wondering, once again, what they were truly capable of. Huge hands, so gigantic but also exceptionally girthy, with long, powerful fingers that could never be described as little sausages. Hands that grabbed pussies. Hands that wrote speeches in black sharpie at his secretary’s desk in Florida. The hands of a winner.

You are being up late again,” Melvania said, walking by the Oval Office in one of her moods. “Up late, with the always!”

Yeah, I’m up late,” the president said. “That’s called being a leader, ho. It’s called being presidential!”

Is presidential not to make love with wife?” she said, throwing off her nightgown to reveal a body that said ‘I did S&M softcore’. He stared, and for a moment he was tempted. But he only shook his head no.

Nah,” he said. “Can’t help you. Lotsa bills need signing, and, uh…” trying to think of things the president did, “um…stuff. Man, you Slovaks are a horny people.”

I’m Slovene!” she shouted, picking her nightgown off the floor. “Slovene! Not Russian, not Slovak. Is country bordering Italy!”

The president’s face burned. How could he make a simple mistake like that? Sure, as a businessman a misplaced demonym meant nothing, an easy mistake. But now, he was the boss of America. Slip-ups like this mattered. What if it happened with a foreign leader? Could he face the shame, the loss of face America might suffer? The thought kept him up at night, wandering the White House in a dingy pink bathrobe. Above all, he wanted to help his country. To make it great again. Mostly through coal, but also respect, and an egoless devotion to national unity.

Yeah?” he snapped back, knowing his anger was largely self-directed. “Well, why don’t you take your country’s pleasant Adriatic climate and white sand beaches and shove them up your ass!”

Take me now!” she gasped, raking her press-on Dracula nails across his face. She threw herself on the desk with an all-consuming lust, but the president could only shrug indifferently. So much work left to do. Trade deals, the careful vetting of executive orders, the ever-constant need to weigh every decision, avoiding even the seeming of conflict of interest. And even after that, the Fireside Tweet, his standard method of communicating with the public. A folksy, easy way to reach out to Americans, perhaps at times lacking depth. But a powerful tool to persuade, and, in a way, comfort. With all that ahead of him, it was ultimately easier just to make love to Melvania. Git’r’done, as a wise man once said, then get back to the business of governance.

Off!” she said, wet before he even pulled his pants down. “I am so the cumming!” Splayed across the desk with her weird European body, the president could only solider onwards. He tried not to flinch touching her, but there was something so cold about her physicality. Time was, the president used to love weird European bodies. But now, they just seemed confusing to him. The odd booblessness, with something weird always happening around the nipple. The ass, which was flat, but flat in the way a Lovecraftian abomination was an octopus. It was like, y’know, you’re watching Game of Thrones, and there’s this fine fire sorceress. So you’re all like, ‘Damn! What’s she got going on under that robe?’ And, ‘cause she’s European, you’re gonna find out. And then you do, and it’s all like, ‘Wait? What!?’ and then you’re like ‘No’, and then like, ‘Huh?’ before just being like ‘OK, well then let’s just get back to the dragons.’ It was like that.

But there was something more troubling the president. Tracing the curve of her body, he remembered another sensation, the feel of a different body. An incredibly muscular body, insanely bulky, every inch of it pierced and tatted. An illicit, forgotten pleasure, one he could never enjoy as president. And yet, even as he thought of that forbidden body, a frisson generated inside of him. For aren’t we all in search of the forbidden, a way to overcome out own restrictions? To be wild and self-manifesting, unbound by the iron-hard limitations of being president? Or being anything, for that matter. To live sexually, so that each act is a pennant of autonomy. So that you may say, ‘I banged, so that others may know how to live free’.

As these thoughts overwhelmed him, First Lady Melvania plunged two fingers into his dangerzone. Bitch, he thought, how does she know my one weakness? But it was too late. As her long finger brushed his prostate, she felt forces that slumbered inside of him awaken. Deep inside the president, piezoelectric supercapacitors arced to life, cycling up the positive-power feedback loop that would start his astonishing transformation.

Huhguhguhguhguhguh,” the president vibrated, generating enough torque to send Melvania flying across the room, crashing into the wall and leaving an Old-School-European-Gold-Digger-Shaped hole in the Oval Office’s finishing.

No!” she screamed. “Is happening! Why is happening again?”

If only the president knew. Somewhere in his body he could feel it, the black hole at the center of his power manifold. Infinite energy, drinking deep of quantum vacuum fluctuations. From the flashes of annihilation at the event horizon, jets of matter streamed forth, bottled and trapped within walls of distorted metric spacetime, structures of pure gravity shaped through probabilistic femtotech manipulation. From there, all paths led to the hammer. The forge. The nanomanipulator. Protons danced at the core of his being, corralled inside the president like unthinking cattle, electrons plucked from nothing and delicately assembled, brushed into new atoms with feather-fine workmanship. Tungsten, vanadium, unique transuranics only able to exist in rare hothouse circumstances, all printed into complex filigrees of machinery within the president. Like an infinite assembly line, neverending in its microinfinitesimal smallness, handed down along chain to be distributed among the growing technomodules of his body.

Ah, you stupid bitch!” the president shouted. “Look what you’ve done to me!”

The First Lady shuddered. To say she felt terror was correct, but also inaccurate. For even terror was a form of knowing, of recognition and understanding. What her husband was turning into was beyond knowing, beyond anything resembling even the barest semblance of familiarity. Her panic was profound, though brief. Like running in heels or knowing to never say anything to cops, her coolness under pressure was a deeply-learned habit, and one that she could rely on during the president’s increasingly common episodes. On her wrist was a finely-crafted, gold plated bracelet, swimming in pink diamonds. With great resolve, she pressed down on one of the diamonds, causing the Oval Office to go into lockdown. A foot of lead paneling behind the walls, steel shutters and deadbolts of awe-inspiring length and thickness. A room that could keep out anyone, but now, its job was to keep someone in.

Oh, you stupid bitch! Fuck you!”

Diving for an escape shaft disguised as a dumbwaiter, she made it clear of the rapidly sealing hatch. As she looked back one last time, she could see what the president had become, as much as her eyes allowed her to see it. A geodesic assembly of Platonic solids, interlaced and locked in whirling orbits, diamond filaments and tensors of pure energy connecting them. Circles, mathematically perfect to the 10^6 power of pi, polygons and tetrahedrae of sharp, crisp symmetry, uncanny and perfect in a way unlike anything made by human hands. All coruscating, pulsing with light as they hovered, multicolored lighting flashing in lurid displays of phantasmics. And, somewhere inside of it all, was still her husband. Still Dagwad, still the president. Like everyone, she’d just have to learnt to accept it.

You stupid bitch!” he screamed. “This hurts so badly! Fuck you for doing this to me! Fuck yoooooooouuu!!!”











Chapter 5


The sky was a muted orange as the sun began to set, spreading darkness over the face of the foothills. Cars piled up on the freeways, tired Angelenos ready to get home to their 2k studio apartments or double-mortgaged homes out in Upland. The noise of construction had diminished for the moment, never ceasing, but slowed. With a new city rising from the sprawl, the progress could never cease, but for now, it could wait until tomorrow. There were episodes of Blackish to watch, Twitter feeds to be obsessed over. Bongs needing communion. The city was winding down, and, for Ace Nighthard, it was good to be home again.

Over in Brentwood, things were, well, Brentwood. Plastic surgery bitches that looked like Joan Rivers’ grandmother. Dudes sitting in Jags vaping next to urine-soaked tent-cities. Middle-aged women in yoga pant listening to Jenny McCarthy audiobooks. And more, but, y’know, if you really wanna go heavy with the City of Angels stuff, I’d suggest either GTA V or Bojack Horseman. Also, if you go back and watch some early Portlandia episodes, you can those are LA jokes.

Among this tableau, two men walked slowly down the street, both dressed in billowing black, past that one cafe the TMZ reporters hung out at.

Ace!” they yelled.

Ace Nighthard!”

Kanye!”

Fucking paparazzi,” I said. “It’s like they’re always here at this one spot.”

Yeah,” Kanye said. “Fucking vultures. Let’s walk by them again. Slower, this time.”

It was magical to see Kanye again. Him and I were, well, close. For a time, anyways, until our lives took different directions. But in spite of that, I was still in possession of a very, very well-kept secret about him, one that under no circumstances I could reveal to the general public. But it wasn’t just Kanye’s secret angry bisexuality that connected us, it was something mystical. Two souls, fellow confidants, brothers in a world we didn’t create, that was perhaps wasn’t ready for us.

Oh, yeah, and I wanted to talk to him about Trumpe because, and I forgot to mention this earlier, a lot of the sex I had with Trumpe also included Kanye. He was there, like, sixty to eighty percent of the time, a welcome third wheel in our erotic exploits, adding an urban and post-millennium vibeyness to our frequent and varied couplings. My thoughts still turned to poolside afternoons, Trumpe splayed out over lawn furniture with a dick in both ends, Kanye and I high-fiving furiously until our palms were bloody, fat, red drops splattering down on Trumpe’s naked back. Or when we dressed Trumpe up like a sandwich, with real giant lettuce and an onion roll, filling him at both ends, Kanye and I high-fiving until our palms were bloody, fat, red drops splattering down on the onion roll. Then, there was the time we had Trumpe dressed as popular fast food monster Grimace, filled at both ends, Kanye and I high-fiving until…well, ok, so there was a lot of that. I think we did other stuff too, though, like that time we went on the Ferris wheel. Trumpe, hanging off of the Ferris wheel, Kanye and I filling him at both ends…

But I digress. Kanye got his life together at some point, married a businesswoman and lived with her and her big wacky family in a house that went to the front of the property. Things were good for him, and I respected that. But I wondered if he thought of me sometimes, if he was truly happy.

So anyways,” I said, “how you been? Anything interesting happening?”

Sky is full of rainbows,” Kanye said, almost defensively. “Look up.”

It took me a moment to realize he actually did want me to took at the sky, taking in that shitty-kinda-pretty California sunset.

Yeah, bitch,” he said. “See the rainbow?”

Uh, no. Looks like a normal sky to me.”

No, bro. Full of rainbows. You can’t see them ‘cause it’s all in ultrapurple. Can’t see it like I can.”

Uh-huh.”

Next topic, go.”

Oh, yeah, I remembered, part of the thing about Kanye is he’s bipolar and unmedicated, a condition his rising, then plummeting, stardom only exacerbates. Do I really wanna fuck with this? Am I making fun of his arrogance, or his mental condition. Where’s the line on this one?

There is no line, motherfucker,” Kanye said, his undiagnosed illness giving him mind-reading powers. “Either you’re gonna make fun of me or you’re not, live with it.”

Cool,” I said. “Well, I’ve been swell. Better than swell. Got myself a new job, some interesting opportunities. Thing are lookin’ up for ‘ol Ace.”

Heard you killed yourself. Several times.”

Yeah…”

Look, Ace. I know what this is about. He’s under your skin again.”

What? Who? I have no idea what’s you’re even talking about.”

Don’t play dumb, bitch.”

Fuck. How did Kanye know me so well? It’s like he sampled Jesus Walks from several better songs just for me.

What do I do Kanye!?” I said. “Trumpe and I were great together, both during the election and in a parallel future reality that turned out just like this one. But he’s president now, and I got the demon-bitch in my grill telling me I have to sleep with him.”

Don’t I know that feeling,” Kanye quipped.

She said I have to infiltrate Trumpe’s inner circle and make nice with him to reveal some secret information. But my heart isn’t ready to got through that again. I was just getting used to being tortured for eternity.”

Uh-huh,” Kanye said. “Well, it’s a complicated problem, Ace. Have you seen the dolphins yet?”

What!? Dolphins? What does that even have to do with-“

Never mind, bitch. Look, Ace, I feel you. You and me, we’re like wild stallions, born to be free. And I know you like Trumpe, and have a very sexual time with him. But here’s a truth-bomb, skank: Trumpe is bad.”

What!? I thought you liked Trumpe? What’s with the script-flip?”

Bipolar, motherfucker. Also, people are allowed to change there minds. If everyone’s trying to figure out how to turn Trumpe voters, maybe not rubbing their noses in it is a starting place. Lemme tell you, though, there’s an ancient prophecy I’m a part of. That prophecy says I get to be right once every ten years or so.”

Yeah, I had heard that,” I said. “That’s why you said that whole Katrina thing, then apologized like a bitch. Then continued said bitchery.”

Yep, and it’s the New Tens now, so that’s my truthful thing for the decade. But, since we’re here now, lemme give you some other advice: don’t marry an actual prostitute.”

I’d never marry in my profession,” I said. “But good advice nonewithstanding, I still don’t see things any clearer. I know Trumpe is bad. I know I need to stop him. But part of me wants him back, and somehow thinks this could all work out somehow. President or no president.”

Then it’s a quandary. But it’s time for some game theory: Either you go back to the man who’s your soulmate, knowing it’ll destroy him, which he deserves. Or you keep away from him, depriving yourself that love but also keeping in office a man who definitely shouldn’t be.”

That sounds like the dilemma.”

Bitch, I just said it was a quandry! And I can’t tell you what to do, either. But, and lemme say this, not everyone can see ultrapurple.”

He put on his shutter shades and walked away, hitting several poles and ultimately checking himself into Cedar Sinai for exhaustion. There goes a beautiful man, I thought. But, the moment I let myself process it, the choice was clear. Trumpe and me, me and Trumpe. His pony, my saddle, if he’s horny, come get me. All roads led to Trumpe, the Oval Office, and sodomy. Like a arrow shot from a bow, the vector was immutable.

Some things were meant to happen.











Chapter 6


No.”

But…c’mon.”

No.”

Please?”

Lemme put it another way: fuck no.”

Uh, I’ll give you a kiss.”

I’m a Secret Service agent, sir. We’re not supposed to kiss on duty.”

Well, poo!”

I was standing outside the White House, thinking it’d be an easy amble inside. Trumpe and I were still pretty friendly, despite the diverging paths out lives had taken. But, and maybe it was the fact that I was a butt-ass naked demon, or maybe it was that Trumpe had gotten snooty since he went big time, but the president did not want to see me.

I get no respect, I tell you. No respect.

By the way, sir,” the Secret Service agent said, “you’re going to have to move your slave carriage.”

It’s a Nightmare Sleigh.”

Well, it’s blocking up traffic down Penn Avenue.”

Fucker. But, like me, he was just a fella doing his job. Wasn’t helpful to my ass, though. Somewhere, inside that ancient, hoary mansion, was Trumpe. President Trumpe. I could almost feel the electricity of his presence from where I was standing. His vigor. His sexuality. The erotic stirrings were great, but what was greater was the sense of destiny I was feeling. Thinking back, didn’t it always seem it was going this way? That scary feeling we all had through 2016, counterbalanced only by the logic that Trumpe couldn’t win. ‘No, America’s gonna reject Trumpe’s bigotry’. ‘There’s no room for an illiterate sociopath in the White House’. ‘No, Hil’s blue wall is going to hold, you know the Midwest always votes Democrat’. We all felt that way, carefully ignoring the constant sickness we woke with every morning, or the way Nate Silver be all like ‘I don’t know, guys…’. And then, the impossible became inevitable, and nobody could fuck for, like, a month. We are all slaves to history, and history is but a slave to itself.

But my reservations could not overcome my desire, and, confusing mission plan aside, I wanted to be there with him. Loving him. Owning him, but, remember, in such a way that constitutes no threat of violence or any encouragement of others towards such. I can’t be more clear about this. That feeling too infused my sense of destiny, the destiny the World’s Great Alpha and Former World’s Greatest Male Underwear Model Ace Nighthard felt towards his bonded Omega. Through countless incarnations Trumpe and I have tussled, his sexual enslavement a true expression of the love we shared. In one incarnation, I was a cowboy, Trumpe my horse. In another, he was a Roman centurion and I was a Pictish warrior who fucked him in an outhouse. Them there was that time I was a caveman and he was a hole in a tree with a beehive in it. Around and around we went, finding each other, the passion play unwritten across the ocean of eons, our sublime bond driving us to find one another. To love, to die, to do it all again.


I don’t want to wait

For my life to be over

I want to know right now

What will it be?


But, for the moment, my plan was pretty much fucked in the pooper. During the campaign, Trumpe had been so easy to reach out to, accessible and off-the-cuff in a way the other candidate was not. Now, he was shut away, ensnared by his position, suddenly a politician in a way he never would have agreed to if he actually thought he would win. And, I wondered, was he enjoying it? To find out, I needed a new plan. Or, perhaps, the intervention of a new character at this juncture.

Psst!” A voice called out from the alleyway. “C’mere, buddy, I got a scoop for you.”

Hey,” I said, “it’s George Noory’s sexually deviant stepson, Axel Joans,” Axel Joans being a shitty fake name I strung together because I’m calling a sexual deviant with no evidence. “Still makin’ ‘em big in Texas?”

You know it, Ace. At least, until the Trilateral Commission tell us not to.”

Yeah, you’re always on about that. Reminds me of how so much of your nonsense is just recycled Bircher hash.”

Uh-huh, but freaky and party-hardy for the new millennium. Did you know the Illuminati smokes DMT in secret rituals to summon self-creating machine elves for nefarious purposes?”

Yeah, I did know that. Vintage McKenna. Which raises an interesting point about the other component of your brand, the subversion of traditionally stoner-left conspiracy tropes towards something skirting fascism. Speak to the opportunism of all you podcast libertarian types.”

True,” Axel said, “but I think you’re overthinking what’s essentially a rage-button pressed down all the time. Anyways, heard you’re trying to get into the White House.”

Yep,” I said. “But they got these uncool security guards telling me I can’t walk right in and make the president suck me.”

The right of every sovereign citizen, and one the internationalists badly want to take away from us.”

Internationalists still mean Jews, right?”

Kinda. In this case, yes.”

As long as we’re clear on that.”

Ace, it’s time for some game theory: I can get you into the White House, but first we’re gonna have to go down a whole fuckin’ rabbit hole. It’s time you met the alt-right.”


The beach. The beachiest beach ever, with all the requisite bro-dudes and bikini babes, fat white families munching hot dog and pitbulls (sometimes called nanny dogs) taking shits everywhere. Also, homeless people fucking. ‘Cause, y’know, the beach!

Each beach has its own culture, and every generation its trendsetters. But, out on the waves that day, I saw something new emerging. The surfers that owned this strand were different, not your typical clearance rack Dan Corteses. They were stronger somehow. Cooler. Whether riding the waves or getting ripped at the weight bench, it was clear that a new tribe dominated. No room for spongers, if you wanted to roll with these guys, you had to be a real motherfucker.

You like what you’re seeing here, Ace?” Axel asked me, his piggy flesh already hissing and popping in the mild and diffuse sunlight. “Notice something special happening?”

I’ll say,” I said, eyeing the dudes at the free weights. “But what does this have to do with the White House?”

Axel laughed. “Oh, Ace. Silly, silly goose. Don’t you see? For all effective purposes, this is the White House. The center of his support, the masterminds behind his rise to power. The pivot on which all policy in the Trumpe Administration turns, and the filter through which is reality is depicted. Behold: the alt-right.”

The surfers had come to shore, and were gathering around us to size me up. With their board shorts and perfectly tanned bodies, I felt somewhat pitiful next to the alt-right. Shit, some of these guys are bigger than me, even, I thought, checking out their bulging musculature and perfectly symmetrical proportion. Like new gods, they were, proud and defiant, without any insecurities to shape their worldview. It made me feel naked next to them, which I was, BTW, I’m not putting on any clothes on this installment. And the alt-right could smell the fear on me. To them, I was nothing but a sponger.

Hey, Axel,” one of them said, “why’d you bring the sponger. We’re all slick and super-awesome around here, we don’t have time for a, uh, uh…sponger!”

Back off, Dr. Sebastian Gorka,” Axel shot back. “Seriously! Don’t mind them, Ace, they just think you’re a sponger.”

Uh-huh. So, what does the alt-right do, exactly? You guys are surfers?”

Surfers, hackers, freelance social disruptionists. Modern pagans. But what we really are is a political movement dedicated to the freedom and liberty of all Americans.”

But not blacks or Mexicans?”

But not blacks or…good catch, Ace! I think you’re gonna fit in just fine around here.”

And, are you like their leader-guy?”

Me?” Axel chuckled. “No, nothing like that. I have my influence, to be sure, but the leader of the alt-right is one even greater than myself. You get to Trumpe, you get to him first, and, once he’s introduced, you’re not gonna see much of me because the two of us are fairly interchangeable.”

So, what do I have to do? How do I make that happen?”

Get down with the alt-right. It’s that simple. But first you’re gonna have to prove yourself. So, what are your skillsets? Is there any one thing you’re particularly good at?”

Well, I do having a penchant for destroying twinks. It kind of my thing, the Ace Nighthard experience. If you got any weird twinks in the alt-right, I could probably fit myself inside of them.”

Yeah, I think it’s time you met Miloh.”










Chapter 7


Note: I wrote a really funny flashback chapter chronicling young Trumpe and his difficulties with his father. It’s totally hilarious and give a good explanation why Trumpe is such a dick all the time. Also, it marks the first reference we’ve seen to a mysterious entity known as the ‘Lifespark’. But, since it technically depicts heinous child abuse, I can’t include it. This is just like when I inadvertently plagiarized The Fountainhead, then had to go back and change it.











Chapter 8


So,” I said. “We doin’ this?’

We’re doing this,” Miloh said. “We’re doing this hard, we’re doing this the right way. Then, when we’re done doing this, we’re gonna finish together.”

Miloh, I like the way you think.”

Miloh. What kind of age are we living in? It’s one thing to see a guy like this a houndstooth suit, acting all Mr. National Review while he’s the bitch of the bathhouses at night. But when he’s out and fabulous, waving the banner of the unassailable right-wing Zerg rush, it seems kind of…well, I don’t know what it seems like. Progress?

But I liked him, and I wanted to be with him. Unapologetically twinkish, he operated as the alt-right’s resident futurist, scoping out issues in technology and gender that deserved immediate and total attention. It was for that reason that we were cruising the suburbs of a medium-sized Canadian city, on the hunt of a woman who, well…it was kind of hard to explain, but Miloh had convinced me she was ‘the worst Hitler in the entire gaming community’.

So, what exactly did she do wrong?” I asked, staring out the window as the cool, brisk Canadian air filled me with Joni Mitchell-style yearnings. “It’s because she’s a woman, right? In the gaming industry?”

No,” Miloh said defensively, his lip quivering, his breath rich with the smell of clove cigarettes. “It’s because this company put out a game with bad animations, before it was ready.”

And it’s her fault?”

Not directly. But we think certain people are overrepresented within the industry, and as gamers we want to push back against their sinister and political agenda.”

So…because she’s a woman?”

Ace, you’re not understanding. It’s time for some game theory. We on the alt-right aren’t monsters. We’re not even the haters you see us depicted as. We’re just normal, well-adjusted people from various creeds and backgrounds who think political correctness has gone too far.”

That sounds…reasonable.”

Darn right it does! You think people want to police themselves for the rest of their lives to please a bunch of privileged white kids dropping out gifs? When it is ok to laugh about something, without worrying what the internet thinks?”

Yeah,” I said. “I see what you’re saying. But still, it’s hard to know when you’re going too far sometimes. I don’t care about political correctness, but I also don’t want to actually hurt anyone.”

Says the man who had to delete an entire chapter about Trumpe and his father exploring their special relationship.”


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