Politics

A Tale of Bravery.

Synopsis: A chance encounter with the wife of 2012 presidential hopeful Rick Santorum leads to a messy  day of unforgettable experiences. 

I hung out with Rick Santorum's wife a few years ago, before he decided to do any of this presidential shit. We were on an elevator. I had a strawberry flavored finger condom in my jacket pocket, because my ex girlfriend's mom gave them to me so I wouldn't get my girlfriend pregnant from fingerbangs. We thought that's how it worked for the longest time, so it made sense. Santorum's wife was sniffing the air like she was at a Chinese buffet. I pictured Wonton soup in my mind and could almost taste the eggrolls I imagined she was smelling. I felt excitement, but a sense of unease joined that feeling.  I started to feel afraid, and I didn't know why. As she sniffed, I smiled a sensual smile and told her I was here for the long run. She didn't even ask what I meant by that. She flipped her hair to one side and took out her bad tooth. I told her to set it on the floor and she did. I stepped on it as I moved closer to her. She was wearing a woman's pantsuit, because she knew that was the clothing of professionals. I put my hand into the pants of the pantsuit and she presented to me a serpent in the rainbow I'd never, in a hundred years, expected to feel between my fingers that morning. As tears fell from my eyes in glorious worship of the serpent's scaly membranes, I asked her what it meant. I asked her why the serpent presented itself to me so proudly, so stoically, so bravely. She said it was a Santorum Serpent, the kind of snake that makes a believer of lesser men. "Lesser men?" I said, a little offended. "Let me show you just what kind of man I am."

But before I could present to her a serpent of my own, she whispered Raisin Bran flavored words into my ear and into my mouth: "I smell the strawberry and the latex... I want it inside of me." Then she bit my lip and laughed a witch's laugh. I was ready. 

The elevator stopped on the 69th floor and Karen, that was her name, pulled me by the belt into her office that overlooked the city. I'd eaten oatmeal for breakfast, and for reasons unknown to me at the time, I'd scraped black mold off the shower walls that morning in my 200 square foot studio apartment, with a toothbrush, and I had stored the toothbrush in the fanny pack that adorned my waist. Karen was on her hands and knees before the door to her office had slammed shut, and the morning sun gleamed on her sweaty skin, shining off her back, reflecting into my eyes. A sort of crippling blindness overcame me, and the fear I had found growing in my guts since my first moments on the elevator had by now grown into quail-sized lumps of solid, tumorous horror. As Karen sat like a statue waiting for a delivery, I pulled out my strawberry finger condom and shoved two of my fingers into it. It was made for a single finger, but after gazing into her gaping posterior I knew no less than two or three fingers would mean anything to her body. I gradually eased a third finger into the condom.

"The strawberry would like to return to the womb," I said, with Australia in my voice, as I eased the finger-filled condom into her crevice.

"No," she said, grabbing my wrist. "A fruit that salacious belongs in a cave of chocolate. Have you ever had chocolate covered strawberries?"

"I have," I said, grinning.

"Stop grinning," she said. "Complete the transaction."

As I shoved my fingers into her anus, she reached her own fingers into my anus. "Stay the course," she whispered, as she dug her own hand further into my darkfield.

I stretched the strawberry condom to its limits, pushing, forcing, nudging, fighting the walls of her damp, brown abyss. And she did the same to me, probing my insides. She kept her hand moving until she located what she was looking for. The tumorous, quail-sized lump of fear that had formed in my guts was now in her hands. She pulled it with rapid tugs from my body. Blood and stool drooled out of my hole as she pulled the cancer from my body. The oatmeal I'd eaten that morning made the droppings fall out of me  with ease.

"This needs to be inside of me," she said.

With my only free hand, I grabbed the cancer of horror from her hand and shoved it into her vagina. I spit into it, I swore into it, I said hateful things into it to make it awaken, to see it lurch up like a dragon's face, and to watch it come alive.

"Feed my cunt," Karen screamed, as blood fell from her mouth. "Feed it the cancer."

I fed it the cancer of fear. I fed my own cancerous growth of horror and anxiety to Rick Santorum's wife's hungry vagina. It lasted for hours.

I felt her inner warmth suck the juices from the object in my hand, while the chocolate walls of her anus drained the life from my flesh. I cried out to her, begged her to stop, but she laughed. "This is Christ's work," she kept saying. I didn't know what she meant. With my mouth, I pulled the black-mold covered toothbrush from the fanny pack around my waist and obeyed her command to shove it into her holes. Within minutes, it was fully absorbed into blackness.

Hours later, her stomach had grown to the size of a bowling ball, and my arms, still inside her, were without any strength. I was dehydrated and the room smelled of sewage and ripe period. "Karen," I said. "I need to go to work. I have work to do. It's Monday. It's only my first day. I'll be fired if I don't show up."

"You work for this now," she said, as she pointed her sloppy, orange fingers at the region between her anus and vagina. "Open your mouth."

I stopped fighting, and did as she commanded. I opened my mouth and closed my eyes, afraid of what I might see. But she smacked my face, told me to keep my eyes open. "Look into my throat," she said.

With my mouth open, I peered into her black void throat to see a growth emerging from the darkness. The growth protruded from her and shot into my mouth. It was a thick vine full of flavor, ripe with fruit. It tasted of strawberries and blood.

"That's our child," Karen said. "We've done it. Do you taste him?"

I tasted him. I cried strawberry tears, and I could taste them. Everything was strawberry. I couldn't swallow, the vines and lumpy strawberry-shaped growths emerging from it wedged against the walls of my esophagus. Swallowing was not an option. I wanted to tell her to stop, to tell her that I couldn't breath, and that the taste of strawberries now made me sick. But I couldn't say a word. My mouth was full.

I nodded in confirmation to Karen. Our child tasted beautiful. Our child was a miracle.

"Thank you," my eyes seemed to say to her.

"You're welcome," said her eyes to mine. "Push your fist deeper."

As my fists went deeper into her, our strawberry-tumor child went deeper into me. I shat myself there, in her office. I think I peed, too. It didn't matter at this point. Karen Santorum was enjoying every minute of it.

"My husband will be president, someday," she said. I didn't know she was married. I had no idea. "He will change this world." She looked deep into my watery eyes as she said this, her mouth still delivering to me the infinite stem of our strawberry child.

"He loves America," she said, slurring her words. "I love America."

Blood came out of my eyes.

"I love... you," she said.

I continued to bleed.