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Big Marco

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He wouldn't do anything, he knew. He was God's chosen leader -- not this year, maybe. But eventually, probably. In his head, God looked a little bit like the lovechild of Ronald Reagan and Ronald Reagan's even more attractive twin from an alternate universe, and God understood that sometimes the path to glory was paved with inglorious necessity.

He wouldn't do anything, but it wouldn't hurt to scare the outsized oompa loompa. Give him a taste of the terror that Marco had suffered from over the past few months. Let HIM have nightmares, Marco thought viciously.

As if he could read Marco's thoughts, Donald struggled against his bonds like a hooked fish.

"Whatever I want," Marco repeated slowly, for the sheer joy of seeing Donald struggle harder. "How the hell did you even get him here, anyway?"

Mitt smiled, "Never underestimate the power of the Latter-Day Saints, Marco boy." His eyes were dark and full of secrets. His waggling finger looked for a moment like a talon.

Best not to think about that. "Is the room soundproof?" asked Marco.

"Of course," smiled Mitt.

Marco found himself smiling in return. "Great." And he strode forward to rip the duct tape from Donald's face. It came off with a sticky sharp sound, and the fraudulent billionaire's jowls waggled as his mouth came free.

Donald was silent for a moment. His mouth hung open, and then he slowly began to swell with air. He needed a tremendous amount of hot air to propel his barrage of incomprehensible obscenities.

Before he could unleash his usual esophajism of vitriol, Marco slapped him across the face. The crack echoed. “Welcome to Tampa,” snarled Marco.

Donald’s eyes narrowed. “Good to see you, Marco,” he said ebulliently. “You know, I thought you’d still be crying too hard for your sugar daddies to bring you here. I watched your speech on repeat last night. Good stuff.”

“Whoa there,” smiled Mitt. “You can call me Daddy, but don’t make it sound so gay!”

Jeb aggressively cleaned his glasses. “I don’t have daddy issues,” he muttered darkly. “I don’t .”

Marco’s palm tingled where it had collided with Donald’s face. It felt really, really good. “They did this for you, Donald,” he said. “You’ve been so desperate for my attention, with all the photos. Tell me, do you take the photos yourself, or do have someone take them for you? What do you hope to accomplish?” Besides hurting me. Besides turning every day into a panic attack waiting to happen . “Do you think anyone wants to see your stubby little fingers?”

Donald shrugged as best he could, which wasn’t very well considering how thoroughly tied he was to the chair. “I can’t keep my hands to myself,” he said. “I mean, I could, but why would I want to? They’re great hands. Great hands. They’re terrific.”

“You know,” Marco said, circling the venomous orange creamsicle of a man. “My mama don’t like you, and she likes everyone.”

“Everyone likes me,” Donald exclaimed, wriggling. “All those suckers out there -- you think the idiots are voting for me because they don’t like me? They love me! I’m a uniter. I’m bringing people into the Republican party. Democrats love me.”

“Democrats wish they were here,” Marco said. He was trembling with something beyond rage. Beyond despair. “They wish they could see you like this. Republicans want you gone too. You only have thirty percent of the vote.”

Donald smiled, a great chasm opening up in his leathery visage. “You don’t even have a percent, Little Marco.”

Little Marco . The nickname shot into him like a bullet, powered by the entire campaign season’s share of disparagement and humiliation. Marco went ice-cold and stone-still. “Little Marco?” he asked, and his voice didn’t sound his own. “We’ll just have to see about that, Big Donald. We’ll just have to fucking see.”

He waved his hand and asked for a knife. Mitt had a pocketknife, and handed it over with a beatific: “Be prepared!” Jeb lunged forward as if to help, but Marco waved him back. He wanted to do this alone.

Cutting Donald’s clothes off was difficult. He had only the small pocketknife, and Donald just kept wriggling. Donald stopped wriggling once it was apparent that Marco didn’t mind accidentally stabbing him just a bit. The allegedly obscenely wealthy pretender to the presidential nomination kept up a running commentary of how terrible this all was, and what a great legal team he had, and how he was going to sue all their asses. Marco tuned him out. He can’t hurt me like this , he thought, and it was part comfort and part retribution.

A long time later, Donald stood naked except for his tighty whiteys. His body was a patchwork amalgamation of flesh, with odd alien patches where the fake tanner had rubbed off, or been too heavily applied.

And where he had sweated through it. The weird old racist had looked more and more nervous as more and more of his suit was torn away. In fact, Marco had occasionally considered stopping. Letting that be threat enough. But Donald’s increasing nervousness had spurred him on, and now he wanted nothing more than to see what Donald was hiding.

Hands shaking, he moved forward and cut away the frayed, sagging underpants. They didn’t fall; they caught between the businessman’s thick, wrinkly orange thighs.

The spaceship was silent for several long moments. Then Jeb said in a hushed voice, “Where is it?”

And Marco cackled. “How’s it going, Big Donald?”

Schroedinger’s Billionaire glowered. If his gray thicket of blow-dried pubes was a forest, his penis was a decaying tree stump, barely visible in the mulch. A tiny, fleshy, spray-tanned bump in the humid jungle.

“I’ll sue you,” bellowed the entree-sized man with the mint-sized package. “I’ll sue all of you!”

Marco held eye contact until the incoherent whale-sounds subsided.

In the silence, he took off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

He loosened his tie.

He unbuckled his belt.

He unfastened his fly.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his star-spangled boxers and said, “Say hello to Big Marco.” Then he pushed down his boxers and pants, just enough to allow his penis to spring forth.

The massive, erect tool swung like a compass needle seeking north in a storm. There was a sound like a gust of wind, composed of three lesser endowed Republicans gasping in awe.

“You shouldn’t be surprised, Jeb,” said Marco.

Jeb cleaned his glasses. “It just gets me every time,” he said softly. “It’s as great as the Floridian peninsula itself.”

Mitt just smiled.

Donald hung, stupefied, from his bonds. His tiny eyes were as wide as they could possibly get.

“Get him over the table,” Marco murmured. His dick strained with pent-up frustration, and his balls clung tightly to the promise of release. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t orgasm again until the campaign was over, as a way of offering himself up pure before the Lord, but the Lord had turned on him.

Now, in his time of darkness, he was beyond vows and promises. Marco was drawn by the inexorable pull of his dick and his innate corruption along a path he could not deviate from.

Jeb and Mitt dragged Donald from the pole and began retying him over a table. This was a mistake, Marco soon realized, as the grotesque stubby digits appeared:

Hands. The single glimpse brought with it a cacophony of memories. Hundreds of nonconsensually received images blurring together into a pair of ur-hands. The Platonic Ideal of Trumpian appendages.

Marco wavered. “Please,” he whispered brokenly. And he was indeed broken, irreparably so, by the trauma of the past year. He would never crawl back to himself intact. “You have to cover up his hands.”

“No problemo,” smiled Mitt. He procured a pair of mittens from an inner jacket pocket and shoved them over the squat, waggling fingers.

As soon as the fluffy red cloth covered the hated hands, Marco relaxed. Not today, Satan. He stood back and focused on his quiet breathing while Mitt and Jeb finished tying the jiggling bajillionaire up.

Once they had him secured over the table, Mitt backed off. “Alright, fellas, I'm heading out,” he smiled.

“You're not staying?” Marco asked.

“No, Marco,” smiled Mitt. “That would be gay, and I'm a good Mormon boy.”

Marco stared. “So assault, kidnapping, and imprisonment are fine, but watching what I do to him after is going too far?”

Mitt smiled, “I don't make the rules, I just wear the special underwear.”

He passed a small item to Marco, then sauntered from the spaceship.

Marco looked down at the cold object in his hand. A tube of lube. Marco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Eyes burning with long-suppressed rage and torment, he forced himself to stare at the image. The small silver and orange tube read:

PURE ROMANCE
WHIPPED
Kissable Creamy
Lubricant
orange
creamsicle

Of course it did. He squeezed half of the tube onto his hand and slathered it around his dick. The entire spaceship filled with the seductive scent of Floridian orchards, minus the undocumented migrant workers. As the scent filled the air, he heard Jeb panting and Donald whimpering.

At last, people were paying attention to him. It was strange and new and good to be admired and feared. Marco wondered if the campaign would have gone differently had he -- instead of making unprovable, though prescient, jibes about the frontrunner’s genitalia -- simply dropped his own pants to reveal his obvious endowment to the nation. God at least had smiled on him in this, if in nothing else.

“So, Yankee Doodle,” Marco said. “Are you ready for my Empire State Building?”

“No,” whispered Donald. “You can’t. It’s yuuuuuge.”

Jeb piped in helpfully, “It really is!”

“Fuck off, Bush,” Marco and Donald said in unison. Then they both shuddered in revulsion.

Then Marco squeezed the rest of the lube between Donald’s trembling buttcheeks, and Donald shuddered anew. The stub-dicked media whore said, “You know, I’m not surprised! I’m a great fuck. Ask anyone. Best ass in Hollywood. I’m going to be fantastic at foreign affairs. Just watch--”

Marco slammed his two-ton battering ram through Donald’s delicate portcullis, and the two-faced xenophobe wailed in shock: “ Yuuuuuuuuuge!

“That’s right,” panted Marco. “I am yuuuge. Yuuuuuger than anyone.”

He catapulted further into the hot, hungry orange body. His soul was already broken; what loss to sell it now? He shoved in, and was met with a warm, wet, welcoming squelch. A harsh, filthy odor mingled with the aroma of orange creamsicles.

“You know, Little Donald,” Marco said, laughing hysterically, “I always knew you were full of shit.”

As he thrust in and out, in and out, squelching into hate-filled, shit-filled bigot, Marco’s hysterical laugher segued into uncontrollable sobbing. “I hate you,” he sobbed. “I hate you so much.”

He continued sobbing, his hands slipping from their grasp on the Reality TV trash-heap’s leathery hips, slick with sweat and running spray-tan. “You ruined everything for me,” he hiccuped, pumping into the thrashing jack-o-lantern.

The orange was getting all over him, staining his hands, streaking his dick, like the sick fury streaking through his soul. “But I can’t let you ruin America too. So you know what? In November, I’m-- I’m--”

His dick was streaked with orange and brown and he kept sobbing, so hard it tore through his lungs, and as his climax neared, he screamed: “I’m voting for Hillary!

And with that cry, he came.