Trump Story #18

Nobody even bothers to wipe the fecal matter off the White House walls any more. Kushner wonders if this means the cleaning staff have all fled, or if Eric has simply finished his "purge". As if on cue, there's a distant strangled howl of rage, and primal, animalistic confusion.

Food has been scarce. Though he had so far refused the temptation, the sight of Sean Spicer's half-eaten corpse had flooded his mouth with saliva, and he had had to drag himself from the room, against the cries of his stomach. When he returned later, mad with hunger, it had been picked clean: even the marrow sucked from the bones.

The meat that Eric leaves behind is far too contaminated to eat. It rots, filling the walkways with a sickly sweet miasma.

Hours ago, he'd come across Steve Bannon, his eyes plucked from his head, trying to fit himself inside of a filing cabinet. “At the behest of the New Father, at the behest of the God-King,” the blind man whimpered, through bubbles of blood and yellow mucus. Kushner knew then, that Pence had succeeded in his mad and terrible goals... and that Barron Trump sits upon the melted throne, the New Father awaiting the return of the Old...

...Kushner feels the blade against his thigh. He knows where he has to go. The Oval Office is just past the Rose Garden, if he can only circumvent the pits where his wife and mother-in-law force the surviving Secret Service agents to fight one another in gladiatorial combat, to bloody and glorious death. But first, he needs to *eat*, oh god, he's so hungry. And then he remembers Bannon, blind and insane, thoughts of his corpulent, tender flesh already making Kushner's mouth water, as he begins to realize that he is about to break his last taboo...