It was a great day when the President blew his brains out, it was the best day.
The stadium was packed, the crowd was whipped up whooping and hollering. They were his people, loyal to every turd, owned hook and line. He could say anything, do anything and they followed.
He got the gun out to prove the point. He knew they loved guns and they loved him and he loved them loving him, so it was a match-made no-brainer.
He screamed, they roared. “God has given me strength, He has put me here to be your sword, your cross, your kingfefe. Bullets can’t harm me, I’m protected.” Raised gun to head. “I can pull this trigger and He will protect me, just as I will protect y…” Pulled the trigger.
Click, Bang. Gone.
Someone forgot to load the blanks. In time people would forget to ask.
NOTHING GOT FASTER TO UNDERSTANDING YOUR TRUE PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE THAN TASTING YOUR OWN SHIT
It was boggle-eyed chaos when Brewster arrived. They had called him before the wife – it was time for action, not headless chicken blowjobs.
The service had hauled the carcass into the green room and sealed the area – only inner circle allowed. A clump of ambulance dashes were faked to keep the flies off the shit for a bit, but no-one wanted to make the next move.
Brewster looked round the room and smiled in his element – the fear-sweat in the air got him hard. The spastic princes were in the corner being ignored, pretending to run the show and spout orders. Every dickless command they barked to the room received a glass of fizz or bowl of candy in response.
Their power extended as far as Papa Don and were too dumb to realise the limit. They saw Brewster and rose to take their place in line, expecting him to nominate who would get their ring kissed. Brewster wanted them to kiss their own – nothing got faster to understanding your true place in the universe than tasting your own shit.
YOU GOTTA HAVE SOMETHING IN YOUR BALLS TO UNLOAD THEM
It was a simple test. Brewster asked one of the service for their gun and they gave it over without question. Then he turned to the expectant princes and held the piece high.
“Put it to your head and pull the trigger,” he said. “You still walk, you get to sit on the throne.”
The oldest gulped and tasted the coke in his throat. “Heh, you’re joking right?”
Brewster just stared back and raised his eyebrow the way Roger Moore had taught him. The room got moist. Brewster sighed and went down the line.
“What about you princess?” He offered the gun.
No-one took it. He shrugged. “Ah well, when you’re ready, you’re ready, but you gotta have something in your balls to unload them.”
He handed the piece back to the agent, while the princes shuffled back. The youngest hadn’t joined his half-siblings for their humilation. He watched from the corner with a sardonic smile, cooking a dog in his head. His time would come, but right now Brewster had real work to do.
Hove Press 