King Pigshit’s Woe, a tale too tall to be believed, is unwinding now to the thickest part, the most pungent stench, the part that even his most fervent enemies turn away from in disgust. His manicured asslings, born into a world where consequence and accountability are distant concepts that only apply to the most invisible shadows of the horde, are now hearing their names in the same sentence as the word felony. Only Kushner appreciates the meaning, his father telling him that 14 months in the Montgomery Prison Camp was an easy stretch, and that even though Sonny’s time could be more, still the worst thing to worry about is the humidity. So, copping a plea would be worthwhile if it was the only way to guarantee minimum security that actually offers a plate of amenities.
As the lawyers warn them, the choices are, lie, tell the truth or plead the 5th, the moneyed munchkins, not really knowing what a lie is, have to be instructed. In your life so far you have been able to do or say anything and then have some minion say oh yes that is right and true right before they kiss your ass. In a grand jury niether lawyers or royal asswipes will be with you, we won’t be whispering what are the widest adverbial ambiguities to use. Remember, the best answer is you don’t remember. If it gets real hard, plead total amnesia.
King Pigshit, meanwhile, takes his case to the duncely evangellical Confederacy and the Twitler Youth, where not even Baldar von Shirach (AKA Michael B. Surbaugh) has his six. Though he can still count on battle flag waving mobs chanting "lock her up and kill the bitch" at the slightest provocation.
In a world that made sense we would find out Herr Twitler was informed three years ago he only had maybe 4 years left. And craving nothing so much as adulating fame and money, went about getting massive doses of both in the most direct way possible until the shocking moment, where he stands up above the taco bowl, clutching his throat like Sterling Hayden in The Godfather, to lurch forward, upending the table at Mar-a-logo in a truly operatic death crash, captured on the smartphones of all his $2,000 a night "friends".
And sad cult would chant:
King Pigshit is Dead
Long live King Pigshit
by seemslikeadream » Fri Aug 04, 2017 12:54 pm 
