Mr. Puss’m’s

Mr. Puss’m’s was an ordinary cat. Until one day, as he walked outside a Donad Trump rally, he was bundled into a burlap sack by a man in black. Inside, he could see nothing. Not even wth his cat’s eyes. But with his cats ears, he culd hear thunderous applause. Airhorns.

A man’s voice–

“So when you see a Mexican north of the wall, you–”

What seemed like a million voices answered:

“GRAB THEM RIGHT IN THE PUSSY!”

“Yeah that’s right, you–”

“GRAB THEM RIGHT IN THE PUSSY!¬†GRAB THEM RIGHT IN THE PUSSY! GRAB THEM RIGHT IN THE –”

It went on. Mr. Puss’m’s was worried. Populist rhetoric. Chanting. It reminded him of learning about Nazi Germany in Cat College.

Silence.

The bag jerked upwards.

“Folks, we’ve got a little surprise here for you tonight.”

Cheers.

“When I say GRAB the pussy, I don’t mean CARESS – you do it like THIS!”

A hole of light opened in the sack. Five great fat sausages entered, groping for Mr. Puss’m’s. He hissed, scratched, clawed, bit. The sausages were undeterred.They felt their way deftly around the cat’s neck. Mr. Puss’m’s could feel the familiarity in the ovements. This was not the sausages first time “grabbing pussy”. The wid left his lungs as the sausages grip locked and he was pulled from the bag.

Held aloft in the stadium, Puss’m’s saw hundred of thousands of people. Cheers deafened him. Camera flashes blinded him. Attached to the sausages wrapped around his neck was an orange man he recognised as Donald Trump.

“GRAB THE PUSSY” the crowd called. The sausages gripped even tighter in an erotic quickening.

“And once you’ve grabbed em–”

Trump brought Puss’m’s to his face, looking him in his cat eyes.The orange glare of his sweaty visage, every wringkly crevice – were his throat not closed up, he would spat a hairball. To him, an him alone, Trump said:

“Nothing personal, Mr. Kitty.”

To the crowd, he continued:

“– once you’ve grabbed ’em – EAT ‘EM!”

The crowd cheered, “EAT THE PUSSY, EAT THE PUSSY, EAT THE PUSSY!”

Trumps other sausages grabbed Mr. Puss’m’s rear legs with the same practised efficiency as before. The crowds cacaphonic chants became subhuman. Trump jerked his arms, holding the cat sideways. He brought his belly to his mouth.

Mr. Puss’m’s looked to te crowd, hoping, praying to Cat Jesus that someone woulf save him, that someone would step in — no, no, no, No, NO! There in the front row! Ma and Pa Williams, his owners. Waving Trump flags, chantin, “EAT THE PUSSY!”. And there, at their side was eight year old Katie. Same pink bow. Same blonde curls. Everything the same as when she had fed him that morning. Other than her face, which was twisted into a mask of rage. Her sweet voice, shrill at volume, was chanting, shouting, trying to be heard: EAT THE PUSSY!

The cat’s spirit broke. Not long after, his stomach did too as Trump bit in to it.Tearing flesh. Guzzling the meat inside.Puss’m’s passed out. His blood mingled with the orange of Donald’s hair and face, became one with his shirt and tie. He gorged himself until there was nothing left but scraps of flesh with black fur atached, littering the stage in pools of blood.

EPILOGUE:

A few months later, President Trump died of cat-eating related illnesses.
THE END.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mr. Puss’m’s