The Decameron 2.0

Day 1.2: HEA Love - THE PERFECT WEDNESDAY AngusEcrivain

Seth flicked his wrist in approval while he and Coltrane shared a Twizzler. After they did a little smooching, he said to me, "Jesus, I didn't know you had such sweetness in you. Maybe I should eat you up." He giggled into his hands: "Hee-hee-hee."

Coltrane nodded. "That was a pretty sick story, bro." He fingered his washboard abs, then proceeded to wash his shirt with them.

I got up and stood near the waterfall. God allowed me to see through it, out into the hellish world we'd left behind. We were in the wilderness, safe and sound. But back in the smouldering city: people weren't so lucky.

We'd been swindled, fooled—well, some of us had. The majority of us had thought Trump, aka DJ Drumpf—now known by his new self-given title: Satan—was a bit of a clown, but his supporters had thought he was going to be their Messiah and "drain the swamp," as they said. It turned out he was the polar opposite: a darkness-worshipping, baby-eating, goat-shagging, establishment Republican on steroids and meth, literally. The first time he appeared and spoke to the people as their President, he ripped off his suit and revealed his chiselled, shining Adonis body, coated in liquid gold he'd stolen from poor Indonesian miners. He whipped out a meth pipe, fired it up, shrieked, raved and ranted about building his wall out of toothpicks and dental floss, then grabbed Barack Obama by the nipples and somehow squeezed him so hard the man's head popped off.

Satan did the same to Hillary Clinton. Anyone who cried sexism had a bag thrown over their heads and were hauled off to an extermination camp for processing.

Now when Trump gave speeches, he brandished a gold pike with the severed heads of Obama and Clinton smushed down on top. Rumour had it he wanted to add Bernie Sanders to his collection. If he could find Sanders, of course. Rumour had it Sanders was hiding out in the North Pole, working for Santa, the ultimate socialist. Those legends that Santa = Satan died quickly after that.

In the city, the Trumpolice—black uniforms, with matching T-emblazoned red armbands—goose-stepped through the streets, heiling Herr Trump, waving their assault rifles and bazookas at anyone who wasn't doing what they were told.

People were being killed for who they were. That's why ninety percent of our group were gay Jewish writers from Mississippi with magicians for parents. But it wasn't just us special snowflakes being targeted, oh no. Lynchings in the street were commonplace now. White sheets and paper cones had never been more popular. NASCAR was the national sport, a bag of Fritos and some nacho-cheese dip was considered fine dining, and Budweiser was now preferred over bovine milk in weaning babies off the tit.

I sighed and asked God what we should do.

Keep telling Happily-Ever-After stories, Jesus. They will be the tales to lead humanity out of this age of darkness.

"That's right," I said to myself, feeling a renewed sense of purpose, then rejoined the gang.

"Alright, who's next?" I asked them. "Maybe something that'll get us laughing, eh? We could all use some laughter, what with this world now being controlled by a maniac with the scalp of a little blond boy sewn onto his skull."

"I got a story, Jesus," Coltrane said, finished washing his own shirt and now working on Seth's. "To be fair, it's a little dirty. Like this here shirt I'm washing. This is a little something I like to call

THE PERFECT WEDNESDAY by AngusEcrivain

So apparently life isn't a fairy tale.

But if there was any truth to that statement, then surely Dick would not have been standing there on the street, in the pissing rain, wearing a dress that would have looked more at home in a Disney porn spoof.