The cult section of the literary world


I decided to escape.

If I could escape the farm, I could get away from the maniacs intent on ruining America and thereby destroying the entire world. I had to.

Pacing my apartment smoking joints seemed to help me come up with ideas. Soon I had the basic outline of a plan. Cas showed up, and I had to pretend to make fun of TV shows with him for a few hours until he had to go meet some girl.

I left right behind him.

I needed schematics. There were plenty of places off-limits to me that required pass-codes and key-cards. There were guarded areas. But there was an old stairwell, with an entry behind an old flooded section of the bottom level of the old base. Cas showed me one time. It was where he painted graffiti, like a cretin. But I didn’t know exactly where the staircase led.

There was a library. It had all sorts of illegal books in it. I’d been there one time, saw the utter depravity and outright worship of conspiracy theories, and got out. But I went there again, and after an hour of searching and fending off the ugly liberal librarian lady, I found what I was looking for.

I bumped into Des on the way back to my apartment.

She yammered at me for five minutes before she started making sexual innuendos. I actually thought about it. I mean, Des was pretty ugly—her hair was dyed weird colors, and she had unpatriotic tattoos. She wore ripped clothing, and it was mostly black. But it had been a long time since I’d had sex. I had a plan to put together, however. So I said goodnight to her.

But then I ran back and asked her to come home with me.

We had sex all night. It was amazing.

Des was gorgeous without her weird clothes and when it was dark enough that her hair looked one color and I could pretend her tattoos were of things like Ivanka and Roses, The Flag, Eagles Mating While Plunging Through Clouds Made By Jet Fighters…


The next morning, Des asked if I wanted to go out for breakfast. I actually did.

I listened to her talk about mostly nothing for forty minutes, and then she started telling me about her role in the upcoming battle, and who she worked for, and what they were doing, and when.

I had to get the hell out.


What if I was mistaken to be one of these anarchists when they started their war? I had to get out and get back to civilization. Maybe even warn someone.

Des suggested we go back to my place before she had to go to work.

I figured, “immediately”, could mean within the next hour or two.


Cas came by just after Des left, and asked if I wanted to go down to the bottom floor.

I did, but not with him. I’d just been packing a light backpack.

“Sure,” I said.

I took the pack. I didn’t even explain when he raised his eyebrow at me.

He handed me a lit joint.  “New stuff,” he said.

It smelled fruity and woodsy. It tasted like bubblegum and pine trees. It got me really high.

I watched Cas paint for an hour or so. We talked about Des, and his latest girl. He, like most of the people down there, was fairly slutty.

Cas highlighted the breasts of the woman he’d painted on the wall. She was mostly naked, except for a tank top pulled too tight just over her protruding nipples and down between her legs that had the slogan, Free Your Tits, Free Your Mind on it. That was an old Liberal Feminists Movement slogan that we all learned about in school. Typical degenerate snowflake talk.

He said, “There!” Now I gotta go back to work. Walk with me?”

“Oh, uh, no. I think I’ll stay here and watch the paint dry.”

“She’s hot, right?”

“Totally.” I thought, actually, that some bigger, faker breasts and lips were in order, but he’d obviously painted it to not upset the ugly females he might bring down there.

He finally left.

I grabbed my pack and headed for the staircase.

After a shaky, dusty, greasy, rodent-filled climb to the fifth level, I found the staircase completely blocked with rubble. There was no way around it. I sweated and grunted, pushing broken concrete and bent metal, but it was all solidly wedged in the stairwell.

I climbed back down, passed Cas’s painting, and went to my apartment.

There was a note on the door from Des.

I didn’t read it until after I’d showered.


I got the night off. Schedule is moved up or something. Thought I’d drop by for dinner. Come find me at my apartment. Or maybe the market near my place. And I may stop for a yogurt or something. I’ve got something to tell you.


Feeling the weight of my failure to escape, and learning that the maniacal schedule of the upcoming insurrection had escalated, I decided that Des might be the perfect way to lighten my mood. Her and a doobie before I left.


Des was home.

She answered the door in a pair of short shorts and a tank top. Much like the one on the woman Cas had painted in the basement.

“Dinner?” I asked.

“After,” she said.

We made it to a crowded restaurant in one of the main halls of the base an hour later. It had been turned into a sort of mall. It looked kind of shabby, but it was one of the nicer places there.

Des ordered a beer. Which I didn’t expect at all. So I had one, too.

I realized, as the server brought us our beer, that Des hadn’t said more than ten words since we left her apartment.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

She was glossy-eyed, spacing out for a moment, like you do when you’re thinking and then you drift away to that place that you have to snap out of. She snapped out of it. “Huh? Yeah. Everything is fine, Donnie.”

“Like, you’re not mad at me or something?”

“Nope.” She wasn’t really looking at me, though.

The server came back and took our order.

Des looked at her menu like she hadn’t even seen it was there before. She said, “Oh, um, steak.”

I ordered fish and chips.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I asked when he’d gone.

Des nodded absently and pulled out a cigarette.

“You smoke?”

“Oh, no, not really,” she said lighting it. “Just today.”

“What’s going on with you?” I asked.

Des nodded. But not at me. At someone across the room. I turned to see who, but she grabbed me by the wrist.

“Pizzagate,” she said.


Des looked angry and frustrated and all jacked up on what I’d thought was pot when I was at the farm. She said sternly, “Pizzagate.”

I heard an explosion under us. The floor shook.

People started gasping, and murmuring, and a few got up from their tables, looking at the floor.

Des dug her fingernails into my skin. Then she slapped me. Right across the face. And she yelled, “Pizzagate! Pizzagate, Donnie! Pizzagate!”

My mind opened up before me.

The growing chaos in the room shrank to background noise.

Clearly, for the first time since I’d awoken on the farm, I knew myself.

I knew Des, too.

My wife.

We jumped from the table as the waiter reappeared from the back, tossing weapons to us.

“Fuck yeah!” I yelled, checking rounds and slamming the magazine home.

“Let’s make America great some more,” Des said. She opened fire.

We began melting snowflakes.

Our mission had reached its apex. My deep-cover contact had released me from my hypnogogic state. My beautiful wife, who would return to her blonde, full-lipped, big-boobed, patriotically tattooed self once we finished this business. I was me again. Whole. Aware. Ready to do my duty. Here we were, ending the Underground Liberal-ation Movement once and for all.

We unleashed our patriotic fury upon the fleeing patrons, mowing them down as they ran like the rats they resembled.

New civil war. Ha!

My name isn’t Donald Trump America Jones because my parents raised some pornographic anarcho-intellectual terrorist. I would never do anything against the law. I am the law. For the people. By the people. Under Trump We Stand.

I went looking for Jeff with Trump’s send-off to our infiltration unit ringing in my head:



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