Replacing the Morning Star

A sea of Damned writhe naked under a molten lava dripping outcrop. The ground cooks in shades of reds and yellows. The stench of sulfur sits on the thick air like mold.

Millions of eyes are forced up by a band of rusty metal fastened under chins.

They clamor in moans filled with the agony of regret and pain.

A huge creature with inky horns ripping through the tough red hide like skin on its forehead stares down at the lot of suffering condemned souls. His eyes are bottomless black orbs. He stands on the outcropping above the crowd licking his lips with a moist pink tongue that rustles like brittle paper as he draws it over his sharp teeth.

He is hungry and deciding which of the accursed below to devour.

He chooses and aims his tongue in the direction of a man with pendulous flesh and a rabid dog gnawing at his penis. The dog falls off and hits the ground with a yelp, but happily finds another set of genitalia to tear at.

With in moments the screams of the child molester’s agony hush everything else. The creature known as Lucifer toys with his food pulling pieces of flesh off it’s bones with small dainty bites. As he savors his meal he lifts his free hand and waves it lazily in the air.

And a loud trumpeting fanfare causes an avalanche of molten boulders to cascade into the mewing crowd. Many are crushed, but already dead there is no mercy from their injuries.

For those unscathed and watching as the fat man is slowly devoured are abused further when the air is rent by a slow methodical applause. The clapping is for a man in a black suit and a red power tie who has appeared from out of the steamy fog. He walks to joins Lucifer in front of the crowd. The slow clap-pause-clap-pause-clap gets louder the closer he gets and each new concussion brings more boulders. He joins the Evil One and is a fraction of the demons size, but all eyes are on him, because many already know who he is.

He died from heart failure earned through a gorge fest in Atlantic city. emotionally eating through his celebration from winning reelection as United States President. He now has a contract to pay off on. He sold his soul for unlimited success no matter how big the failure. This is what the contract guaranteed and he got to make a lifetime of mistakes and still be a successful billionaire with mail order brides and test tube created children.

But now he owes Hell.

To pay off his debt he has to replace the dark lord himself.

Looking around it is easy to be okay with that though.

Trump glows a healthy shade of orange that competes with the flames perfectly. His mop of wispy thinning bottle-blonde hair whips around on his scalp as if being moved by a breeze.

Seizing a hand dangling from Lucifer’s chomping maw he takes a small bite from the Devil’s child-molester snack and compliments the Fallen One on his taste in cuisine.

“Very nice,” he says taking another nibble before stepping over to a microphone stand that is slowly forming from out of the bedrock.

He clears his throat, the sound is deafening.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and small cyclones erupt around the cavern. Many of the cursed are sucked up, their bodies ripped apart and are flung about as shrapnel striking into their brethren.

“My fellow Basket of Deplorables,” Trump says, each new word a sledge hammer to the brain, “I humbly climb into the throne vacated by our dear Lucifer, the Morning Star.”

Lucifer drops his head to the speaker presenting his crown of flames. The crown dribbles off as if liquid and vanishes with hiss on the ground.

Trump reaches up and gives the demon a scratch behind the ear as a smile forms on his lips, “you can all call me, Mr. President.”

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