Michelle Obama and the Tentacle of Cthulhu

More secrets THEY don't want you to know

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Michelle Obama and the Tentacle of Cthulhu

TMZ thought it was a big deal that Michelle Obama was in Paris as Notre Dame burned. They were right. It was a big deal. The story “they” don’t want you to know!

"So, it’s done? The church burns? Excellent," Michelle said, sipping her wine. It was a recent vintage, grapes crushed by the tender feet of young white men -- gamers -- she kept in captivity.

"Barack began the war on Christendom, but he was always too subtle, too weak," she said, tracing the upside-down cross set in gold on her book of Satanic verses. "This sort thing needs a woman's touch. A diabolical element. Anarchy by Michelle. I like the sound of it."

"What next, my lady?" Asked the Dark Pope, averting his eyes from the gaze of his superior, his patron, his financier.

"Next, my boy?" Michelle asked, rolling her head back as she inhaled the noxious fumes, "Next the world."

"Already our covert agents have secured two of the three unholy relics. As we speak, my most elite Evil Agent is in the field, bringing the Lost Tentacle of Cthulhu to my hand. Then. Chaos," Michelle said, cackling into the night.

An angel wept.

John Kerry pulled at the end of the wire. It was taut, like his chin.

"It's done, Barack."

Barack Obama nodded. He had done a lot of evil things in his time. His heart was black like his skin. But Michelle took it to another level. She was in charge now.

"Pull it," Obama ordered.

Kerry pressed the detonator and the wall exploded, showering both mean in bits of dust and stone.

There it stood, pulsing in the evil moonlight. The Tentacle of Cthulhu.

"Let me be clear: It's the most beautiful evil I've ever seen," Obama whispered.

The white millionaire was firmly clamped to the cold dungeon wall by his arms and legs. His face was covered in dirt and tears. Michelle looked at him with disgust.

"I just want freedom, capitalism," he mewled.

"Make him gay marry, immediately, Michelle ordered.

"My lady," Obama said, handing her the box as he knelt on one knee.

Michelle opened it, and the tentacle continued to squirm, as if consumed by the Devil because It Was.

"Brilliant. Now they'll all be clear," she threatened.

Obama chuckled, blackly.

Eric Trump jumped up and spat out his pacifier.

"Father!" He yelled.

"Sir," he corrected himself.

"What?" Growled Trump, his minuscule fingers struggling to stretch across the iPhone keyboard.

"A disturbance, Pater," Eric replied.

"The Tentacle has been taken."

Trump furrowed his brow, creating a congealed mash of orange flesh and tan sludge inside the crease of his skin.

"This is yuge. The elements have been bigly taken."

"It is bad?"

"It's real bad. Real real bad."

Three reals. Eric was terrified.

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