The Brainworm Conundrum

This is why the Orange Man weirds

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The Brainworm Conundrum

Deep beneath the Obama mansion, levels below the surface of the earth in his darkened lair, Supreme Deep State Commander Barack Hussein Obama watched his handiwork play out on-screen.

He pressed his fingertips together, observing the footage of Trump.

"Excellent. Brainworms."

Michelle Obama sauntered in, wearing her traditional cape, as black as midnight, with the inlaid hairs of the white men she had captured woven into the fabric. She gave Obama a terrorist fist jab and they both recited a verse from the Necronomicon.

"He looks terrible," Michelle said, looking at the screen.

"I know," Obama said, a wide Kenyan grin on his face. "The microbes have taken root, per the plan. Great idea my love."

Michelle punched her hand into her palm. "Sooner or later I told you we'd get him."

Trump gulped. He could feel the air rushing down his dry throat. He felt itching on the roof of his mouth. He had rubbed the skin raw the night before to no avail. Looking at his teleprompter he saw the green text dancing before him, like Eric had after that science project.

Trump had felt off for weeks. He insisted to everyone else he was okay but he knew that was a lie. He could feel them slithering in his head from left to right. Their tendrils slid across him from the inside. He felt each one as they gnawed away.

Brainworms.

Ivanka watched Trump from her seat in the front row. She sensed something was off. But she had transactions underway. The wire transfer hadn't been initiated. She needed him semi-coherent, for a few hours more at least. She had to get paid.

Eric Trump was focused on a sliver of thread poking out of his chair. He had tried to grab it multiple times over the last half hour, but only had sore, red fingers to show for it. He sensed nothing wrong with his father, though he longed for the man to even know his name.

"Focus, Trump, focus," Trump told himself as his eyes rolled around in his head. He could hear his eyeballs sloshing around in their sockets, tears streaming across the ridges of his orange-caked face, reaching down into his mouth.

Chomp, chomp went the worms, severing meat.

Michelle Obama threw her head back and cackled in the black supremacist style. She missed her years in the Oval Office, where she had a full coterie of whites at her beck and call. But watching her magnificent brainworms at work was nearly as fulfilling.

"It's going to work," Barack Obama said. "Let me be clear: It WILL work."

From offstage Mick Mulvaney watched his boss deteriorate. The Obamas files had forced his hand. He didn't want to, but their magic -- black, so very black -- magic had compelled him.

"No," he croaked.

—30—