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Doug Burgum regretted accepting his appointment as Secretary of the Interior sometimes. Not enough to resign, obviously, he was making far too much money for that. But sometimes he felt like he’d just rather sleep. Especially on days like today, when he had to testify before Congress.
It had been a grueling day of intense questioning, intense denial, intense kissing Donald’s ass, and intense boredom. He was now in need of an intense shit and a shower.
Doug turned on the bathroom fan and started unbuckling his belt. He realized he was whistling, Gordon Lightfoot maybe? He wasn’t sure. He nearly had his shirt unbuttoned when he noticed the man perched on his marble countertop, long, thin legs kicking in the air. His thick black glasses contrasted his neat silver coif.
“S-Senator Whitehouse? Why are you in my bathroom?”
Whitehouse smiled, “Oh Doug, I think we’re past that formality now that I’ve been in your house. Just call me Sheldon.”
Doug thought neither of them moved for a strangely long time, but eventually he continued, “ok Sheldon, why are you in my bathroom?”
Whitehouse extended both legs fully in front of his countertop perch and rolled his ankles in little circles. He watched his feet rotate absently as he spoke. “President Trump said we had a problem with vandals at the reflecting pool, and that if I wanted to see evidence I should talk to you.”
Abruptly, Whitehouse hopped down and stood balefully eyeing Doug. “I’ve come to talk to you, Doug. Where’s the evidence?”
Something chilled Doug, and without realizing it he began buttoning his shirt back up. “Well…I suppose all you have to do is look. I mean there’s a 300 foot slit.”
Whitehouse was nose to nose with Doug before he’d even seen the man twitch. Whitehouse’s voice was different now, more forceful, almost hoarse.
“The only 300 foot slit I’ve seen was your mother’s.”
The man was too close. Doug tried to back away but quickly found himself against the door. Whitehouse inched toward him.
“Doug, is there any chance the President was…lying?”
Burgum opened his mouth, but his voice would not come. He shook his head dumbly.
“Who awarded the no-bid contract, Doug?”
“I’m not sure what—“
“The no-bid contract, Doug. To the guy who looks like the bloated corpse of Gomez Addams three days after they fished him out of the river. Whose decision was it?”
“Th-Th-Thank you for the question Senat—“
“Douuuuuu-uuug…” Whitehouse’s singsong pronunciation of his name was cartoonishly slow. “I’m going to eat you, Doug. Who awarded the contract?”
“Senator, the contract went through— I’m sorry you’re going to what?”
“Eat you, Doug. I’m going to eat you.”
They stood in silence, their noses almost touching. Doug could smell the Senator’s cologne, notes of sandalwood and leather.
Then there was a pop. And another. Doug realized it was the Senator’s jawbones. They were dislocating.
Another pop, and Doug scrambled for the doorknob. Another pop, Whitehouse’s hand slammed against the door, pinning it closed. Another pop, and Doug felt something warm and viscous drip onto the back of his neck. Doug screamed. It was all he had left, and soon Whitehouse’s enormous maw was over his head and tight against his shoulders. The warm, viscous slime was everywhere now, and it started to make his skin tingle, not quite an itch, but not quite burning. There were nauseating grunts as Whitehouse tried to force his jaws around the width of Burgum’s shoulders. By the time Doug’s elbows were in, he only wished for the end to come soon. The slime was stinging now, and the sharp papillae that ringed Whitehouse’s esophagus raked across his skin making hundreds of tiny cuts. The image of an enormous, demonic cat licking his face intruded into his mind. Whitehouse coughed and paused to awkwardly pull off Doug’s Florsheim Oxfords, a gift from the President for his complicity. All that seemed a lifetime ago now. He just wanted it to end. He just wanted a warm chocolate chip cookie. He just wanted the relief of cold oblivion, and yet it would not come. Doug now curled into an ultra-compressed fetal position, his head squeezed between his knees by Whitehouse’s stomach walls. From every side new juices poured, and Doug thought this must be what it’s like to be on fire. His eyes, his hands, his ears felt like they were melting, and perhaps they were. At least it won’t be long now, he thought. The burning faded, and Doug felt himself getting lighter. Soon he was weightless. Soon he was cool, and there was no stinging. There was no reflecting pool. There was no money. There was nothing.
Finally.