“But why now?” Huma asked. “Grandmother has been dead for months.”

“It’s a trap and Donald stumbled right into it!’ Hillary said, rubbing together hands bloody from breakfast.

“He’s announcing her replacement on Saturday,” Huma said. Her son, the failed Dark Messiah, the never-filled vessel for cosmic horror beyond the ken of mortal men, sat beside her, looked up adoringly at his mother, and then threw his banana peel on the floor.

“He’ll never get a nomination through the Senate; the Republican Senators hate him,” Hillary said before shoving a length of the lamb’s entrails into her mouth.

“McConnell is calling for a vote!” Huma said, opening her shirt. Her son pawed at it until her right breast fell out and he began to greedily suckle at it.

“Does he have to do that at the table?” Hillary asked. “I’m trying to eat here.” She bit into the lamb’s lung and twisted it until she had savaged off a piece.

“It’s very natural,” Huma said defensively, cradling the boy’s head

“So is taking a shit but I don’t do that while you are eating breakfast,” Hillary snapped. “I appreciate you are keeping those titties full of milk, I love that jiggle, but the kid is eight and should be weaned by now.” Hillary poked into the open abdomen of the lamb and plucked out a kidney and let it slide down her throat without chewing and groaned with pleasure.

“Give him to me,” Hillary said, holding out her arms, smiling grotesquely. Huma pulled him from her breast with an audible pop. The boy began to cry.

“Come to Mama Hill-Hill,” she crooned and the boy cried harder. She pulled him into her lap and stared at him until he wound down to petulant sniffles.

“You should have breakfast like a big boy,” Hillary told him. “You want to be a big boy, don’t you?” The boy nodded, his face wet with snot and tears. Hillary dragged a bloody finger across his mouth.

“Now taste that. It’s good, isn’t it? Salty and coppery? That’s what life tastes like,” Hillary said in a sing-song.

“My love…” Huma began.

“Pish-posh,” she said. “I never breastfed Chelsea. I couldn’t stand having her on me, feeding on me like some parasite, that hideous Webb Hubbell face looking up at me. If we didn’t need a kid for Bill’s career, she would have just quietly died of SIDS one night and I could have sued the company that made the crib. Lucky for her, Bill was a good father to his little cuckoo.”

“Yes, my love,” Huma said, getting up to clear her dishes. In the kitchen, she threw the plates and glasses around in the sink in a passive-aggressive rage.

“Donald will never replace Grandmother! Kamala will nominate me!’ Hillary cackled.

“Mitt Romney is going to vote for Trump’s nominee,” Huma called from the stairs.

“That polygamous bastard!” Hillary screamed. The boy covered his ears and winced.

“They all hate me, baby,” Hillary said to the boy, running her gore-stained hands through his hair.

“More,” he said, pointing at the bloody altar of lamb. Hillary kissed him on the cheek and then began to pry out the heart for him.