“I love the elegant ruin of your asshole,” Hunter whispered into the Ukrainian’s gaping anus.

“No more, Mister Hunter,” she said. She hitched a sob and more semen leaked, runnels of tan pearlescence reaching for the sheets.

“Your month is almost up,” he said, wiping up a glob with his forefinger and smearing it on her face. “Z will send me a new one to keep the military aid flowing.”

“No more,” she said. “Is hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” Hunter said, pushing her off the cot. “Pussies are bullshit. The anus is your only real value.”

She sobbed on the floor, but not very much–the chunky Z didn’t pay her more for tears.

“Wombats shit cubes,” he said, the girl turning to look at him with her hollow eyes. “They have a square anus.

“Square anus?” the girl.

“I want to fuck one just to see, like a robot’s asshole I bet, like a robot’s meaty asshole.

“CANNIBALS!” Hunter heard Joe scream in the office above him.

“I’ve got to go,” Hunter said to the girl as she stood there, blood and lube and thinned liquid cum-shit running down her legs. “Report to the Secret Service officer down the hall,” he said, pointing down the dark, fetid tunnel outside the door to his office. As she stared at him, trying to cry, he wiped himself off on her dress and threw it at her. “Go, vamoose, fuck the fuck off,” he said as he pulled on his jock strap and dark glasses.

“CANNIBALS!” Hunter heard again as he climbed the bent rebar ladder to the hatch that opened into the Presidential Shitter. He found his daughter sitting on the golden toilet, lid down, scrolling through her phone.

“Are you just going to let him keep yelling like that?” Hunter asked Finnegan.

“I’m done with elder care for today,” Finnegan said, not looking up from her phone. “Also, this is the White House, maybe put on some goddamn pants.”

“Cranky-cranky, someone’s on the rag. Want me to hug the blood out of you?”

“Not while you still reek of Slavic whore.”

“CANNIBALS!” Joe screamed again.

Hunter grabbed his friend Cracky from his trophy case and sashayed into the Oval Office.

“There are no cannibals, Daddy,” he said to the trembling old man.

“They ate my uncle, ate him, like, like, like a bag of potato chips made out of meat!”

“But there are no cannibals here, right?”

“Cannibals?!? Where?” Joe held up his fists ready for a fight.

“No cannibals, Daddy. No cannibals.”

“Do you think that he was still alive when they ate him? Like he, could, you know that thing where you can…”

Hunter stared for a moment as rusty gears ground to a halt in his father’s head.

“I think they cook you first,” Hunter said gently.

Joe made a high keening noise as he thought about bones rounding off at the ends as they boiled away in a giant Bugs Bunny cauldron.

“I can’t do it,” Joe said. “I won’t do it. I won’t go to Borneo.”

“No one’s making you go to Borneo!” Finnegan called from the bathroom.

“I thought you said our great-uncle was eaten in Papua-New Guinea,” Hunter said.

“Both. He was eaten in both places! He was in the supermarket, all, like wrapped up in clingfilm, just chunks, just chunks!” Joe said. He broke down crying, keening again.

“Did he even have an uncle?” Finnegan asked from the bathroom.

“I can feel their teeth in my flesh,” Joe said, shuddering, soiling his pull-ups.