“No Good S.O.B. Screwed Me Over!” screamed the Donald at a hastily called news conference at Trump Tower the morning after his unexpected election victory. “We Had A Deal!” sputtered a visibly angry Donald Trump to the gathered news hounds. “I signed over my Eternal Soul to the Son of Perdition for the Presidency and, as agreed, I won. But now I have to deal with all of these horrible side effects buried in the fine print! Oh…yeah…He’s Gonna Pay!”
At that point, The Donald ran frantically out of the building where he turned into a giant chicken which rampaged about the Big Apple for about fifteen minutes…crushing cars, mushing onlookers, and overturning locomotives.
When that episode was over he resumed his original human form, ran back into the building buck naked, and continued the press conference. “See what I’m dealing with here?” said the Donald as he scratched his feet on the stage floor and frantically wiped the chicken snot from his fading beak.
When he finally returned to human form he shouted “The Prince of Darkness buried my legal staff in a mountain of fine print just prior to the contract signing ceremony…not to mention the one hundred and fifty thousand emails written in ancient Babylonian dialects that we had great difficulty deciphering. We even shook hands on the deal. He showed me a vision of my great rewards and, believe me, I didn’t see any such thing as a chicken the size of Godzilla in that vision!”
Nude and shivering violently, the Donald choked for a minute as his head spun around at lightning speed and finally turned into a giant, fly covered poo-poo.
He fell off the stage, got up, and stumbled frantically about the room, knocking over chairs, microphones, and reporters before he finally landed in the lap of Sean Hannity who instantly turned into a squealing, grease-covered pig which ran out of the building where it was hit by three cabs, one cross-town bus, a UPS truck, a guy on a moped, and, ironically, a Mohel in a Prius on his way to a Brit Milah.
A herd of at least a thousand huge Norwegian rats scurried from nearby storm drains and dragged the dismembered scraps away. All that remained of Mr. Hannity was a pair of desiccated eyeballs lying next to a love note addressed to somebody named Alex J. (Jones?). A nearby priest administered last rites after which an old lady ran up and grabbed the grisly souvenirs which she promptly listed on eBay. I found the listing and was delighted to see that, in memory of Mr. Hannity, she also included an anti-abortion poster. Free shipping as well! I started the bidding at two dollars. Fingers crossed!
Mr. Trump, sporting a newly sprouted monkey tail, swung from overhead lighting fixtures to the elevator and fled to the temporary safety of his expansive penthouse suite.
A spokesman for the Evil One issued a terse statement which reads as follows: “While we sympathize with Mr. Trump’s distress, it must be noted that we abided by the terms of our contract to the letter. He violated said contract on so many occasions and in so many ways that automatic provisions were enacted…provisions which account for the giant chicken episode and the spinning poo-poo head debacle.”
“At this point, we are not willing to reveal the specifics of our counter-suit but we categorically deny the vicious internet rumors implying that our agreement with Mr. Trump included ritual blood sacrifices.
“We regret the collateral damages…especially the dismal fate of Sean Hannity, but we proudly welcome him to his eternal home in a dark, shallow swamp filled with boiling goose puke and snapping turtles the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. As per our contract, the responsibility for these unfortunate side effects lies exclusively with the president-elect.”
“We will, of course, counter sue Mr. Trump. Should we meet in a courtroom, Roy Cohn, Hell’s leading attorney and former mentor to Mr. Trump, will be our lead counsel. Never let it be said that our Lord and Master doesn’t understand the concept of Irony!”