Hillary’s saggy bulk shifted uncomfortably in her and Huma’s vast and piss-misted bed while Huma snored on oblivious. As series of faint whimpering cries brought Huma near consciousness enough for her to snort out a hitch in her breathing. She reached out and touched a sweaty fold in Hillary’s luscious back-fat without really waking and fell back into a deeper cycle of sleep. Hillary cried out faintly, unable to escape her nightmare.
“This is not a dream,” the impersonal voice said in Hillary’s sleeping mind, echoing and tinny, fading in and out, “Not a dream. We are using your brain’s electrical system as a receiver. We are unable to transmit through conscious neural interference. You are receiving this broadcast as a dream. We are transmitting from the year two, zero, two, zero.”
Donald’s face under a field of static. He was smiling. He was waving.
The voice continued: “You are receiving this broadcast in order to alter the events you are seeing. Our technology has not developed a transmitter strong enough to reach your conscious state of awareness, but this is not a dream.”
A beige map of the United States unfolded, each state outlined, Hawaii and Alaska floating awkwardly in a vanished Mexico. One by one every state turned red. Blood red. Republican red. Hillary reached out to grab the map, to crumple it. It eluded her every grasping swipe.
The voice took on an insistent tone that cut through the static like molten steel poured on young flesh: “You are seeing what is actually occurring for the purpose of causality violation.”
Hillary saw her own face now, frozen like a stone in grief. Chelsea clung to her arm, shaking with sobs. Huma, her face drawn and gaunt, her hair gone gray, was back a step and to the side. Balloons fell in slow motion. Huma raised a gun and opened her matte red lips to accept it.
“You are seeing what is actually occurring for the purpose of causality violation.”
Static rose like an army of enraged wasps.
“You are seeing what is actually occurring for the purpose of causality violation.”
As Huma’s brains sprayed across the blue curtain spread out behind them on the stage, Hillary saw herself turn, throwing Chelsea down. Before the Hillary on the stage could turn to kneel by her lover, the back of her pantsuit heaved and split. Static. Tentacles, pink and bloody, vomited out of her. The shot changed to a CNN anchor gone pale. She stared into the camera and suddenly threw up what looked like milk streaked with vile.
“Causality violation,” the voice said, “This is not a dream. You must change the future. You must change the future. You must change this future.”
Hillary screamed then, in their bedroom, fighting up out of the dream like surfacing from a cold lake. She was shivering. Huma gasped and sat up.
“What is it, my love? What is it, my desert flower?” she whispered.
“I’ve just gotten a message, Huma,” Hillary said haltingly through deep breaths, “I have to run in 2020. I have to.”
