[note: this is an erotic fanfic written in around an hour by myself and my good friend/smut muse talia, which we then read in front of a bunch of lovely people at carmine st. comics. may god have mercy on our souls]
Ted Cruz walked in a Genuinely Human Manner, as he had so often been instructed by his campaign manager, through Times Square. But what did it even matter anymore, to keep up this façade? As he passed through the heaving flanks of Midwestern tourists, he let himself show the disdain he had felt all along for their fleshy undulation. There was no hint of approbation or recognition in their squinting, piggy eyes. He let one corner of his flesh-mouth curl in a sneer. There was only one solution. Abandoned among the flesh-pigs, he would out-human them all. He’d show them. He’d wallow among them and drown his sorrows in so many Pina Colada Royales. Or maybe, South Beach Mojitos. Maybe a Caliente Margarita or seven. Gosh darnit, it was time. Time to taste the pleasures of Flavortown.
Guy Fieri was, as usual, standing in front of the mirror he’d tricked out with flame decals, admiring his forehead oils. Poised between the licks of flame, he truly looked like a creature from hell. This was his design. This was the expression of his will, as fixed and immutable as the switches of his pale, greased spike crown of “hair”. He licked his finger, and tasted nothing.
He heard the slapping din of his empire in the dining room behind him. They had all come to him, the masses, to worship at the altar from which all his donkey sauce flowed. He was alone in his horrifying flesh prison, but he was their king, and they were all going down with him, clutching dragon chili cheese fries in their hammy fists.
Suddenly, a revelation: a shock, something altogether new but somehow familiar. A hot pulse thrummed through his doughy animal frame and into the place where he thought there could be nothing. Where there never had been feeling. Where only the heavy weight of his continued existence, his perpetual and cursed need to summon buffalo blue-sabi’d minions to his side hung like a millstone. It electrified him, the twang of a sudden sense of, could it be…recognition of a familiar? He slipped his mirrored sunglasses from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, flipped up the lapels of his red leather vest, and strode out, his testicles as pendulous and wrinkled as his sour cream-laden triple loaded baked potatoes. He didn’t know what was on the other side of those double doors, but he was ready. Anything was lighter, he mused, than the continually surprising weight of pure emptiness.
Something extraordinary was happening to Ted Cruz. As his finger traveled down the sticky, laminated length of Fieri’s chaos theory of a menu, he felt something. Stirring. In his loins. The loins he thought long dead. A longing. A yearning. And then, something more, and something far more extraordinary: a longing, and a yearning, in his heart. This was more than just a longing for the Bacon Wrapped Barbecue Shrimp–a longing which, in of itself surprised him: normally the only human food he could bare was cold Campbell’s Chunky soup, in bulk. What was happening to him? What was this…feeeeeling? And then he looked up, and the scent glands that lined his pendulous neck flapped to attention as they never had before.
“Hi, I’m Guy Fierri,” he said, rolling the consonant sensually and not at all obnoxiously over his wet, narrow sea worm of a tongue. “Welcome to Flavor Town, my man.” Cruz licked his thin, disquieting lips, attempting to dislodge the white ooze that had congealed there in his panic. Little did he know, that was not the only white ooze he would be dislodging on this fateful night.
“Well hi, Mr. Fieri! Or can I call you Guy?” he said, emitting a subsonic hum that meant far more than his words ever could. It was all they needed to say. And more.
They knew it had to happen in the dumpster, amidst the ruins Fieri had created. Amidst the soft filth-beds of over-salted linguine, the dried rivers of donkey and bluesabbi sauce covering their thrusting bodies, like the fluid of the womb. And thrust they did, their quivering flesh truly a sight of horrors that would melt the face of any onlooker with its pasty glare. Cruz, his face a mess of Fieri’s donkey love sauce—if we could call such a primal horror show gush an act of love—as he slammed his throbbing American flagpole—his horrible, horrible, horrible throbbing American flagpole, against Fieri’s prone and rippling flanks. They both screamed, shuddering and twitching in unison:
“THIS IS WHAT WE DESERVE!”, they omitted from their mouth holes. “WE HAVE TRULY LOOKED INTO THE ABYSS AND LOOKED BACK AT OURSELVES!”
Then, after a moment of sopping, squelching grunts, they knew the moment had come. There was no turning back now. “WE ARE THE KINGS OF FLAVOR TOWN!”, they screamed, in simultaneous orgasm. The end had begun.
