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                                Barack Obama: The Legendary Chronicles
                                            Book IV - The Obama Proxy



      Barack Obama slowly lowered himself into the chair.  The chair’s pristine leather rubbed gently against his magnificent suit and produced a sound rich in subtle harmonics; the kind of sound that can only come from materials of the greatest quality.  Laying his forearms on the chair’s sumptuous arm rests, he ran his fingertips across the smooth, gold buttons.  Barack leaned back slightly.  The chair tilted noiselessly with absolute precision and support as he inhaled deeply the fine odor of the leather.  That smell was success.  That smell was ultimate power.  Had anyone been in that room they would have seen his wide, proud smile, but he was alone.  He had issued orders that he was not to be disturbed.  This was his first opportunity to properly experience the Oval Office and he wanted the occasion to be extended, uninterrupted; perfect.
      It was a bright morning in Washington.  Outside the large windows of his Office, the Sun, rising through a transparent sky, lit the lawn, which sparkled and flashed countless reflections off the freshly trimmed grass.  That reflected light filled the Office with a restful glow, complemented by the soothing lamps, dimmed underneath their stately shades.
      Barack surveyed the landscape of his ostentatious desk: Resolute.  The crisp grain of the wood formed wondrous patterns that like clouds could easily be imagined as the faces of friends or the multitudinous forms of exotic creatures.  Easily within reach stood his pen.  It was angled toward him as though it eagerly awaited his hand.  He thought of the ink that was held inside.  Right now it was meaningless but it thrilled him to think that when guided by his righteous hand it would become the physical embodiment of his tremendous command; his unquenchable will.
      Barack moved his focus to the rug at his feet.  Marveling at the way his shoes contacted the narrow fibers; he raised and lowered them several times.  Those spectacular fibers provided a safe traction for walking, but they were also smooth enough that his feet nearly glided when he entered the room.  Barack rose and walked around his desk to examine the glorious seal in the center of the rug.  He dropped his left knee to the floor and stooped so that he could touch the fibers of the eagle.  Slowly he worked his way around the seal, taking time to touch each star, tracing their outlines with his index finger.  He paused and looked around, suddenly conscious of his undignified pose, knowing full well he was alone, he couldn’t help but double-check, for he knew that he was about to do something that most would find shocking.  Barack Obama knelt fully and leaned down until his face pushed forcefully into the fibers.  He let his tongue dab the rug, savoring the Bush molecules which had embedded themselves in the fibers over many long years.  His triumphs and fears, his frequent fits of rage; a flood of experiences; the emotions were mostly wretched but they fascinated Barack.  He made a mental note to have the Reagan era rug brought out at some point.
      Regaining his composure he stood up and walked the circumference of the oval, pausing frequently to admire the many priceless objects and regal paintings.  He stood at the painting of Lincoln for some time, captivated by the deep-set eyes; wells of profound sadness as it seemed.  Barack Obama kissed the tips of his right index and middle finger, placed them gently on the lips of Lincoln and closed his eyes for several seconds.  He sighed deeply then proceeded to the imposing painting of George Washington which hung above the grand white marble mantel.
      The image of Abraham Lincoln had a personal, almost intimate feel.  The painting of George Washington was in stark contrast.  Barack tried to infer something about the man from his painting but there was nothing.  Washington was impossibly remote.  He seemed to have moved beyond history, beyond legend, and into the realm of myth.  Even still, Barack could not avert his eyes.  A strong animosity started building inside Barack.  ‘Why should this man occupy such a venerated place in history?  Who cares that he was the first?  Did he really do anything great other than be the first white president in a long history of white presidents?  It is Lincoln’s portrait that should hang in honor above the mantel, not this slave-wielding tyrant from a brutish, antediluvian epoch!’  This line of thinking continued in Barack’s mind until he could bear it no longer.  ‘Curse those who would object, I will not allow this man the honorable position!’  At the very least he would swap his portrait with Lincoln’s.
      Barack reached up to grab the frame of the Washington painting and hesitated briefly.  The majesty of Washington could not be completely ignored or bypassed without an effort.  Marshalling his resolve, Barack Obama grasped the painting and lifted it up and off the wall.  A perceptible shudder, a groan, the slightest of tremors passed through the Oval Office.  Barack hardly noticed it as his attention was firmly captivated by what had been revealed behind the portrait.  There was a small, perfectly oval-shaped hole in the wall, ringed with gold.  The gold band was about a half an inch thick, and out from the edges of that ring there issued an intricate, radiating pattern of obsidian lines, jagged yet geometrically precise and symmetrical.  They branched out into dense, indecipherable characters before slimming into fine points, ending a foot from where they originated at the hole.
      Barack Obama tried to peer into the oval hole, but it was strangely dark inside, as if the walls of the hole refused to reflect any of the copious light in the Office.  He paused, stroking his large chin thoughtfully, and considered calling the agents.  His rational mind feared some kind of security breach, however the more instinctive part of his being countered the idea.  And besides, if he called for help he would have to bother explaining why he removed the painting in the first place.  It was only still his first week in office.  ‘No good shaking things up at this early stage.’  He was going to play it safe in the beginning; all part of the plan.
      But this mysterious hole could not be ignored.  Putting the picture back on the wall was not an option.  In the end he did the only thing he could think of.  He stuck his right index finger in the hole.  The opening of the hole was just large enough for his finger to fit.  The interior of the hole was cold and smooth.  Barack pushed his finger in until the knuckle passed inside.  At that moment there were several quick snapping and clicking sounds.  Startled, he jerked his hand back, but his finger was held fast.  Whether the narrow tube had closed in on his finger or some hidden mechanism had clamped upon it he could not tell.  It didn’t hurt but it was certainly trapped.
      Even now his pride refused to allow him to cry out for help.  He would make sure that he couldn’t free himself before bringing others into the situation.  From inside the wall there came new sounds, more clicks and snaps combined with whirring gears and other bizarre mechanical excitations.  There was a brief pause and then a very loud crack came from within the wall. In that same instant Barack Obama felt something rapidly puncture the pad of his ensnared finger.  The pain was severe.  From his mouth now welled an uncontrollable scream, a deep roar that rose in pitch to a terrified squeal.  Barack could feel his finger wet with blood though none dripped out from the hole.  His screaming reached a new intensity, not from increased pain, but because he now witnessed with horror a change in the obsidian characters.  A dark red color filled the lines, beginning at the hole and then traveling outwards to their tips.  Barack Obama felt a disturbingly fierce heat radiating from those lines as they, he assumed, filled with his leeched blood.
      This had been going on for nearly a minute, and his voice was fractured and torn from the panicked screaming, yet no one had come.  They should have broken into the Oval Office immediately upon hearing his scream, but there was no response.  “Get a hold of yourself god DAMNIT Barack!  They’re NOT coming.  Fuck if I know why but they are not coming so shut up.  Shut the fuck up and think!”  Barack Obama frantically searched for any object within reach that he could use to smash against the wall or perhaps hurl into a window to trigger the alarm.  His search was interrupted by a startling resumption of the sounds from within the wall.  Three rapid clicks were followed by two seconds of grinding noise and then another frighteningly loud crack caused Barack to flinch.  His finger was brutally punctured again, however this time the stabbing object did not immediately retract, but remained deeply lodged inside his tormented finger.  Barack Obama’s dismayed bellows resumed anew.  A hysterical, animalistic and unintelligible wail spilled out from his gaping mouth, quaking and frothing in his terror.  “NO!  NO!  NO!  OH FUCK GOD NO!!!”
      What happened next was so incomprehensibly horrifying to Barack Obama that his lungs froze.  Cut short in mid-scream, he felt the penetrating object begin to pump a searing pressure into his brutalized finger.  Whatever it was, he could feel it travel into his veins; a sickening itch quickly spread from his right arm throughout his body.  Barack convulsed and shuddered; a violent spasm rocked his chest and he coughed out an enormous, putrid blast of vomit.
      Barack Obama felt his head crash into the marble hearth of the fireplace.  He was too shocked to immediately realize that the hole had released his finger and he had slipped on his own greasy vomit which caused the punishing fall and collision.  His nose was shattered and angled sharply off to one side.  Unable to lift himself; the noxious puke seeped into his pulverized nose which was submerged in the caustic pool.
      A minute or several passed.  “Oh, what the, what the fuck... oh… what this… shit… jesus, fuck…” Barack gurgled from his throbbing face.  He slowly rolled onto his back and then back again onto his stomach, writhing and twisting as the fibers of his now less than magnificent suit bloated, absorbing the corrosive vomit and smearing the larger chunks of half-digested food.  In a flash his senses returned and he shook free of the stupor.  He grabbed his right index finger.  It was still there.  He examined it, and though it was soaked with vomit there wasn’t a trace of blood or wound to be seen.  He gazed up at the oval hole.  The lines emanating from the golden ring still held a red tint, though they appeared to have faded somewhat.
      The sounds of machinery resumed from behind the wall and, fearing some new assault, Barack shielded his face as a fetid bubble of slick, oily feces erupted out his anus; an involuntary action of a body devastated by smothering fear.  Barack’s trembling eye peered from behind his dripping arms to witness the marble fireplace sliding backwards.  It stopped suddenly, quiet for a second, and then resumed moving, now descending, revealing a dimly lit passageway.  Barack Obama stood shakily.  The rancid, blistering fecal extrusion cascaded down his quivering legs, spilling out from his pants, where it mingled with the coagulating vomit pool.
      Some force of will of origin unknown managed to penetrate the haze of fear that enveloped Barack Obama’s mind, compelling him to enter into the passageway.  He stumbled and slipped on the fatty puddles of waste, but somehow kept his footing.  The passageway was fairly cramped and Barack had to crawl.  As he slowly shuffled forward, a few more sodden bubbles squelched and burst inside his laden drawers; the remnants of his violent defecation.  The walls and floor of the passage were polished and dark, though some reflected light glimmered on their surface.  About ten feet into the tunnel the passageway sloped downwards, and as he progressed, the ceiling rose until it was high enough for him to stand.  At this point steps began.  Barack climbed down apprehensively.  He noticed that the walls were covered with highly detailed patterns that resembled the lines surrounding the gold oval back on the Office wall.  After a substantial descent of at least three flights there was revealed a flickering light, clearly emanating from a large chamber.  Still compelled by a powerful curiosity and will, Barack Obama felt his fears subsiding slightly as he entered the chamber.
      The chamber was large but not huge.  Its walls, floor and ceiling were a smooth, dark grey stone and appeared completely seamless, as though the chamber had been hollowed from a single great rock. As Barack’s eyes became adjusted to the torchlight he realized that the chamber’s dimensions were identical to those of the Oval Office.  Evenly spaced around the circumference of the chamber were black, stone pedestals. And resting on top of these pedestals at about waist height were large, highly wrought glass jars.  Golden torches flanked each jar, illuminating fleshy masses within.  Near the back of the chamber rested a large, whitish desk.  Barack Obama approached the desk and as he neared he realized that it was comprised entirely of bones: all seemingly human.  The surface of the desk looked like a skin, stretched taught and speckled with brownish spots.  A man sat at the desk, his face obscured by a red hood.
      “Barack Obama, you have made it, and sooner than expected, though it shouldn’t surprise me.  Your determination is unrivaled and that is why you stand here today instead of that pathetic, old malcontent, John McCain.”  The hooded man laughed softly.  “Speechless?  It is understandable.  And don’t worry about all the vomit and feces.  It’s a typical reaction to the Transfusion.  There are plenty of people that would be willing to lick the floors clean just to get a taste of your historic eliminations!”  The man laughed, heartily this time.  “History, history… what is history?  It’s not what you think it is, not yet anyway.  History is meaningless.  History is the imagination of scholars that spend their days in futility, recounting and assembling fragmented memories.  History is for people that prefer the dead for company.  We are not dead.  We are just beginning.”
“What… is all this?  Who are you?”  Barack squinted and leaned forward.  
      “What all this is will be made clear to you very shortly.  As for who am I, do you not recognize my voice?  I am more than my voice, or rather my voice is more than what you think it is.  You see all these jars that surround us?  They are my voice, a part of it.  And there are others here too, in these passageways that travel off behind me that you haven’t yet noticed.  Perhaps your ordeal in the Tertiary Oval has clouded your senses.  I know that my mind was greatly disturbed by my first Transfusion, though I can proudly say that at least I didn’t shit myself and befoul the Oval with vomit.  I wonder what Lincoln would think of your display?  Shall we ask him?”
      “George!”  A croaky voice barked from deep within one of the posterior passageways.  “Enough with this pointless taunting!  Reveal your form and perhaps Barack will understand and regain his composure!  This is an undignified start to the Inauguration!”
      “Very well; it appears I cannot be allowed even a transitory amusement.”  The red hood fell back from the man’s head.  Even in that diffuse torchlight, the beak-like nose and closely spaced eyes were unmistakable.  From behind the desk of bone rose the proud and resplendent figure of George Walker Bush.
      “You are surprised, I am sure.  You thought I would be back in Texas, enjoying my retirement, out of the spotlight and free from relentless criticism, aside from the few lingering idiots who hope to advance their careers by crucifying me.  Well, I am not retired. In fact my term in Office is just beginning!”
      Barack Obama half-swooned, a fresh torrent of dung exploded out from his anus, filling the chamber with the ripe stench of rancid cheese, yet he did not fall.  With a tremendous exertion he straightened his back and tightly clenched his blistering sphincter, temporarily capping the perilously expulsive anal cavity.  Barack Obama spoke, and at first his voice was weak and trembled, but as he continued it gained in strength and confidence, “I am Barack Hussein Obama.  I am the President of The United States of America!  I was decisively elected by the citizenry to change this nation and that is exactly what I will do!  Your two terms of service have ended, George Walker Bush.  If you think you will continue to command from within this secret chamber then you are severely mistaken.  And don’t try to detain me.  My staff and guards are undoubtedly following the trail of vomit and dung to this very room and will arrive at any moment!”
      George roared with unrestrained laughter.  “Barack, don’t you think they would have arrived by now?  We could hear your ludicrous screeching all the way down here in the Secondary Oval over twenty minutes ago!  The fact is no one could hear your screaming and vomiting and explosive defecating because none of that sound passed beyond the active waveform inversion fields of the Tertiary Oval!  And do you think we were just patiently sitting down here, hoping that some day you would chance to discover the Chamber?  Your “discovery” of the Washington Gate was no mere chance, nor was it an accident that you inserted your right index finger into the Franklin Hole!  Yes, the Franklin Hole, designed by Benjamin Franklin, a great man whose discoveries and inventions have changed the world in ways far beyond even Our comprehension!  He transferred a major part of his Essence into the apparatuses of the Washington Gate, a necessary sacrifice that unfortunately prohibited him from ever ascending to the Presidency!  Still, he will forever hold a place of supreme honor among the Founders.  Praise him Fathers, praise him!”
      “Praise him Fathers, praise him!” came repeated out from the reverberant passageways in a deep chorus of voices.
      “Who is that in the shadows?  Who lies hidden in those tunnels?  Reveal yourselves!  Why do you cower behind?”
      “Everything in due time, Barack.  The Inauguration has just begun.  Those “tunnels” lead to the Primary Oval, the first Chamber of Command, and the voices you hear in the shadows are the Sacred Guardians.  Right now they linger in the darkness to bar you from entering, for you have not yet been Confirmed.  Why don’t you have a seat?  You are certainly weary from all of your… efforts.  Clinton!  Produce a chair for the nominee!”
      From the shadows behind George Bush there came a horrid cacophony of muffled pops and cracks, the grinding of knobby cartilage and bone.  William Jefferson Clinton’s naked body shambled awkwardly into the chamber.  Leading his movement with his left leg, he extended it far out in front of him, dropped it to the floor with a meaty thud, then contracted and contorted, drawing the rest of his paralyzed bulk behind him; twitching and shuddering as it scraped a host of raw, seeping protrusions along the ground.  As Bill Clinton’s body neared Barack it began to collapse and implode in sudden, catastrophic deformations.  Plumes of milky putrescence launched out from dozens of festering wounds that ripped wide as the jagged, fracturing bones jolted and shifted inside the roiling mass.  Joints reversed direction, Bill Clinton’s head submerged into his chest and a juicy burble issued from the buttocks as they split and traveled up the rib cage.  At last there came a syrupy wheeze and it settled into a static, chair-like form.
      “He is in the Interim State: suspended in an amorphous form since Monday.  He has been waiting for you.  Please, be seated.  You need not fear him.  His mind is as nebulous as his body.  He cannot move without my command.”
      Barack Obama, exhausted and trembling, mastered his revulsion, then sat down on Bill Clinton.  He was weak and bewildered, and also thought it best to play along until he had formulated a plausible escape plan.  To his surprise (and secret delight), he found the ergonomics of Bill Clinton extremely comfortable.  Bill’s ample buttocks were situated to provide perfect lumbar support, and once Barack was fully seated they began to vibrate in gentle, soothing oscillations.
      “Ok George.  You have me seated here on this… monstrosity, which I still can’t quite fathom, but, here I am.  Now, how about you just tell what the fuck this madness is all about!”
      George Bush smiled and walked around to the front of the desk.  “I see you are regaining your senses, and your curiosity has overridden your fear.  Barack, everything you know about the Office of the President of The United States is a lie: a necessary lie, to ensure the unending dominance of this Country.  The Founders knew they had a brilliant idea for the government of America.  Their ingenuity in creating the Three Branches was astonishing.  Yet they knew there was one gaping flaw in the structure: the Executive Branch; specifically the man.  They knew they couldn’t have a ruler with indefinite tenure, like a king.  That was the whole point.  But they also knew that the government would become unstable and inefficient each time a new President was elected.  Early on they considered a period of overlapping terms, where the Incumbent would remain in office during the first year of the newly elected President’s term.  During that year they would govern together, and any Executive action would require the concurrent authorization of both Presidents.  It was a novel idea but the flaws are obvious.  Debate raged within the Continental Congress and for a long while there was real jeopardy of failure.  It was in this time of crisis that Benjamin Franklin made his greatest contribution.  Praise him Fathers, praise him!”
      “Praise him Fathers, praise him!” came repeated from the shadowy tunnels.
      “Most people think of Franklin as a man of science, which he most certainly was, but he was also a deeply religious man.  He had an unquenchable curiosity and sought out all knowledge ceaselessly.  It was one of his many Indian whores, Quelactica of the little known Melchoki tribe, that introduced him to the polytheistic mysticism of the natives.  The Melchokis were a tiny, ancient tribe that had dwelled in the forests of Pennsylvania for millennia.  The Melchokis, like nearly all Indians, sought understanding and universal truth through the use of psychoactive compounds.  But the Melchokis were primarily concerned with the potential of one substance: blood.  They worshipped a blood god, Gochisgol, and believed that blood contained the spirit.  Or, more accurately put, they believed that blood was the spirit, and that each person’s blood contained all the knowledge and experiences that they had accumulated over their lifetimes.  At some point in their history, it is unknown exactly when, they began attempting to transfer the blood of their elders, and with it their knowledge, to the succeeding generations.  I know you don’t believe me, yet, when I say this Barack, but they managed to do it.  Does this prove the existence of Gochisgol?  We don’t think so.  We are only concerned with the application of their procedures for our benefit.  But I digress.
      “Early on they were only able to impart a vague impression of their chieftains into the minds of their successors.  It was extremely useful to be certain, but they lost all the fine details.  Their techniques progressed and improved over many centuries.  They discovered ways of concentrating and purifying the blood, and eventually they managed to transfer, complete and undistorted, the mind of one person to another.  As far as we know, Benjamin Franklin was the only white man in history to have ever learned the blood rites of the Melchoki.  It wasn’t long after that the Melchokis were completely annihilated in the Western Expansion.
      “Franklin had a tremendously difficult time convincing the Continental Congress to even listen to his proposal of using the Melchoki blood rites to solve the succession problem of the Executive Branch.  Eventually he resorted to an extreme, but effective solution.  In late January of 1781 he Transferred the mind of Gouverneur Morris into John Dickinson, unbeknownst to John of course.  Benjamin had secretly convinced Gouverneur to study the ways of the Melchoki with him when it became clear that the Continental Congress was not going to hear his proposal.  On February 23rd, 1781, Gouverneur Morris took possession of John Dickinson during a session of the Second Continental Congress.  They were in the midst of putting the finishing touches on The Articles of Confederation when John Dickinson leaped from his chair and demanded that the Congress allow Benjamin to fully unveil his proposed amendments.  Gouverneur, as planned, seconded the motion and the Congress, albeit reluctantly, allowed Benjamin the floor.  Benjamin’s presentation was masterful, and using Gouverneur and the horrified Dickinson as demonstration, he convinced the Congress to form a secret department for the development of the real Executive Branch.
      “As Benjamin explained that day, there are multiple levels of integration possible through the Melchoki ceremonies.  You can deposit a consciousness in the most direct and intrusive manner, where it has primary position at any or all times in the mind of the Recipient.  Or the introduced consciousness can be like a passive observer, able to see and know all that the Recipient sees and knows, but unable to influence the Recipient’s thoughts or actions without the Recipient’s consent.  And then there is another method where the Transferred mind has no active function in the Recipient’s mind, but is just a collection of memories and knowledge that can be accessed at any time by the Recipient.  It is also possible to create an amalgamation of these different states in variable ratios of sentience, presence and perception, depending on the concentration levels of the transfused blood, as well as the introduction of various catalytic, reactive, and semi and sub-reactive substances.  Benjamin Transferred Gouverneur Morris into John Dickinson in a most brutally dominant state, having not much actual experience with the implementation of Melchoki techniques.  It is a little known fact that John Dickinson suffered severe dementia after the final Constitution was created, even though Benjamin had long since removed the presence of Gouverneur through a Melchoki process that reverses the transfusion and extracts the foreign consciousness.  You need not worry about that, Barack.  Modern science and over two hundred years of refinement have significantly mitigated the risk of psychosis and other psychological ailments that the Founders had to contend with.
      “Wouldn’t you want the knowledge and experience of unlimited minds that are immediately accessible?  Imagine having not just your contemporaries as a resource, but the lives of great men from every era.  Rahm Emanuel is a brilliant guy I’m sure.  But he’s just one man whose experiences are finite.  How would you like to be able to consult, I don’t know, say, Abraham Lincoln, on matters of diplomacy?  Does that not sound in the least bit appealing?  Don’t tell me that you’re not getting excited at the prospect.
      “When George Washington became President, one of the first things he did was to levy a secret tax to fund the construction of a Melchoki Chamber based entirely on the architectural and engineering designs of Benjamin Franklin.  As you know, construction of the White House began in 1792.  However preparations and the initial construction of the Melchoki Chamber began two years prior, in the sweltering summer of 1790.  Most of the preparations involved “priming” the earth around where the Chamber was to be built.  Countless human sacrifices were made to completely saturate the grounds with blood.  It is a regrettably essential component of a Melchoki Chamber: imbuing the surrounding earth with a Gochisgol Fulcrum.  Only by doing this can the most complex of Melchoki transfusions be safely performed.  Fortunately we still had a thriving slave trade, and the Founders had no lack of bodies to provide the requisite blood.
      “Before the construction of the West Wing in 1901, the Melchoki Chamber was only accessible from a secret passage in the floor of the Red Room.  Theodore Roosevelt disdained having to covertly enter the Chamber through the crude underground tunnels in the foundation of the Executive Residence.  He used the excuse of overcrowding to justify the construction of the West Wing.  The West Wing provided convenient access to the Chamber, but more importantly it was designed to function as a Gochisgolic Funnel, channeling the energies of the Gochisgol Fulcrum into the Secondary and Primary Ovals, thus reinforcing the older Transferences that would otherwise fade over long periods of time.  Various minor refinements have been made since 1910, but for the most part the Ovals exist and operate the same as they did a hundred years ago.  And now we come to what you probably most want to hear: what does this mean to you, Barack Obama?
      “As I said before, I am now the President.  You are the President-Elect, and will remain as such for the next four or eight years depending on whether I am re-elected or not, discounting an assassination or pre-term natural death of course, the details of which I will later explain.  George Washington was the only President to have Primary Function of his mind during his first term.  Even still he had the minds of several key Representatives implanted in his to help guide his decisions in that tenuous early period.  When John Adams became “President” he was not given Primary Function.  He had Ancillary Control, as will you, and George Washington, along with the Representatives within him, was Transferred into Adams.  John Adams’ real tenure as President began with the election of Thomas Jefferson.  Adams was Transferred into Thomas Jefferson, simultaneously shifting into the role of Primary Function and bringing with him the consciousness of George Washington and the Representatives that he still carried.  The succession of the President has continued in this manner to the present day, building in a pyramidal Hierarchy of consciousness.  You will be the face of the Presidency but I will be The Decider for real now, and yes that was intentionally ironic as hopefully you now realize it was Bill that first uttered those idiotic words.  In this way you will have sufficient time to learn and prepare for when you do finally become the President.  You will be Transferred into whoever is elected as your successor.
      “You see, in this system the ego of the man is removed from the office.  People think that I started an unjust war in Iraq, but that credit actually goes to Bill Clinton, just as the decision to engage Iraq in the first Gulf War was Reagan’s, not my father’s.  And this economic shitstorm they won’t stop blabbering about?  Clinton strikes again.  I have no legacy to fret over. I am only concerned with doing what I think is best for the unending dominance of the Nation.  This is the reason why America has succeeded so tremendously, and will continue to succeed.  You need to accept the fact that for at least the next four years everything you say will be my words and everything you do will be my actions.  You have no choice.  Already I can sense myself forming in your mind.  The trauma you experienced earlier was not merely for my amusement.  The object that pierced your finger was the needle-clustered tip of the Franklin Tube.  It extracted your blood and brought it down to the Primary Oval where it mingled with my blood and various Melchoki compounds in a Gochisgolic Centrifuge.  That mixture, a potent Melchoki Serum, traveled back up the Franklin Tube and was injected into your bloodstream.  Can you not hear the voices?  They should be awakening, exploring and mapping your neural architecture right now.  Yes, it is unmistakable.  I am beginning to see through your eyes.”
      “You know, George, I didn’t understand a fucking word of that preposterous bullshit; none of it.”
      George Bush shook his head and sighed.  “Well then, let me see if I can explain it more simply.  Have you ever seen the movie ‘Being John Malkovich’?”
“Of course, that’s Sasha’s favorite movie.  She watches it at least twice a week.”
      “Really, are you fucking serious?  You let your six year old daughter watch ‘Being John Malkovich’?”
      “She’s seven.”
      “Six, seven, is there a difference?  That is a twisted movie.  What the hell?  I’d be reluctant to let a fifteen year old watch it.  Well, whatever, that’s your business.  Anyway, you’ve seen the movie, so hopefully you’ll know what I’m talking about.  You are going to be like John Malkovich.  And I will be like Cameron Diaz inside your head.  But, you know, of course it won’t be Cameron Diaz in there; it will be me, George Bush.  But here’s the key thing: you don’t know who George Bush is.  As I previously explained, quite comprehensively and clearly in my opinion, the person that you think is George Walker Bush is in reality William Jefferson Clinton.  Maybe you will actually like me.  I do intend to move away from the hardcore conservatism of the Clinton presidency, so perhaps some of your campaign promises will be upheld.  People always complain that the President never fulfills their campaign promises.  Well, it’s because the person they voted for is a different man than the one that is actually operating in The White House!  Of course we can’t tell them this, but it is somewhat comforting to know that we aren’t all just a bunch of flip-flopping cowards.  And now Barack, the Exposition is complete.  It is time to complete the Ceremony!”
      From the passageways behind George Bush there emerged three men: George H.W. Bush, Gerald Ford (looking rather bloated and quite dead), and Jimmy Carter.  Jimmy Carter carried a large, bulky, translucent satchel.  Darkish red and purple clumps of indistinct flesh could be seen through the glistening varicose pouch: an animal casing of some kind.  Jimmy Carter stroked the distended sac reverently while addressing Barack.  “These are the Reagan Organs.  They have yet to be transferred into a Melchoki Jar like the ones you see adorning this chamber.  Until the Jar is ready it is my duty to carry and protect the Organs.  For you see, every person has a Primary Organ and it is different for each.  The Primary Organ contains the greatest concentration of Essence in the body.  For Reagan it is the intestines.  My Primary Organ is the gall bladder.  When I die it will be removed and housed in honor among the Organs of the other Presidents.  We keep these Organs in case the Presence of our mind needs to be refreshed.  The power of the Gochisgol Fulcrum is great indeed, though it cannot forever allay the Disintegration without occasionally extracting Essence from the Primary Organs to perform a Replenishment.  Don’t worry Barack, the average Primary Organ contains enough Essence to keep a Presence refreshed for eons.  When your body dies, your consciousness will continue to exist in the mind of the President.  We are blessed.”
      George H.W. Bush stepped forward.  From within the folds of his crimson robe he produced a convoluted metal Apparatus.  It had two large handles that H.W. gripped, and at the top there was an ornate, golden chalice.  The chalice funneled into a many-chambered hub that emitted a pulsating reddish glow.  The contraption’s base consisted of four jointed appendages, each ending in a polished, conical spike.  George H.W. Bush stuck the tip of his tongue out between his teeth.  Leaning over the chalice he trembled violently and grimaced as he bit down savagely on his tongue.  The tip was shorn and H.W. ground his teeth and shook his head to tear the dangling chunk free.  The piece fell into the chalice along with profuse amounts of blood and at that moment the Apparatus came to life.  Barack Obama heard a vicious whirring sound and a chunky milling as the tongue flesh was pulverized by a frenzy of mincing blades.  Fueled by the sacrifice, the four appendages began to flail and stab like the chattering legs of a ravenous crab.  H.W. walked towards Barack with the thrashing device held out in front of him.
      Several things then occurred in a few brief moments.  George W. Bush spouted some mediocre epigrammatism about Barack getting a chance to thank Lincoln for the Emancipation Proclamation.  Jimmy Carter, overly excited at the prospect of witnessing the completion of the first Inauguration of a black man, squeezed the Reagan Sac a bit too tightly and a thin stream of rancid juice splashed out from a narrow rupture in the casing.  Barack Obama, in his terror, expelled a shockingly loud, gaseous blast of watery shit which startled Gerald Ford, causing him to reciprocate with a fart of his own that burst through his rotten pants and showered the wall behind him with a cloudy spray of maggots and anal tissues.  George W. Bush, annoyed by Gerald’s interruption, turned to admonish him and that’s when Barack Obama seized his chance.  Barack grasped one of the many distorted rib bones that jutted out from the Bill Clinton chair.  Using the last of his strength, he snapped the bone free.  Bill Clinton’s tongue, which had been greedily lapping up the pungent feces that Barack Obama had just released, halted its feast, and from a yawning, furrowed orifice in his back there issued forth a deafening roar that shook the Chamber mightily.  George H.W. Bush lost his footing in the tumult, and just as he was about to bring the Apparatus down onto Barack’s head, Barack leaped up and away from the Bill Clinton chair, still holding the rib bone.  The device came down instead on the Bill Clinton, driving its four, spiked appendages deep into the gristly, pitted flesh.  One of the spikes plunged directly into Bill Clinton’s anus hole which was temporarily situated near his throat.  Invigorated by Bill’s sopping rectal flesh, the Apparatus began to thrust and flail with a dreadful ferocity; rending and mashing the agonized Bill Clinton.
      Barack Obama lowered his shoulder and dashed towards Jimmy Carter at full speed.  There was a tremendous collision and the Reagan Sac was caught between them.  The pressure of the two men smashing together applied a stress to the Reagan Sac which was too great for it to bear.  The thin casing tore completely apart and the precious intestines and their preservative fluids were ejected, spiraling out into the surrounding area, whipping and coiling in their anguish.  Barack Obama’s face sustained a gigantic splash of Reagan’s juice which seared his eyes and entered his beleaguered mouth, passing down his throat and scorching the soft tissues within.  One of Reagan’s intestines, blinded by fury, wrapped itself around the exposed throat of Jimmy Carter.  Within a few seconds it had wound so tightly that Jimmy Carter’s neck was catastrophically crushed.  The intestine continued its constrictions and a moment later Jimmy’s eyes, ballooned and engorged with blood, erupted in a shower of meaty ocular detritus before his entire head detached from his body, launching high into the air on a jet of blood where it collided with the ceiling of the Chamber, exploding into a putrid carnage which cascaded down onto Gerald Ford, who was even more befuddled than usual.  Barack didn’t waste time to witness the spectacular mutilation and death of Jimmy Carter.  Even before Jimmy’s head separated, Barack had turned his attention toward George W. Bush.
      Barack Obama, employing his considerable athletic prowess developed from years of vigorous basketball play, leaped high into the air and sailed straight towards George W. Bush.  The Bill Clinton rib shard was still held firmly in his left hand and he wielded it such that the jagged, splintery end was aimed at his opponent.  George W. Bush had just time to scream, “NO YOU STUPID FOOL!” before Barack Obama brought the improvised weapon down onto George with brutal force.  Barack aimed for the throat but his strike was awry and the point of the rib impacted directly beneath George’s left eye.  The bone easily penetrated into his face and Barack, following through on his blow, drew the fragment down the entire length of the face, opening wide a horrendous, disfiguring gash.  George Bush staggered and screeched in terror as a fine spray of blood shot out from his devastated facial capillaries and veins.  As George W. Bush lifted his hands to shield his face from another blow, Barack Obama thrust the bone shard into George’s unprotected abdomen.  George Bush lurched and weakly tried to push Barack’s hand away but Barack thrust a second time and the Bill Clinton bone penetrated until it was completely submerged.  George W. Bush, eyes fluttering, looked up at Barack Obama. Barack was stunned by the poignant sadness in George’s eyes.  A red tear fell.  He then crumpled to the floor; dead.
      “Georgie boy?  GEORGIE BOY!” screamed George H.W. Bush who had turned his attention from trying to wrest the Apparatus from Bill Clinton to witness the mortal wounding and fall of his son.  He rushed towards Barack Obama with the single thought of avenging his fallen son, whatever the cost.  But before he could get close he tripped, his feet pulled out from beneath him.  His ceremonial robe had snagged on one of the Apparatus’ appendages and was now being quickly drawn and fed into the chalice by the berserk machine, rapaciously devouring in the throes of an uninhibited bloodlust.  Trapped within his robe, H.W. screamed and thrashed as he dragged along the ground.  Within seconds the Apparatus had hold of his leg and fed it into the chalice.
      Fixated by morbid interest, Barack Obama watched as the Apparatus consumed H.W., milling and churning his wizened body into a granular paste which it furiously pumped into the churning mound of flesh that was once Bill Clinton.  Despite the remarkably elastic properties that Bill Clinton’s body possessed while in the Interim State, he was unable to expand sufficiently to contain the injected H.W.
      Barack had just time enough to push Gerald Ford aside and leap into one of the posterior tunnels before the Clinton mass exploded. An ejection of indescribable foulness blasted everything, and a tremendous shockwave buffeted the Chamber, instantly detonating all of the precious Melchoki Jars, brutalizing their Primary Organs.  The damage incurred was critical, and the rancid Organs, gelatinous and tenderized from the shockwave, splashed and burst upon the Chamber floor.  Though Barack had escaped from lethal range, the explosion was still severe and his eardrums had completely ruptured.  A stinking flow of blood and earwax, accumulations from years of atrocious hygiene, poured from his decimated ears.  To compound his agony, the stench from the exposed and shredded Primary Organs overwhelmed his senses and he vomited violently, eyes bloodshot, gastric juices and the boiling remnants of the Reagan fluids burning his lips and sinuses.
      For several minutes he scuttled down the dark passageway like a frantic animal, pausing only to vomit and spit in a futile attempt to clear the lingering taste of Reagan.  As he progressed he began to hear voices, many voices though one was loudest.  Quickly it rose above the din and began cursing and shouting at Barack, berating him for his stupidity and promising a torment and punishment far beyond his feeble comprehension.  Barack screamed into the darkness and pleaded for the voice to reveal itself but it only laughed with scorn and intensified the barrage.  In a moment of crippling horror Barack Obama realized whose voice assailed him.  It was, of course, George W. Bush, howling from within.  Louder and louder his voice grew until it even overpowered the ringing of Barack’s shattered inner ears.
      After an interminable time Barack Obama stumbled into another Chamber.  Had he still any ability to think analytically he would have realized that this was the Primary Oval, the ultimate Chamber of Command.  He did not realize this.  The trauma sustained to body and mind had reduced his capacity for reason to that of a diseased child, and the ongoing and intensifying mental attacks led by George W. Bush, supported by the full wrath of the Presidential Hierarchy, had beaten him nearly to the point of total breakdown.
      Thus it was in this devolved state that he beheld the only visible aspect of the Chamber: a giant Melchoki Jar.  It was situated in the exact center of the room and was far larger than any of the Jars he had hitherto seen.  And inside it there was not just a vague mass of flesh but the complete and unbroken body of a man.  Had George Bush been willing to explain it, he would have told Barack that he now gazed upon the very heart of the Gochisgol Fulcrum.  George Bush certainly was not willing to explain anything to Barack.  His presence in the Primary Oval was conceded an abomination and he was deemed unworthy of viewing the Jar and its sacrosanct contents.  Therefore Barack did not know that the body in the Jar was George Washington.  It was perfectly preserved, hairless and naked and seemed to writhe hypnotically.  But whether it was truly animated or if Barack merely hallucinated the sensuous movement is unknown.  Somewhere in the minuscule fragments of Barack Obama’s being that still contained will and identity, there arose an overriding desire to destroy the man in the Jar.  The man taunted and sneered at him with limitless hatred, laughing at his feeble mind and impotent body, or at least that’s what the Barack-child perceived.
      Sensing the rising fury of the Barack-child, George W. Bush and the Presidential Hierarchy exerted maximum effort to contain and then destroy him.  They were only seconds away from obtaining full Primary Function.  Squealing from the unknowable pain, the Barack-child charged at the Washington Jar, a trail of blood-soaked feces left in his wake.  George Washington raised his arms to embrace him, a compassionate father welcoming home his long-lost son.  Barack’s head crashed into the Jar with such horrific violence that it shattered the thick Melchoki glass.  Even before they hit the ground, amidst the swirling fluids and exploding shards, Barack began to bite at the face and neck of George Washington, tearing large chunks of grey flesh from his throat.  Their bodies, intertwined, smashed into the floor of the Chamber.  George Washington, tendrils lashing, thrusting and scraping his jagged carapace, gouged the Barack-child with his long, pointed toenails.  Barack, having torn a massive, ragged swath of flesh from Washington’s face, began scratching and gouging his chalky eyes.  As his rigid thumbs pushed through into George Washington’s gushing eye sockets he grasped the head tightly and smashed it repeatedly into the floor.  With one final, hysterical driving blow, he crushed the head, collapsing the skull which erupted in a festering discharge of brain, blood and foul preservative juice.  Invigorated by the perceived kill, and entirely heedless of the glass and bone shards that jutted out from his face, chest and hands, the Barack-child redoubled its attack on Washington’s body with a gruesome frenzy of biting and slashing, clawing and stabbing.  When at last the body of George Washington was torn to shreds and scattered about the Chamber, the Barack-child reared back and shrieked in triumph, strands of grey flesh hanging from its lips.
      At least an hour of continuous screaming, feasting and defecating had passed, and slowly the maelstrom of psychosis faded.  Emerging from deep within the chaos, Barack Obama became self-aware once more.  Surveying his ravaged, naked body, he saw his hand tightly clutching a grayish, half-devoured organ.  He quickly threw the unrecognizable flesh away with disgust and shakily rose to his feet.  There was a chill draft in the Chamber and he wearily scanned for his clothes.  He only managed to find his shoes; one in a dark corner of the Chamber, the other firmly lodged in the anus of George Washington’s torso.  Barack Obama twisted and yanked the shoe until finally, with a wet belch it popped free from Washington’s gurgling anus, uncorking the ancient rectum which released a chunky, yellow pulp.  Barack could hear the anguish of the Presidential Hierarchy as their Essence dissolved.  With the Gochisgol Fulcrum lying in ruin, their presence was disintegrating.  Even still, the voice of George W. Bush was audible, though his rage was so intense that he was incomprehensible.  Barack Obama stumbled out of the Primary Oval, and as he drew farther away from the Fulcrum, the remnants of George Bush and the Hierarchy were silenced and only the screaming of his demolished ears remained.
      The trek back to the Secondary Oval and then back through and up the claustrophobic tunnels to the Oval Office was laborious but uneventful.  At last he emerged from the marble fireplace, haggard and decimated, like some desolate, sewer-dwelling creature that after years of abandonment and decay had finally managed to follow a hint of light to the surface, only to be greeted by the frigid indifference of a world that made its former abode seem a warm sanctuary in comparison.  President Barack Obama slithered along the pristine rug until he came to rest in the center of the Presidential Seal.
      The door to the Oval Office opened quickly, “Barack, I’ve been calling for twenty minutes!  We’ve got a meeting with the Prime Minister in- what the fuck?  Oh my god, Barack!  Jesus Christ what the fuck?!  HELP! ...  HELP!  Somebody get a fucking doctor!”  Joseph Biden ran over to Barack and knelt down at his side.  Barack Obama was feebly mumbling, “the chamber Joe, the chamber in the fire-, I ate… his flesh!”
      “Christ in heaven, who did this to you?!  How did this happen?  Barack!  Talk to me man, how did this happen?!  Oh my god… your fucking nose!”
      “Look. Joe, in the fireplace, there is a… tunnel… and beyond… there was…”
      Joe Biden looked at the fireplace.  It looked the same as it ever did except for the reeking trail of blood and feces and contamination unnamable that led from the hearth to where Barack now lay.
      “Barack, I don’t see anything!  What happened?!”
      “It’s ok Joe.  It’s alright now.  We won.  I beat them.  We won.”
      “Yes Barack.  We won.”
      Barack reached out his hand and Joe grabbed it and lifted him to his knees.
      “I beat them Joe.  We won.”
      Barack Obama buried his face in Joe’s breast and cried uncontrollably.  Joe rubbed Barack’s shoulders and back and tried to speak soothing words of comfort.  Barack heard nothing but the piercing blare of catastrophic deafness.  He sobbed and gibbered.  He shook and quailed, wincing from imaginary blows.  His bawling welled up; grew louder, more hysterical, into a terrifying, protracted and inconsolable scream that was interrupted only by his excruciating, repellent bouts of vomiting and stinking, paroxysmal defecations.




                                                 Epilogue
      Determined to prove George W. Bush wrong regarding how there would be a long period of ineptitude at the start of a new president’s term were it not for the Melchoki Transfusion, Barack Obama speedily enacted unprecedented legislation in the form of gargantuan economic stimulus and reform bills.  Of course George Bush was right.  The Melchoki Transfers were the absolutely fundamental reason for America’s success and Barack, in his zeal to prove himself worthy, brought cataclysmic ruin upon the country and went down as the most colossal failure in the history of the Presidency.   

THE END


2.9.09 – 2.24.09
:iconshlongenstein:

The Obama Proxyby Shlongenstein

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Fantasy©2009-2014 Shlongenstein
THE ULTIMATE MASTERWORK REGARDING OUR GLORIOUS NEW LEADER OF THE WORLD.
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:iconimagirlnamedmichael:
ImAGirlNamedMichael Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
AH, a fellow skeptic...oh, how the people are so clueless.

All sarcasm aside, I have wondered if something like this weren't true(the reality being fraught with a lot less defecation). Skull and Bones, anyone?

Very clever and unique...well done!
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:iconshlongenstein:
Shlongenstein Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009   Writer
YES THEY ARE CLUELESS.

THEY KNOW NOT OF THE VERY REAL AND INFINITE WISDOM OF THE MELCHOKI TRANSFERS AND THE LOGICAL MASTERY OF THE GOCHISGOL FULCRUM.
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:iconsilver-readman:
Silver-Readman Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009
ANOTHER BELIEVER, EH?
WE MUST JOIN FORCES.
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:iconshlongenstein:
Shlongenstein Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2009   Writer
YES.

WE MUST JOIN FECES.
Reply
:iconbmccue7:
BMcCue7 Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009
Well, that's certainly imaginative; I'll admit that.
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:iconshlongenstein:
Shlongenstein Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009   Writer
THANK YOU.

THE DRUKQS MAKE ME SEE THINGS AND I WRITE THEM DOWN.
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:iconburkeonthesly:
burkeonthesly Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009
A tale of potentially Lovecraftian atmosphere and horror, utterly ruined by a fixation on excrement.
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:iconshlongenstein:
Shlongenstein Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009   Writer
WHAT??

INSANE IS WHAT YOU ARE. THE FECES IS WHAT makes THIS STORY.


WOULD YOU TAKE THE WHITE WHALE OUT OF MOBY DICK? TAKE THE RYE OUT OF CATCHER IN THE RYE?

PRESPOSTEROUS I SAY.
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:iconburkeonthesly:
burkeonthesly Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2009
It seems we must disagree.

Perhaps your next work should include some sort of monkey, to fling the feces.

Actually, repeat that, but without the heavy irony.
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:iconshlongenstein:
Shlongenstein Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2009   Writer
NOT A BAD IDEA.

SEND ME MONEKYS!!
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