Night fell on the Romney ranch.
As the sky darkened, the gryphons returedn to their stables to sleep among the rafters. In their place, the snakechildren emerged, their bellies fat with summer eggs that will soon be laid and harvested. Their soft hisses rolled through the Romney mansion’s open windows as they rose from their dens. Suddenly, a hiss turned to a rattle and a sharp cry— with the snakechildren came the goblins that hunt them. Mitt Romney will have to do a pruning soon.
After a long day of gazing at the gryphons, Mitt Romney was tired. He looked at his skeletal hand. He tried to push it out of his mind, but the strange weight of it and absence of nerve endings was a constant reminder of his slow rotting.
Mitt Romney turned away from the window. The hisses of the snakechildren faded with each step. He went to the basement.
The basement was large and low-ceilinged, the air humid and pungent. Sixteen Romney grandchildren slept fitfully in small bunk beds lining the wall.
“Awaken, oracles,” Mitt Romney boomed.
The children awoke, yawning and stretching, and climbed out of their beds. They were skinny, emaciated, their skin translucent. They wore matching pajamas.
“I would speak to my father,” Mitt Romney said to the grandchildren.
The sixteen grandchildren stood in two rows of eight. They snapped to attention, their spines straightening as if replaced by steel. In unison, they opened their mouths and spoke in a perfect chorus of prepubescent voices. “You finally come to me, Mitt Romney,” they said as their eyes rolled back in their heads.Posted on 30 May 2012
Tags: #mitt romney #politics
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