MY BODY... FOR AMERICA!

The tall, slim, voluptuous blonde stood rigidly at attention--much like the cadre of Generals surrounding her--listening raptly as she was introduced to the highest echelons of American military command.

"Coffey D. Creamer--"

General Randy A.F. Hardwood--a seven-foot-tall slab of a man positioned behind a podium--regarded her for a moment as he as began reciting her resume in a slow, deep, gravelly voice steeped in years of harsh command and chewable tobacco products.

"--Wholesome Farmer's Daughter, Elite Ex-Cheerleading Captain, Community College Graduate and America's premier Erotic Super-Spy, trained in the most esoteric form of Oriental Tantric Mixed Martial-Martial Arts. She's just come from her latest mission, where she successfully assassinated the mad supervillian Max von Bloatenkampf."

The Generals murmured amongst themselves approvingly, considering her qualifications. Dressed as she was in a tight flag-patterned miniskirt and midriff-baring tied-off shirt which was carefully calculated to produce the maximum amount of geometrically perfect cleavage, she certainly looked the part of a Femme Fatale Seductress Super Spy.

"We hate dragging you away from your Gymkata practice," General Hardwood intoned gravely, "but America is in desperate need of your talents once again." He uttered those last words slowly, captivated, watching her chest slowly heave with each magnificent breath she took.

Coffey frowned. "I'm done with the spy game, General Hardwood," she declared with an exasperated pout. "Now that I've gotten my Associate of Arts degree in Speed Reading I'm ready to be a civilian and a productive member of society once again." She crossed her arms over her ample chest resolutely.

"Miss Creamer!"" Hardwood exclaimed, slamming his palms on the podium, standing stiffly upright. "Don't forget the millions of dollars this country poured into your training, making you a master of Subliminal Speed Seduction!" He glowered, staring hard at her chest. "America took you in her arms, cradled you in her bosom, crushed you to her and made you a woman. And you owe her, Miss Creamer." He shivered slightly, spent from his mini tirade. "You owe her."

"I can't refuse America..." Coffey murmured to herself to herself in an uplilted valley girl-esque voice, curling a strand of luxurious blonde hair around her index finger, then pressing the back of her thumb to her lower lip deep in thought. "Not if she really needs me." Biting her lower lip, she inhaled hotly, pondering the ramifications of it all.

"Oh we all need you," Hardwood intoned huskily, watching her every movement like a hawk. "We all need you." Taking a swig of water to wet his suddenly dry throat, he pulled out a small remote control and turned on a projector in the back of the room, a large white screen lowering itself into place and locking into position as a picture appeared on it. "America is facing the greatest threat she's ever known."

On screen was a portrait of a "man", if you could call it such. It was a bloated, corpulent potato of a human, with a bad orange spray tan that sloppily covered most of his face but retreated in terror from the crow's feet around his beady, sinister blue eyes, His fat, pale lips puckered outwards in a perpetual lewd kiss, exposing two buck teeth, and atop this mutated wrinkled potato of a head was slapped a rat's nest of straw-blonde... something. A generous person might call it "hair." A less-generous person would declare it the vomited remains of someone's salmonella-infested spaghetti dinner that had been haphazardly glued into place atop the man's scalp.

"Oh my gosh!" Coffey gasped, pointing dramatically at the screen, her firm breasts swaying in time with the motion. "That's President Drumpf!"

"Yes it is," General Hardwood replied, deep disapproval registering in his voice. "Yes it is."

He shone a laser pointer right up one of the gigantic nostrils on Drumpf's bloated face. "Somehow, this renegade entrepreneur, who never held political office in his life, managed to stir up a majority of the American People into such a feeding frenzy they basically forced him into the Oval Office."

"You suspect... shenanigans?" Coffey exhaled in doe-eyed surprise.

"That's right," Johnson confirmed. "The Society for Hate, Evil, Negativity, Anger, Nepotism, Intolerance, Greed, Avarice, Narcissism and Suffering. Your old enemy, S.H.E.N.A.N.I.G.A.N.S."

Hearing the name, Coffey scowled, slamming one of her high-heeled feet down hard onto the marble floor of the Senate chamber, causing the floor to crack underfoot. "I can't stand SHENANIGANS!" she declared loudly, her wild mane of hair swirling around her as she adopted "Dramatic Outrage Pose #25" to the delight of the old Army men surrounding her.

"Well, Miss Creamer," Hardwood continued, slapping down a classified dossier in a manila envelope. "We believe that President Drumpf--or as he likes to be called--'Big Orange'--may actually be, in all truth... the Big Shenanigan."

Coffey's eyes widened. THE Big Shenanigan? The ultimate force of all corruption in everything, everywhere? Could it be?!

But she was one day from retirement. She'd done everything she could for her country. She knew how these things went... one last, final mission that goes horribly wrong, ending a glorious career in an instant. She could still make it back home to Iowa... to Speed Read for the Kids at the Library School and sell pies for the Football Team.

It was six months since Coffey had turned down General Hardwood, and made her way back to the sick kids in Iowa. Sadly, she couldn't speed-read to them, because President Drumpf had de-funded the libraries. The children were also dead, because he'd taken away their healthcare. Their fault for getting sick, he'd said.

So Coffey used her speed-reading skills the only way she could--to quickly read lengthy legal disclaimers over the phone at the end of intrusive telemarketing calls.

After getting hung up on for the one thousandth time and thinking of poor dead Tetanus Timmy, who'd lost his liver to flesh-eating worms due to the lack of hospital care, she decided that maybe she would do something about the despicable President Drumpf after all.

Looking General Hardwood and the other Generals square in the eye, Coffey steeled herself. She knew what she had to do.

"I'll do whatever it takes to stop him, sir!" Coffey declared forcefully, standing astride, legs apart, raising her right hand to her head in a saluting motion crafted to cause her chest to heave magnificently and the generals to all instinctively salute in response before raising their right hands to their foreheads in return.

"You're our best asset," Randy Johnson declared as he watched her leave from behind. "Be careful out there."

THE NEXT DAY

Dressed smartly in a tight blue low-cut dress that hugged her ample hourglass figure, Coffey Creamer regarded herself using the selfie cam on her phone. Truly, she was ready and willing to be a White House intern.

There was only one problem.

She couldn't find the White House.

Confused, Coffey checked her cellphone's GPS. It said she was at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but the White House was nowhere to be seen--instead there was a gigantic golden casino that seemed to have been dropped onto the center of the capitol grounds. Huge, gaudy, energy-inefficient incandescent lights spelled out "Winners' Palace" on a gigantic sign above the building, along with a huge picture of a hand giving the buildings a thumbs-up of approval.

Clearly Big Orange had been making some changes.

Walking up to the building confidently, she met a seven-foot tall slab of tan muscle dressed in a tight Italian suit and sunglasses, who had a microphone stuck in his hear. On his lapel, he wore some kind of a strange triangular pin.

Seeing her approach, he held up a thick hand, indicating she should stop in her tracks.

Grunting, the big man huffed "Sorry lady, Big Orange says no visitors." He moved his massive body between her and the doorway, being almost wide enough to block it.

"Are you Secret Service?" Coffey asked curiously, curling a lock of blonde hair around her right index finger slowly.

"Private security," he gruffly replied.

"That's too bad~" she replied in a low, husky voice, stretching forth her left arm and running a thin, lithe finger down his chest. "Because I was totally ready to get secret serviced." She winked.

The guard tilted his bald-walrus-like head towards her slightly. The sunglasses were hiding it, but it was clear he wasn't getting the message.

Sighing, Coffey reached into her endless cleavage and pulled out an iPhone, loading up a saucy bass-filled backing track from the porn movie "Bolivian Fists of Rage III: The Hardening."

The guard raised a single eyebrow, and before she knew it, Coffey was rammed up against the wall of an electrical supply cabinet inside what was left of the White House, getting jackhammered into the cinder-block wall with each thrust of what the Guard liked to call "Conan the Destroyer".

The iPhone continued to play the backing track as they slammed each other in unison, various bottles of cleaning fluid falling off shelves around them, slicking them wet in a shower of bright, multi-coloured liquids.

Wham. Wham. Wham! The ground under the duo began to crack with the sheer force of Coffey's Tantric power.

"Do it harder!" she screamed in a frenzy, her power level rising as things got more intense. "HARDER!" She smacked his hard bottom with the back of her left foot to emphasize the point, and Newton's third law being what it was, the guard complied, sending them both clear through a wall, which exploded fiercely as the duo rolled forward onto the ground, spent, a Picasso-style human tumbleweed of interconnected body parts covered in sweat, concrete dust and the inimitable musk of human passion.

The laws of physics being what they were, the two continued rolling for a few more moments until they came to a complete stop in the center of a rather posh living room.

"My... my spine," the guard croaked weakly, Coffey's legs still wrapped so tightly around him her heels were denting his back. "I think you cracked it. I can't feel my legs."

"That's a whole 'nother kink for later, hot stuff," Coffey cooed, slowly unwrapping herself from around him. standing and readjusting her slinky blue dress.

"No, seriously," he protested. "I think I'm paralyzed." He gasped, collapsing, some foam dribbling from the side of his mouth, eyes rolling back into his head.

"I like doing it on wheelchairs," Coffey replied in a valley-girl tone with a wink, blithely ignoring the fact the guard was most likely stone dead at this point.

"Wow, that was really something."

A new voice, from above.

It was confident, strong, with a New York accent. It was condescending, yet causal. Powerful, yet daft.

Turning, Coffey found herself staring into a man with the bloated face of a puckered, mutated potato with lips. She was finally face to face with the 45th president of the United States--Big Orange himself.

Dressed in a lazy blazer, slacks and a tie, Drumpf was every bit the image of a wealthy playboy businessman, with the kind of look that screamed I'm rich so I don't have to give a fuck about my looks anymore and thank god because there's not enough face cream in the world to fix the problems I've got.

Then of course, there was the hair. She tried her best not to stare at it, but the birds' nest of frail blonde wisps precariously attached to his head almost seemed to be moving on their own in the windless room. She forced herself to focus on his puffy face.

"Normally," Drumpf began, making a wide sweeping gesture with his arms as he watched Coffey toss her hair and readjust her dress, "I don't have time for the women. The cooking, the cleaning, the eye-candy, that's all they're good for to me. I'm a businessman. I'm rich. I don't have time. I do business, not sex. Sex costs time and time costs money and money is important. Money is my god." He shrugged, tilting his head, rhetorically asking "Who doesn't like money?"

Coffey blinked. This guy was talking at the level of a third grader. He was the President of America? Well, about twelve years back President Hedge had lowered the bar for presidential smarts requirement, she guessed. This was just the logical conclusion.

"But you," Drumpf continued. "You're different. You break balls, just like me."

He looked over at the dead guard, whose family jewels were now like imploded grapes from the sheer force of response he'd had to Coffey.

"I like that," Drumpf continued. "I like strength. Strong people win. And I'm a winner."

Taking a moment, he looked out the window, down Pennsylvania Avenue. "But you know, people can be jealous. So jealous. Why, my Inauguration. It was the biggest thing ever, you know? The crowds. They went on for miles and miles. So big. Huge. But the haters, you know? The haters. They made up fake facts, to say my crowds were small. Just to belittle me."

Drumpf looked Coffey squarely in the eyes. "You know about my crowds, right? They were the biggest, weren't they? Tell me what you thought." His eyes narrowed. "And don't bullshit me. I don't like bullshitters."

Coffey kept her expression neutral as she considered this. In truth, the crowds for President Drumpf's inaugural had been nothing short of pathetic. There were people actively trying to get away from the ceremony that day. Drumpf didn't seem like the kind of guy who wanted to let reality get in the way of his personal embiggenment. On the other hand, the look on his face was more cold, calculating. Maybe this was some kind of test. Maybe he was a guy who did want to take it straight up. Locking gazes with him, she made her choice.

"It was kinda empty," Coffey cautiously replied, doing her best to keep her tone neutral, despite the hysterical, knee-slapping laughter in her head.

Drumpf took a moment to process the reply.

"We're done here," he snapped curtly, and stalked out of the Oval Office, a pouty scowl on his face.

Scott Badman, the President's personal racist Rasputin, who looked for all the world like a diseased, measles-ridden version of the Hamburglar with vitiligo, laughed hoarsely.

The sad thing was, he wasn't wrong. Coffey was stuck outside the White House, on the back lawn, in front of a small red Doghouse, in which a malnourished puppy sat, its paws over its head sadly.

"I didn't think there was a first pet," Coffey mused. She'd never heard anything about one.

"Scott keeps keeps Buffett out here," a small, tiny voice said from behind the doghouse.

Coffey looked behind the doghouse and saw a smartly-dressed child sitting behind it, looking down at the ground sadly. There was no doubt. This was Brian Drumpf, Drumpf's youngest son.

"Whatchya doing there?" she asked in her friendliest voice.

"Pop can't stand that I love something other than him," Brian lamented, voice a tiny whisper, "so he has Scott guarding this doghouse night and day, so I can't run away with Buffett."

Coffey tightened a fist. This was monstrous! A puppy and a small child were suffering!

Well, not in her America.

Her mission could wait for a moment. Eyeing Badman, who was chucking to himself in the distance reading some German Book with a skull on its cover, she knew she had to get rid of him somehow. But with young, innocent, underage Brian here, she couldn't use her usual tactics of Tantric Kung-Fu.

She needed another approach.

Slowly, she made her way over to Badman, waiting for Brian to become occupied with the dog.

"Whaddya want?" Badman snorted, as he flipped a page in his German Book of Evil.

Coffey took a deep breath and

Running a finger down Badman's chest, Coffey licked her lips and sidled close to him, huskily whispering in his ear, "how about we go over to the Rose garden and check out de-flowers~"

She pressed closer to him, her pheromones filling the air with a rich, rosy perfumed scent.

Badman turned up his nose and pointed at the Black German Skull Book of Evil Horrors. Hie eyes suddenly glowed red and he began to speak with his lips out of synch to his voice.

"I only become hard for my dark lord Satan and the inevitable reign of destruction I will help him bring unto the land when I set brother against brother in the last days of the Eschaton," he croaked in a hoarse death metal-esque voice, "all thanks to that puppet Drumpf!"

The next moment, using a fist filled with demonic power, he had punched Coffey with enough force to send her crashing through the West Wing of the White House, shattering every bone in her body and forcing her into retirement.

I really admire your work," Coffey said to Badman, attempting to look as awestruck and doe-eyed as she could. "I think what you're doing here could really change the world." She smiled coquettishly and made herself blush on command, heaving her chest very subtly to enhance her allure.

Badman's eyes narrowed as he regarded her. "You're an erotic super-spy, aren't you?" he demanded darkly.

"What?" Coffey spluttered. "N-No," she tried to cover. No one had ever seen though her cover so easily.

"No one's ever respected me or my views," Badman growled venomously. "Everyone around me is a hanger-on who wants to gain access to the army of sheep that I've conned into becoming my followers thanks to the power of the internet and late night talk radio." He glowered at her. "Women never give me the time of day... and yet here you are, suddenly, with your praise, and your words, and your breasts."

Before Coffey could say anything, he'd viciously smashed her in the side of her head with his Big Black German Book of Evil.

When she woke up, she found herself pinned to an operating table, unable to move. There, scientists had completely replaced her lithe, young skin with plastic, and a fake, insincere smile had been tacked to her now botox-filled cheeks.

As her brain was being removed, to be replaced with candy cotton filler, the last sight she saw was the other Drumpf women--who had been similarly converted into living fetish dolls--smiling back at her with plasticine grins, tears dropping from their mascara-laden eyes.

Badman froze. How much did she know of his dark designs for the White House and its role in the great decimation of mankind?

"I mean," she continued loudly, projecting her voice distantly with her superbly-trained lungs which had been conditioned to hold hours of air for maximum liplock and underwater makeout sessions, "Everyone says that you're the one who really gets things done around here! Without you, everyone says, President Drumpf would be lost at sea! He's so lucky to have a man like you behind the throne doing all the things he can't. Because he doesn't know how to. Because he's unpresidential."

Badman relaxed slightly. She had no idea about the Human Depopulation Plan. But what, if not that, then why was she saying all this?

From the open window of the Oval Office, there was the sound of glass shattering and Drumpf swearing.

Coffey felt a warm vibration in her cleavage as her phone buzzed. Pulling it out, she fired up Twitter and saw a tweet:

A few moments later, Drumpf's private security swarmed the lawn and dragged a screaming, crying Scott Badman away.

Seizing her chance, Coffey got to Brian Drumpf and freed his puppy, snapping the chain that held Buffett attached to the doghouse.

"Run!" she commanded, giving Brian the card to Madam Mysteriosa's Psychic Massage Parlor, where he would be safe and guarded by an order of warrior concubines, the "Senate Special Service Squad".

Brian fled just as Drumpf came striding across the lawn like the cock of the walk, a leering grin on his face.

"He thought he was so good," Drumpf bragged. "So big. Now look at him, crying like a baby about all his messed-up plans. He's such a loser."

"I see that now," Coffey concurred, trying to act reverent and repentant.

"I like a woman who knows her place," Drumpf replied, licking his lips. "A woman who knows when she's wrong and isn't afraid to admit it, to tell me that I was right, and she was wrong. So wrong. That's so right, so good, so correct. I like women knowing their place when it comes to stuff like the thinking and the planning and the administration."

Coffey vaguely remembered something from her Community College biology class where they said everyone in life first grew as a blastopore, or asshole. Well this guy was still in that phase, or something.

"My place?" Coffey asked demurely, forcing a slight blush on her cheeks and bosom, looking away at a slight, submissive angle, trying to convey you mean in your bed? subconsciously.

Drumpf grinned, looking her over, liking what he saw. She knew when to tell the truth; knew her role.

"You and I should have dinner," Drumpf declared. "It'll be the best dinner, the biggest dinner, with all the foods and the best drinks. It'll be great. You're going to love it. It'll be so good, so nice. You'll love it. Trust me."

After that stunning oratory, he smiled reassuringly, which for him meant contorting his mouth into a smug, supremely creepy leer filled with unabashed lust.

He made a point-and-shoot gesture at her. "Be there at eight. And wear something better than that." He looked over her tight, low-cut and high-riding outfit, which accentuated her curves in all the right places. "You look like you're wearing a garbage bag. Sex it up a little." He winked lecherously and walked off.

Coffey grinned. Now, the target was finally letting himself fall for her charms, and then she would be able to bring him under control, and America would be safe.

"Okay," Coffey agreed, voice low and sultry. "You'll see me there~"

LATER THAT EVENING

Drumpf's leering gaze indicated he approved of her sartorial selection, and he drooled slightly--though whether he was doing so over her or the meatloaf on the dinner table was hard to tell.

"I just want to make America great again," Drumpf declared, stuffing his face with a healthy helping of meat. Taking a bite of some ketchup-slathered steak, he mumbled, "so great!" to finish his sentence.

"America is great!" Coffey replied patriotically, looking up at an angle, her voluptuous chest swelling patriotically at the thought of her Nation, strong and free. She might as well have been posing for a wartime propaganda poster.

"I want to make it greater than great!" Drumpf countered, waving a drumstick around, before tearing a piece of meat off the bone like a hungry dog. "I want to make it the greatest. The very best. The best there ever was."

Coffey nodded, listening politely, the Star-Spangled Banner playing in the back of her mind as it usually did. She found his ambition insulting, frankly, since she believed America was already the ultimate nation in principle, if not always in practice. So far "Big Orange" hadn't done anything suspicious, aside from turning the White House into a gambling casino whose insides looked more like a Russian mafia palace, and used its prestige to self-promote at every instant, but she was sure there was more to his meteoric rise to power than that.

You just didn't get this far up the chain being this stupid without help or sleeping your way to the top, and he certainly look like he'd done that.

Seeing that Coffey was pretty quiet, Drumpf decided to broach the subject that had been on his mind ever since she'd crashed into his life in a human tumbleweed of spinally-snapped security guard, when he'd caught a glimpse of Sir Conan the Destroyer.

"My groin has all the power," he blurted. "It's masterful. I guarantee you. There are no problems there," he declared flatly, his beady blue eyes boring into hers with a steely, piercing gaze.

For a moment, Coffey thought he was propositioning her--which was fine, she was aiming for that, anyway-- but no. When he went right back to tearing into his meat like a starved wolf discovering rabbitflesh for the first time, she realized he was just randomly bragging about his groin just to brag about it to someone.

So far, Drumpf had been the only one eating, and he showed no sign of stopping. Coffey looked at the spread in front of her and pondered. If he ate too much, he would be too tired for the nocturnal activities that were her stock in trade, and she needed to break him to find out the truth. Perhaps, if she helped polish off the meal, they could get down to some deliciously debauched dessert...

It only took a few bites of the rancid ketchup-covered steak and the slime-filled Chicken Nuggets to give Coffey the worst case of food poisoning in the entirety of human history.

After passing out approximately six times her body weight in regurgitus and offal, her firm, supple skin wrinkled from dehydration and her firm stomach transformed into a paper-thin covering for her ribcage. Her mane of long blonde hair was now a mutated mop of scraggly wisps that stuck to her face, and she could barely stand upright, back locked into a painful hump from all the weeks of being doubled over the toilet.

Needless to say, her status as "America's Hottest Young Thing" was revoked, and Drumpf, the "handsome" devil he was, was too revulsed by her non-hourglass appearance to want him within even the same national boundaries as him.

Locking her deep in the deepest prison gulag he could find, Drumpf left her there to weaken and die.

Coffey disregarded the thought of eating the foul meal before her. It sure looked All-American, but it certainly wasn't wholesome.

Well it's sure not your brain that has all the power, Coffey thought to herself sarcastically, thinking about his groin-bragging. She raised an eyebrow and tried to pretend that she was interested. "Tell me more."

"Are you a patriot?" Drumpf asked flatly, causing Coffey to blush deeply, her chest welling instinctively, straining against her tiny top as she imagined Bald Eagles soaring in the sky under a flyover of Air Force jets trailing red, white and blue smoke as fireworks exploded and the Star-Spangled Banner played in the back of her mind. She shifted her legs slightly. Thanks to her intensive "indoctrination" into the US Super Elite Erotic Spy Program, even the thought of America made her so ready for action.

"Oh yes," she moaned in husky reply. "I'd do anything for America." This was literal truth. She recalled the time she'd had to go full reverse cowgirl on a brainwashed homicidal talking car's gearshifter to calm it down and prevent it from running over the Mayor of a small Rhode Island town. She often wondered what that car was doing now. Maybe it was having awesome adventures as well.

"So would I," Drumpf replied, nodding to himself. "I'm dreaming of a great wall." He waved his hands in the air expansively.

"Like the great wall of China?" Coffey enquired.

"China, pah!" Drumpf spat into his steak. "Their wall. Peanuts!" He threw his hands up in the air. "Peanuts to what Americans can create. Substandard Chinese crap. Four Thousand years? I'll make the Mexicans build us a wall that'll keep them out for five thousand years! It'll be great! It'll be amazing! You'll love it. I promise."

"We'll all be dead in five thousand years," Coffey protested. "We won't be around to love it. Besides, why would Mexicans build a wall for America?"

"Because I'll make them," Drumpf replied darkly, his tone suddenly ominous. "Now that I'm President of America, I've got the Nuclear Button. And they know it. They'll play ball."

He pulled out his phone, a slightly older Android version, which ironically seemed to be a Chinese make, and held it out to her.

"See, on Twitter I'm already the biggest god. I tell the other leaders where to stick it!"

Coffey looked at the Twitter Thread on Screen. It was a conversation between Drumpf and the new leader of North Korea, Dim Dong Unf.

@PRESIDENTPOTUSTHEULTIMATEREAL I have the Biggest Nukes! #MAGA

@ULTIMATEJUCHE2017NKMASTERRACE is that a metaphor for ur genitals lol

@PRESIDENTPOTUSTHEULTIMATEREAL I have the Biggest Genitals! So big you'd be blown away. Just like you will be if I drop my nukes on you! #MAGA

@ULTIMATEJUCHE2017NKMASTERRACE i have nukes too u dumb shit i will turn america into a sea of flames #JUCHE

@PRESIDENTPOTUSTHEULTIMATEREAL Your nukes are tiny, like your brain! And other Things. Sad! #MAGA

@ULTIMATEJUCHE2017NKMASTERRACE youd know all about small things right HAHAHA high five oh wait you cant your ashamed of your tiny hands #JUCHE #JUCH #JUCHE

@PRESIDENTPOTUSTHEULTIMATEREAL I know you are, but what am I?! #MAGA

@ULTIMATEJUCHE2017NKMASTERRACE what

"I totally won that argument," Drumpf beamed, watching her read the exchange.

Coffey frowned. The two world leaders were squabbling on Twitter like idiot teenagers, and they both had enough weapons to destroy the world ten times over. She knew that phone was Drumpf's lifeline to the outside world, and Twitter the thing that fueled his ego.

That Phone. If she destroyed it, maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to lessen the amount of damage he could do to her beloved homeland.

"You make the best Tweets~" Coffey cooed, reaching out with her long, slender fingers towards the phone. She stroked the touchscreen, marveling at the smooth, cool feel of the glass under her fingertips. All she had to do now was wrap her fingers around it and jerk it hard, and she could use her super strength to crush it, sending its parts exploding all over the floor. Drumpf was so full of stupid pride for his "witty" retort that there was no way he could react in time.

It was Now or Never.

With a strong tug, Coffey pulled on the phone and squeezed it in her hand, all the years of impossible marital arts training giving her the hand power of a thousand great apes.

Drumpf screamed in utter rage, horror and pain as his 'little friend' exploded into thousands of tiny bits all over the floor. Leaping to his feet, he pointed a fat, fleshy finger at her, proclaiming "YOU'RE FIRED!"

Mobbed by a hundred security guards, Coffey was physically pushed out of the White House by a wall of human flesh and banned from entry.

For a time, everything seemed better. Without his phone, Drumpf became depressed and sullen, and the amount of international incidents caused by his ramblings dropped to zero. Everything seemed to be back to as near normal as a country run by Drumpf could be.

THREE WEEKS LATER, 2 A.M.

"Tell me that again, Seerie," Drumpf drunkenly droned. "Whadid he say 'bout me?"

Obediently, the electronic digital assistant repeated the last tweet from the leader of North Korea.

"@ULTIMATEJUCHE2017NKMASTERRACE says 'u have a smol, misshapen cok that is larger only than your P-brain LOL HA HA HA"

"You have a sexy voice, you know that?" Drumpf told the phone. "You must be pretty hot in there."

"My average operating temperature is one-hundred-fifteen degrees Fahrenheit," the phone mindlessly droned.

"Dat's pretty hot," Drumpf remarked. Then his expression finally shifted to rage as he registered the Tweet he'd been read a second ago. "Whut did that sonofabitch say!?"

"'u have a smol, misshapen cok that is larger only than your P-brain LOL HA HA HA.' "

Drumpf swore and dashed his phone against the floor, screaming "I'll show him who has the biggest! Fuck him! FUCK HIM!"

Throwing open the windows to his office, Drumpf screamed "NUKE IT! NUKE IT ALL! NUKE THE WHOLE GODDAMN WORLD!"

As mushroom clouds lit up the sky, Drumpf laughed manically, even as his face blistered and melted off. He'd shown them who the biggest was. And now everybody knew.

Everybody who wasn't dead, or terrifyingly mutated, anyway.

FIVE HUNDRED BILLION YEARS LATER

The last descendant of the Man-Apes knew what he had to do. The Bees controlled all, but his forebears had calculated, via exacting computer-mind simulations, the key moment that had spelled the end for the dominance of mankind. A single, simple choice, that had spun out into global apocalypse.

"Oh my," she innocently intoned. "It looks like they updated Twitter again and now everything's different."

"God Dammit, I hate when they change things around," Drumpf complained, trying his best to figure out the Tumblr interface. "It's so dumb. So super dumb. The dumbest. What the hell is this. How do I talk now? Why are there all these 'likes' and reblogs and why's it even--"

In over his head, Drumpf felt a headache coming on. Putting the phone down, he groaned. "My head is killing me. I think I need to get to bed."

Coffey knew this was her chance. She smiled seductively, even while her stomach was turning. This bloated pig was disgusting, but for America, she would do what she had to. She was specially trained to ride men into submission and get to their secrets, and that's what she was going to do. She was going to find out the mystery behind Big Orange. But first she had to get him to come along for the ride...

Coffey quickly calculated. All evening, Drumpf had been acting odd, bragging greatly about his manhood but then not paying her any real attention despite her rather substantial assets that he claimed to appreciate. She had to figure out how to convince him to go for the ultimate thrill ride.

Coffey decided there were two options to her. When dealing with a guy like Drumpf, she could either:

As Drumpf stood to leave, Coffey took his hand and turned him back around, pressing him back into his chair. She them wrapped her arms around his neck and pullied close, whispering hotly in his ear, "President Drumpf, you're amazing~"

Drumpf seemed to freeze for a second, running a hand through his overly-coiffed straw like hair, seeming to claw at it lightly. He then yawned, head lightly lolling to one side as his eyes closed, drool leaking from one side of his mouth.

Coffey was confused. This never happened before she'd been able to get down to business. It always happened after, and maybe sometimes during, but never before. She'd let herself get suckered in by his braggadocio and failed to realise just how feeble he actually was!

She tried kissing him on the neck to wake him up, the foul taste of his orange spray-tanned skin making her nauseous. Without thinking, she instinctively threw up all over him.

THAT woke up Drumpf, who screamed "THAT'S NOT MY FETISH!" and in a rage, he fired her, banning her from the White House. The least anyone heard, he'd imported a younger, even hotter Russian intern in her place--a woman Coffee recognized as Speed Seduction Agent "Red Tide", Olga Manenbotova. Apparently she was able to win him over after dancing on his bed with a full bladder that was allowed to change its state.

Within six months, the White House had been renamed the Red Palace, and Hot Dogs were replaced with Borsht, and Baseball with Bear Wrestling. The Star Spangled Banner was no more, and Bald Eagles were eaten live at Thanksgiving in festivals of dedication to Mother Russia.

Turning off the simulator, General Hardwood's Assistant, Lieutenant Richard Weed, sighed. "Yeah, if it gets to this phase of the Op, don't do that, all right Creamer? He's a typical meathead. Men are simple creatures. Just treat him that way, all right?"

Before Drumpf could say anything, Coffey quickly jumped on his lap, pulled her top off and shoved her soft, bare chest directly into his bloated, pustulent face for a few moments, allowing the warm sensation to sink in before pulling back and donning her bikini once more. She then bit her lower lip coyly and smiled with her best "naughty farmer's daughter" expression.

Drumpf was frozen, stunned and definitely saluting the flag. His brain simply short-circuited and he was wide awake. Coffey knew she had him.

He grinned stupidly, confidently, the leer back on his face as he stared down at her ample bosom unabashedly, desperately wanting the bikini to go away again.

"The Lincoln Bedroom." Coffey hotly commanded, leaning into his ear, her voice low and silken. "You. Me. Ten minutes~"

Drumpf growled with desire, running a hand through his hair. His expression shifted, and he suddenly pushed her off his lap, almost coldly. "You got it," he finally said after a moment, regaining his leer once his hand went back to his side. "I'll see you there, Covefe, was it?" He shook his head. "Whatever, who cares what your name is." All he cared about were the twins. He turned to leave.

"Okay~" Coffey cooed. "But let me freshen up first, all right?" She winked coyly, slipping one strap on her bikini top down over her shoulder again, giving him her most smouldering expression. "Care to join me for a hot shower?" She grinned, adding "I'm so dirty."

Drumpf ran a hand through his har almost nervously, and his expression momentarily shifted to one of raw fear.

Was he a germaphobe? Coffey wondered.

Drumpf quickly covered his reaction with a twisted, lustful grin. "I'll meet you in the Lincoln Bedroom," he murmured, quickly making his way out and instructing one of his guards, who also had a strange triangle symbol on his lapel, to show Coffey to the shower.

"Oh! OH!"

Glass shattered as the door to the shower stall bent outwards, the security guard who'd escorted Coffey there thrust through it with such force that the shockwave shattered almost every bone in his upper body. Only Coffey's long, powerful legs wrapped around his torso kept him from flying straight out of the stall. She was heedless of his injuries, since the one "bone" in his body she was interested in was still magnificently intact.

Using one hand to claw at the back of the generic guard's scalp, she buried his head in her ample chest, asphyxiating him as she arched her neck back in ultimate pleasure as he quite literally finished up.

Finally, she slowly exhaled and unwrapped her legs from around him, the guard grinning broadly in death as his body slid down against hers, plopping sideways onto the hard tile floor, his skull cracking with the impact--not that he really was capable of noticing this any longer.

Coffey absently shoved the body away with a nudge of her foot, gasping for air, chest heaving under the hot water raining down on her as she pondered Drumpf's strange reaction to her offer of sharing a shower.

Did he not like showers? Was he allergic to water? Why would he say no?

Maybe he'd never taken a shower in his life and he was totally nasty and gross under his business suits. Ugh. The thought was disgusting. But still, for Purple Mountains' Majesty, she'd taken an oath to protect America and she totally would do it. Her training with the Tantric Monks of Tibet-Lau allowed her to have absolute mental mastery if she prepared herself enough beforehand. And if that failed her, she could always have the science geeks back at the CIA wipe the memories out of her brain later.

Taking a deep breath, she walked over the prone body of the dead guard, and grabbed a soft white terrycloth robe emblazoned with the seal of the President of the United States, wrapping it around her.

Slowly, she made her way to the Lincoln Bedroom. It was time to make the ultimate sacrifice... for America.

THE LINCOLN BEDROOM

The first thing Coffey Creamer noticed was the bed.

Around eight feet by six feet in size, it was made of Rosewood and had a giant wooden headboard that reached almost up to the ceiling.

"Like what you see?"

The voice of Drumpf behind her. "We're gonna use every inch. You'll love it."

Turning, Coffey did her best not to flee screaming. She used all the Mental Mandala Meditation she knew to stay in control of herself.

"Big Orange" stood before her, less a naked man and more a pasty white overstuffed pierogi with eggplant-stem orange protuberances sprouting from his flopping pecs suspended on spindly, slightly bowed legs that looked like gnarled potato roots.

Her gaze naturally worked its way downwards and stopped on what could only be described as something akin to a wildly overgrown blonde hedge made out of gnarled wirebrush stuck to the front of his pelvis, concealing everything else in that region (probably mercifully).

Where's the rest of it? Coffey wondered in shock. Either he was a grower and not a shower, or the only thing "Big" about Drumpf was his ego.

Drumpf grinned, climbing into bed, the motion causing it to creak heavily in protest. "Come on down here," he said in as smooth a voice as he was capable of making. It was the sound of Tony Soprano ordering a beer. He patted the mattress.

Coffey shrugged and climbed onto the bed, turning to one side and facing him. Despite all the adventures she'd had in her time as American's Elite Erotic Operative, this was surely her ultimate test of fortitude.

"Oh yeaaaah." Drumpf moaned flatly, trying to be passionate or something. "Yeah." He looked over her cleavage, and the top of her terrycloth robe.

"Show Daddy your funbags," he commanded.

"Funbags?" Coffey mouthed, incredulous.

"Yeah, you know," Drumpf continued. "Your balloons. Your bazingas. Your boobies." He slapped the mattress. "Show 'Em! Show 'em!"

God, he really did have the mentality of a three-year-old, Coffey realized. It was almost as if--

Impatient, Drumpf reached up to the top of her robe and spread it apart, off her shoulders, revealing her incredibly photogenic chest.

"Those are some amazing ta-tas," Drumpf exhaled reverentially.

"I drink a lot of milk," Coffey replied huskily, reaching down and untying the terrycloth belt that held her robe closed, taking a moment to shimmy out of it, now completely nude.

Drumpf just stared at her, stunned, as if he didn't understand what he was seeing properly.

Coffey wrinkled her nose in momentary confusion. The way he was acting, like a teenage kid who talked big but never...

Someone who never...

Even Drumpf wasn't clueless enough to miss the look of dawning comprehension on her face.

"I have a confession..." Drumpf began slowly, quietly, running a hand through his wispy hair.

"What's that?" Coffey asked tenderly, tracing a finger down his doughy chest, watching the pale bloodless trail her finger left behind in the orange-yellow mound of fat.

"I am such a winner," Drumpf replied quietly, with no braggadocio to go along with his words. "The most amazing winner. I've never lost anything in my whole life, I'm such a winner."

Coffey leaned closer, her warm bosom melding warmly against the side of his chest.

"Ohhh~?" she asked hotly.

"I never lose," Drumpf continued, throat dry, "so I've never lost my..."

And there it was. The truth at last.

"But the kids and wife?" Coffey pressed.

"I bought Brian off some poor people," Drumpf admitted. "The others are mail-order Brides. A good show for the people. Nobody votes for a guy with no family, so I got myself the best."

Coffey frowned, feeling slightly bad for him, despite her mission.

"I never lost anything in my life," Drumpf repeated again almost sadly. "Not even... that."

Coffey reassessed things. She was seeing a completely new side to him. Maybe all the fears of the government were wrong. Maybe his rude, crass, tactless ways were just a means of keeping the world at bay from him, from preventing anyone from getting too close! Maybe he would be ultimately harmless if she let him go and just had the government keep him from breaking things too badly. She decided to

Embittered by Coffey's leaving him that night, Drumpf made it his mission to make the lives of everyone around him as miserable as possible, to the point where the entire bureaucracy quit on him, and the Executive Branch simply ceased to function.

With Drumpf out of the picture and Congress too tied up in infighting to pass any laws, the budget failed to pass, and essential functions shut down, including Medicare and the Army.

The weakened, sick, defenseless American population was no match for the Space Invaders when they came, taking over the White House and installing Drumpf as their poppet leader. Without America's military might, the rest of the nations of the world soon fell into the thrall of the Triangulons, and human society ground to a halt as six billion people were sold into Intergalactic Slavery, one billion left behind as breeding stock.

Traumatized by her role in America's downfall, Coffey Creamer became a nun and lived out the rest of her days handcrafting wooden chastity belts.

TWENTY SIX BILLION YEARS LATER

Leaning down, she pressed her whole body down against his, moving in for a passionate kiss, feeling like she was about to hump an aged leather couch.

"I CAN NEVER LOSE!" Drumpf suddenly roared, using some reserve of unknown strength to buck his midsection with such force it threw Coffey off him, sending her flying across the room, smashing into an antique dresser which exploded into a million shards of jagged wood.

Unhurt thanks to her impossible tantric martial arts training, Coffey stood in shock, flushed red with surprise and confusion.

Drumpf flipped so he was on all fours in the bed, pale blue eyes seeming to glow with an unearthly light. His fragile, mutant-spaghetti-like hair swayed in the windless air like underwater kelp in the ocean.

"DRUMPF MUST NEVER LOSE!" Drumpf yelled, the words coming out of his mouth not in synch with the movement of his lips.

It took a moment for Coffey to realize...

The hair was talking.

Hopping off the bed, Drumpf stood, raising his arms over his head, and linking his fingers together. His joints cracked as he drew in a deep breath, his doughy flesh contracting, becoming rock-hard, the fatty flesh now sculpted, taut armour over chiseled abdominal muscle.

With the sound of a cocking shotgun, a massive-cucumber-like extrusion (and just as green) sixteen inches long emerged from the briar patch of his nethers, quivering most unnaturally.

"What are you?" Coffey demanded, bringing her arms up into a defensive position. Naked she might be, but helpless she was not.

"America truly is great", Drumpf replied, his voice now dark and deep, the strands of his spaghetti-like toupee flailing in the air, trying to mimic a kind of grand arm waving gesture. "The greatest nation. Whoever controls America, controls Earth. And my people want Earth." He pointed to a strange triangular symbol that matched the ones on his guard's lapels. "We have so many forces prepared for the ultimate domination."

Muscular-Drumpf began stalking towards Coffey, slab-like pectoral muscles jumping up and down, as a sick Joker-like grin spread across his face. "It was so easy to control this man, this man with the intelligence of a five-year-old, to take his fragile ego and stroke it, to puff-up his self-importance and make him feel relevant and competent."

He gyrated his waist a bit, waving his cucumber around like a kind of orphaned nunchuck. "It was so easy to take him from being relatively harmless failure of a businessman to being the biggest dick on Planet Earth."

"Aliens", Coffey declared darkly.

"That's right," the ridiculous-looking Space toupee replied. "We, the Triangulons, promised this ambitious young man the power to never lose in exchange for his total obedience, and thanks to his greed, we've been able to whip up the people of America into a racist, xenophobic, hate-mongering war-like posture--and now that we have the White House, we'll use their nuclear weapons and take over the world! Our Eldritch Bond is Unbreakable, and we shall rule!"

The Space toupee laughed, making Drumpf pick up a heavy lamp, preparing to brain Coffey with it, tossing it up and down in his hand.

Coffey smirked, putting her left hand on her hip, jutting it out at a sassy, provocative angle. "So you promised him he'd never lose, huh?"

Space toupee-Drumpf hurled the lamp at Coffey. "That's right! The bargain was struck and there's no breaking it! We have fulfilled our part and he is ours!"

Coffey coldly raised a forearm to block, the solid lamp smashing to bits against her skin, which she'd toughened with the four-thousand-year year old "iron silk" technique.

Kicking some of the debris back into Drumpf's face, he forced him to instinctively blink.

In that second of distraction, Coffey rushed forward and was upon Drumpf, pressing her soft, supple, warm body up to his hard, muscular chest, his alien cucumber at her mercy.

"Mmm~" Coffey murmured mischievously.

Drumpf shivered at the sensation, even as the toupee flailed. "Get off!" it commanded in terror.

"That's what you want, isn't it~" Coffey huskily into Drumpf's ear. "To get off with me~"

Drumpf shivered, and his mouth opened, croaking a dry "yes" in a weak little squeak, even as the booming voice of the toupee screamed "NO! I won't allow you to lose your chastity! You. Can. NEVER. LOSE! THAT IS THE AGREEMENT!"

Coffey proceeded to crush Drumpf against a wall with such force that radial cracks formed in the plaster, mirrors and portraits hundreds of years old crashing to the ground.

"You want to be a loser tonight, don't you~" Coffey repeated in silken tones, breathing hotly into Drumpf's ear, speaking not to the alien, but the trapped, weak little businessman whom he was controlling.

"I do..." he croaked. "I want to lose to you." He slid his arms around her, fingers tracking down her shoulder blades and sliding down the curve of her spine, finding her bottom and pressing her intimately close, joining them together like two rare earth magnets brought irresponsibly close together until they slam together with extreme, ireevocable force.

"SKREEEEEEEEE!!" the toupee shrieked in rage and terror, not wanting to lose its hold on Drumpf, hair shooting out like prehensile tendrils and wrapping themselves around Coffey's neck, squeezing tightly, aiming to choke the life out of her before she could finish the job. Coffey's face began to turn blue, and a large grin broke out on her face.

"HARDER!" She screamed in a rush of sudden added ecstasy.

"What." The toupee asked flatly.

"What." Coffey countered. She had been trained by the Tibetan Sages of the Himalayas on the fine art of deriving pleasure from Erotic Asphyxiation, and so the toupee's attempts to strangle her just turned her on even more.

"YESS!" Coffey screamed, completing the human pretzel formation with Drumpf, and engaging "Walloping Walrus Jiggly-Junk Booty Bump Jackhammer Jamboree" mode.

Drumpf was utterly overcome, as the entire room shook, and then shook again as their rhythmic collisions set off sesmic alarms all along the East Coast.

Coffey screamed in delight, raking her fingers up his back, legs tightening like vise grips around him, crushing his kidneys with a thousand pounds of compressive force.

Drumpf didn't care, lost in the madness of a hysterical ferret in blood-heat, grabbing and grunting and groaning in pure pleasure even as the hair on his head screamed like a hyperactive banshee, desperately trying to snap Coffey's neck.

"Unf! Ahh! YESS!" Coffey jerked her head back in such raw pleasure that the shearing action tore some of the "hair" right off Drumpf's head, causing the toupee to howl in mortal agony.

"So good! So nice! It's the best! I love it!" Drumpf screamed as he took charge for a bit, smashing the two of them through a wall or two as they flailed in ludicrous pleasure.

"Mmm-hmm!" Coffey exclaimed, flipping Drumpf over, pinning him to the ground, and making like she was trying to beat the ten-second record for riding the Electronic Bronco at the Iowa State Fair.

"I--I--I--!" Drumpf gasped, his already tiny vocabulary totally insufficient to describe what he was feeling.

Then, Le Grande Finale.. With enough force to smash the two of them right through the floor and down onto the dining table of the room below, she achieved Record High Score and screamed in gleeful release.

"YEAHHH!!!" Drumpf arched upwards as he re-enacted the last moments of Mt. Vesuvius, before dropping down onto the table, blissfully inert.

Sighing with pleasure, Coffey produced a herbal cigarette and a lighter from somewhere within her body (and to confuse you greatly, it's not where you're all thinking of.... and no, not there either~) and lit up a nice post-coital smoke.

Lying back, Drumpf grinned widely, having finally lost for the first time in his life... and it felt great.

"That was so great," he squeaked in a falsetto. "The greatest."

"The contract is broken, the eldritch deal is undone!" screamed Drumpf's alien toupee, which separated itself from Drumpf's head with a squishy, tearing, ripping sound, revealing Drumpf's pinkish-grey brain underneath.

Scuttling across the floor on tendrils of hair like some kind of facehugger millipede, the toupee tried to make its escape, heading for a window.

It had dominated one man, it could dominate another. The war was not over. It would have control over America, and then the world! It would--

As it scuttled past Coffey, she leaned down and grabbed it by the hairs, lifting it up to face her.

"Unhand me, Ape-creature!" the toupee shrieked, squirming and trying to escape.

Staring at the writhing mass of hair, Coffey frowned.

"No one messes with America," she intoned patriotically, before driving her lit cigarette right into the mass of hair, setting it alight.

As the Triangulon toupee screeched and howled, Coffey tossed the slowly-roasting mass of matted follicles onto the dining table, which began to smolder. Putting on a presidential bathrobe that had fallen from the bedroom above, she took a moment to salute a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hung high on the upper bedroom wall which seemed to smile at her salaciously, and she took her leave, leaping out the window and landing on the front lawn of the "Winner's Palace" White House, walking off as the gaudy golden structure slowly burnt to the ground along with the aliens' evil plan of world domination.

For a short while, America had been dominated by Drumpf. But thanks to Coffey Creamer, America's Elite Erotic Superspy, the Land of the Free was free once again.

As the "Winner's Palace" exploded, Coffey confidently walked off, heading back to the Senate building for a rigorous debriefing at the hands of General Randy Hardwood, wondering where her next mission would take her.

Feedback. I loves it. Have I gone too far? Not far enough? Good, bad, indifferent, feel free to post your reviews, preferably on Amazon, because that helps others discover / avoid my work.

I write these for fun and not to be too serious, because goodness knows there's enough of that in the world, and to be honest, if I know there's an audience who wants more, I'll make more.

(I lie, I'd probably write them anyway, but it's nice to know I'm inflicting this on someone.)

So reach out! Let me know what you think.