Quimby stared at himself in the mirror, awkwardly fumbling with his tie. His decades long ritual normally prepared him to face the media, but now everything was in ruins. Quimby tried one more to straighten the damned thing, but ended up nearly ripping it from his neck and hurling it across the bathroom in his rage.
“Governor?” a voice came from outside, “Are you ready for the press? They’re waiting for your statement?”
“I said a minute god-damnit!” Quimby roared. Why couldn’t any of these assholes give him a break?
Quimby looked down at his discarded tie, crumpled in the corner like an abandoned fluffy. *Be nyu daddah?*his tie seemed to beg. Quimby felt an irrational desire to stop his tie into submission. For a moment, he wished it really was a fluffy, so he could crush it like he wanted to crush the press, and the hugboxers, and his haters in his own party.
It was just one time… just one little fluffy
The god-damned assmonkeys would not let him escape. Not from this. His only option was to completely deny everything, and hope that Operation Snake Daddy would be enough to win him the election. Plenty of people would believe him. The video was blurry after all, and anyone could be imitating his voice. It was a fake anyway, surely no-one would believe that he could, that he had… Yes, he could get away with it.
And by the time the truth came out, he would be president already. Let them try and impeach meQuimby thought to himself, If Bill Clinton got away with it, so can I.
Quimby picked up his tie, and quickly re-tied it, straightening it once, and then again. He looked at himself in the mirror and practiced his winning smile. It died on his face like yesterday’s news. He couldn’t smile, he’d simply look too smug. This kind of conference needed a grim faced determination.
Quimby straightened his tie one last time, then walked out of the bathroom. Seconds later, he was surrounded by the press, flashing lights blinding him, and their questions deafening. He stepped up onto the podium, standing in front of his Quimby for President 2032, and behind a bank of a couple dozen microphones.
“Okay okay,” he said, holding up his hands for the reporters to quieten down, “One at a time, one at a time.” Quimby made contact with Amanda from the Wingnut Times, who had been very friendly to his campaign over the previous months. He totally ignored the reporters from Central Networks, who had tried to break him with that hugbox story about the little girl Alice. Those assholes wouldn’t get a single question answered tonight.
“Amanda,” he simply said.
“Thank you Governor,” she said, “Can you give us any comment on how you intend to carry on, now that this fluffy sex-tape has emerged?”
THE CUNT! Quimby raged internally. They were supposed to open with a question about the tape being a fake! The fuckers were trying to dump him, to watch him crash and burn. He would make them pay for this shit. When he became president, he would make sure they all went to jail. That would show them.
“I absolutely deny and condemn these vicious, untrue, rumours about me. These lies are…” Quimby stopped as he was drowned out by the reporters erupting into another round of questions. Lost for a moment, he looked to his staffer, Mark, and gave him the smallest of nods, letting him pick the next question to answer.
“Mr Governor?” a reporter Quimby didn’t recognise asked, “So, are you saying you deny these allegations?”
“I certainly am,” Quimby replied.
“But its clearly YOU in the video,” some bitch interjected.
“It is not me,” Quimby argued. “This blurry video proves nothing.”
“So, you categorically deny it?” the first reporter pressed him. “How can you maintain a hard core anti fluffy stance with these rumours?”
“Read my lips,” Quimby said, quoting greats that had come before him, “I did not have sexual relations with that fluffy.”
The press erupted into questions again, but then the sounds of something far, far worse echoed over the tops of their voices. Some damned shit-rat of a reporter was playing the audio from the tape, from an amplifier connected to their smartphone.
“Nuuuu! Daddah! Nu touch speciaw pwace!” the fluffy squealed.
“Huh, its okay fluffy, daddy ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Quimby’s voice said on the tape.
Quimby gasped.
“Daddah! Nuuuu! Fwuffy nu wike twee inch no-no stick! It am too big fow fwuffy! Nuuuuuu!”
The press erupted yet again, though this time it was into snickers, giggles and downright guffaws of laughter. Quimby turned bright red, but his embarrassment quickly turned to rage.
“IT IS A GOD-DAMNED DIRTY LIE!” he roared at them, “THIS IS PRESIDENT SUPREME’S DIRTY WORK! I DID NOT FUCK THAT GOD-DAMNED FLUFFY!”
The press were momentarily stunned into silence by his shouting and cursing. Quimby stared at them all, bright eyed and silent, staring back at him, holding their mikes and smartphones. Even the cameramen were still for a moment. Only the audio continued, not caring what had just been said.
“Huh, huh, huh,” Quimby panted on the tape, as he humped the fluffy like a man possessed. “You like that, don’t you fluffy?”
“Nuuuuu! Fwuffy nu wike! Huu huu huu huu huu…”
Quimby slumped. He knew it was over. And for what? For one night of forbidden pleasure? Why had he even done it?
Only the Snake Daddy could save him now.
