“Hahaha!” Laughed the president elect. “Take that you hugboxing bastards! I won! I won! I’m the motherfucking president!”
“You… certainly are sir,” said one of his staffers, not quite knowing where to look.
“That’s right… and don’t you forget it!” Quimby laughed, taking another sip of his margarita. “Can you believe it? Looks like America hates fluffies more than I even thought they did. That Snake Daddy character really brought it home for me. FLUFFY MEGAHERDS. That’s not something you hear about every day!”
Quimby’s staff shared his joy at having won the election, but weren’t quite sure how to deal with this new and drunken side of their boss.
“It certainly is not sir,” the staffer replied, “It sure was a stroke of luck, that megaherd, crossing into the US. And so close to Cleveland too. That must have brought up a lot of memories…”
“Yeah,” Quimby interjected, “A lot of memories, and just enough to swing it for me. I knew I could count on the fluffy fear and abuse vote.”
“Yes sir,” the staffer said, shifting uncomfortably, “Frankly sir, I’m surprised that they… after the…”
“After that fake sex tape?” interrupted Quimby, “Yeah, well, they didn’t get my face on that tape - because it wasn’t me. You know those kind of things are easy to fake nowadays right? Hell, they even had Elvis in a movie the other year. Anyone with a laptop and the right software can fake a video nowadays. You guys know I’d never fuck a fluffy right? Right?”
Quimby’s staff mumbled and shook their heads.
“So now, I’m president,” Quimby asked them, taking another swig from his cocktail, “How the fuck are we gonna build this damned wall?”
The marketing, or propaganda, depending on your point of view, had been magnificent. Quimby had read an old book on the Maginot line, a series of fortifications that the French had built on their border with Germany after World War One. It had had concrete bunkers, ditches, tank traps, iron girders and miles and miles of wall.
Quimby had added to this of course. He’d got the graphics guys to add in chain link fences, electric fences, a wide and deep ditch full of water (they had refused to add Piranhas, saying it was a step too far). Then he had asked for watchtowers with search lights, and guard dogs patrolling with the border guards. All in all, his team had calculated it would cost one-hundred and fourteen billion dollars, plus a hefty staffing and upkeep cost. Nearly as much as the southern border in fact. Even in 2032 dollars, that was a hell of a lot of money.
So, what the fuck could he do? He couldn’t renege on his promise. Flip-floppers were considered the lowest of the low. Worse than Mormons. He had considered building a fence instead, as that would be considerably cheaper, but those feral fluffy fucks would just find a way to dig underneath it, or chew through it, or make a mountain of shit alongside it so that they could climb over into America, even if they fell to their deaths on the other side. He just knew those fluffy bastards would climb over a mountain of their own dead friends to get into America, with all its nummies.
No, he needed a wall. And guard dogs. But fuck if it didn’t mess with his budget plans. Quimby had promised the world in order to crush the hugbox liberal candidate who wanted four more years of President Vermin Supreme’s fluffylover policies. America had voted to crush that soft bastard and everything he represented, and now Quimby knew he had to deliver. No, Quimby knew he had to make good on The Wall, but needed a way not to bankrupt the country in the meantime.
Finally, he settled on the combined strategy. Build a decent sized length of proper wall, between the most populated parts of the US and Canada, either side of Lake Erie, and have all the TV cameras focus on that part. Then, build fence, and arm militias along the sparsely populated parts of North Dakota and Montana. Hell, there was even talk of bringing a whole bunch of rednecks up with combine harvesters to thresh their way through the fluffy menace. That WOULD make good TV.
So Quimby would build his Maginot line. He’d have something to show off on TV, but it would only cost a billion or so. Meanwhile, all the militias and redneck crazy bastards would be given a license to kill Canadian ferals, and would just love to feel they were doing their duty. Quimby could argue that the rest of The Wall would be built in time, but that it was taking a little longer than anticipated. After all, he had promised to make the Canadians pay for it, and so far, those pointy headed bastards were refusing to return his calls.
Still, he’d build his wall.
Only problem with the Maginot line was, in World War II the Germans just went around it.
“Huu huu huu…” the fluffy wailed, “Fwuffy nu wike vroom munstahs…”
Quimby smiled at the poor beast. He didn’t care for fluffies at all, stupid damn shit factories that they were. But on the other hand, he didn’t really hate them either. This particular fluffy was a dirty mustard colour, just like that fluffy who saved that baby girl all those years ago. What was that fluffy’s name? Yellow? Yeah, that was it. Those unimaginative fucks. Who would have known that little girl would turn up after all those years. Please don’t hurt the fluffies Mr President! she’d been begging on Youtube. Fuck you little girl thought Quimby, I do what I want.
Quimby looked up at the cameras and smiled.
“My fellow Americans. Tonight, we lay the foundation for a Better America. Free from the fluffy menace. Building this wall will bring jobs to America. Building this wall will make us Great Again. Building this wall will keep the Feral Menace Out!”
The audience practically shat themselves with excitement. His staffers had bussed in his most insane and exuberant supporters, many of whom were screaming deliriously while chanting USA repeatedly. His secret service had had to ask that the militias leave their guns at home, but the crowd had insisted on bringing actual torches and pitchforks, along with a multitude of caged fluffies, held in the back of several trucks, which they intended to burn in a massive bonfire. It was as though his country had gone full retard.
“With this champagne, and this feral fluffy, I christen this wall - The Freedom Wall!” Quimby roared, before releasing the bottle of champagne, and terrified mustard coloured mare, to swing on a rope and impact with the eighteen foot high concrete monstrosity.
“Nuuu! Fwuffy nu wike… Eeeek!” The fluffy squealed as it crunched into the wall, covered in broken glass and frothing champagne. It didn’t even have time to screeeee.
“And now, let the party commence!” Quimby laughed with exhilaration.
His followers needed no more persuading. Beers were opened, flags were waved, and horns were honked on the pickups that had brought the crowd up to the Canadian border. Quimby made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing babies. These were his people. Good people. Real Americans - not like those ugly hugboxing bastards. No one here believed he had fucked a fluffy. Or maybe they just didn’t care? Quimby shuddered at the thought, and decided to just relax and enjoy himself. Some crazy southerner offered him a jug of moonshine, which he gladly accepted. Quimby decided it was safe to get shit-faced drunk again.
Quimby hugged and kissed some of the more amorous women in the crowd. He wondered if he couldn’t take one or two of them back to his trailer later that evening. But for now, he just enjoyed his victory, and being with his people.
The time came to light the bonfires, which ignited with a roar of flames. Then, the crowds started to unload the trucks full of captive fluffies. With pitchforks.
“NUUU! NU HUWT FWUFFY! URK!”
“Nuuu! SCREEEEE!”
“Nuu! Nu wan buwny huwties! Fwuffy nu wan… SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!”
“SCRRREEEEE! SCREEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!”
The screams of maimed, terrified and burning fluffies soon filled the air, mingling with the cheers and laughs of Quimby’s people. Quimby’s staffers informed him that they were burning over seven hundred of the feral shit-rats that evening. It was glorious.
And in the darkness of the abuser’s hearts, something ancient and evil began to stir…
