UniversalMonk

Trump, Vampire Sex Cults, and Nutraloaf (written to piss off Lemmy, liberals, and conservatives, by Universal Monk)

Chapter 3: The Toad and the Tomcat

Goddamn, that diner hum was still rattling around in my skull like a bad acid flashback I never even had, the kind that makes your balls shrink up and hide. The Chevy was chugging through the New Mexico desert now, the sun baking the hood like it was trying to fry an egg on it, heat waves dancing off the asphalt in twisted shapes that looked like dicks if you squinted hard enough.

Cutiepie Mandango was back to his bullshit in the cage, rattling the bars with his tiny paws, those massive balls of his swinging like fuzzy wrecking balls every time we hit a pothole.

"Nutraloaf!” He yelled. “Where's my nutraloaf, you weak-ass driver? Imma sue! Bigly! Look at the size of my hands! I’m a real warrior! Not like you, pussy! I’m gonna kick your ass. Right after I fuck it.”

"Shut the fuck up," I growled, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, the salt stinging my eyes. “You don’t have hands, you have paws.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Now shut the fuck up, before I throw you out the goddamn window.”

“Well, they look like hands. See?”

“Animals don’t have hands,” I said, without looking. “They have paws. Now shut up.”

My throat was still raw from Jimmy's cock, a funky reminder that I wasn't gay, not really, just a guy who knew how to deepthroat for dollars. I focused on the ten grand coming my way.

That was the dream keeping me going, even as the gas gauge dipped into the red zone, mocking me like a limp dick. I needed fuel, and fast, or we'd be stranded in this godforsaken wasteland with nothing but cacti and coyotes for company.

Up ahead, a flickering sign popped up on the horizon: "Last Chance Gas – Beer, Bait, and Oddities." Sounded sketchy as hell, but beggars can't be choosers, right?

I pulled in, tires crunching over gravel littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans, the place looking like it hadn't seen a customer since the Clinton administration.

The station was a rundown shack, paint peeling like sunburned skin, with a single pump that wheezed like an old man jacking off. I parked next to it, the engine ticking down in the heat, and hauled Cutiepie's cage out with me because leaving that little freak alone in the car seemed like a recipe for disaster.

He was already squeaking up a storm, "Gas? Weak! Real men’s cars run on coal!"

I ignored him, slinging the cage over my shoulder like a fucked-up purse, and headed inside. The bell jingled like a cheap porno soundtrack, and the air hit me like a wall of stale smoke and BO, mixed with something sweeter, almost chemical.

Behind the counter was this drugged-out drifter type, all stringy hair and bloodshot eyes, wearing a tie-dye shirt stained with god knows what. He looked up from a dog-eared comic book, grinning with teeth that were more yellow than white.

"Hey, man. Fill 'er up? Or you here for the specials?" His voice was slow and slurry, like he was half-asleep or fully baked.

“Gas," I said, setting Cutiepie's cage on the counter with a thud.

The little monster peered out, whiskers twitching, and let out a squeak: "Hippy loser! Get a job!"

The drifter blinked, leaning in close, his breath reeking of weed and onions. "Whoa, the fuck is that? Some kinda mutant rat? Looks like Trump if he got hit with a shrink ray."

“Therapy pet,” I muttered, fishing out my wallet. It was lighter than my balls after a bad hookup, barely enough for a tank and maybe a candy bar. "Just pump twenty bucks' worth. Where are the potato chips? This thing's obsessed with some prison slop called nutraloaf, but I'll take chips."

The drifter chuckled, a low rumble that turned into a cough.

"Nutraloaf? Nah, man, but I got something better. Oddities, like the sign says." He jerked a thumb toward a dusty shelf in the back, lined with jars of pickled weirdness – snakes, eyeballs, and yeah, a live toad squatting in a terrarium, its skin all bumpy and glistening like it was sweating acid. "Colorado River toad. Bufo alvarius. Lick it, and you'll trip balls harder than LSD. Fifty bucks. Cash only."

I stared at him, then at the toad, which blinked back with those glassy eyes, tongue flicking out lazily. Fifty bucks? That was half my gas money, but fuck, I was broke, and the road to Florida stretched out like an endless blueballs session.

"Does it... work? Like, really fuck you up?" Not that I was into drugs, but hey, if it could make this trip bearable, or maybe even flip it for more cash later.

"Oh yeah," the drifter said, eyes lighting up like he'd found a fellow freak. "Pure DMT from the glands. Lick the back, hold it in your mouth, and boom – other dimensions, man. Saw God once. Looked like a giant cock with wings." He leaned closer, whispering. "Tell you what, since your pet's got that presidential vibe, I'll throw in a free beer. Deal?"

Cutiepie rattled the cage, squeaking, "Lick it! Winners lick toads! Make toads great again!"

Fuck it, why not? A quick high might drown out that lingering diner hum still buzzing in my ears. I slapped down fifty bucks, feeling like an idiot, and the drifter scooped the toad out, holding it steady on the counter.

Its skin was cool and bumpy under my tongue as I leaned in, giving it a long, wet lick, the taste bitter and chemical, like sucking on a battery dipped in piss. I gagged a little, but swallowed, the slime coating my throat.

At first, nothing. Just the drifter grinning like a Cheshire cat, handing me a warm beer. "Give it a minute, bro. Bathroom's out back if ya need to puke."

I grabbed Cutiepie's cage and stumbled outside, the world already tilting a bit, colors sharpening like someone cranked the saturation. The bathroom was a concrete bunker behind the station, door hanging off its hinges, the inside reeking of piss and mold, graffiti scrawled everywhere. Dicks, swastikas, phone numbers for a good time. I set the cage down on the sink, splashing water on my face, but then it hit.

Hard.

The walls started breathing, pulsing in and out like a giant lung, the fluorescent light buzzing louder, turning into a swarm of neon bees. My skin prickled, fur sprouting from my arms – wait, fur? I looked down, and holy shit, my hands were shrinking, claws popping out, my body compacting like I was being squeezed into a furry sausage.

"What the shit?” I yelped, but it came out as a meow, high and panicked. The mirror warped, showing me as a tabby cat, orange stripes like Trump's tan lines, whiskers twitching, tail lashing behind me. I was a goddamn housecat, paws slipping on the tile, my human mind screaming inside this fluffy prison. Now I was a pussy? Literal pussy? Fuck my life.

Cutiepie's cage rattled, the little freak peering out, his tiny dick hardening instantly, pink and veiny, poking through the bars like a perverted antenna.

"Yasss! Pussy! Best pussy ever!" he squeaked, his voice echoing in the trippy bathroom, the walls now dripping with colors, rainbows pooling on the floor. He banged on the door of his cage, humping the air furiously, balls slapping against the wire. "Let me out! Imma make you great! Grab that cat pussy! Here, pussy, pussy.”

Panic hit me like a truck, but my cat body was curious, instincts kicking in, rubbing against the cage bars, tail up like some slutty invitation. No, no, this wasn't me. I wasn't into this furry shit, not even for money. But the hallucinations had me locked in, the toad venom turning everything into a swirling vortex of horniness and horror.

Cutiepie's paw shot out, fumbling with the latch, and fuck, it popped open. He burst free, scrambling up my furry back, his weight light but insistent, claws digging into my flanks like tiny needles.

“Hey! You little shit!" I tried to yowl, but it was just meows, pathetic and needy. “Ok, maybe just the tip!”

He mounted me right there on the filthy bathroom floor, his massive balls dragging over my tail, hot and fuzzy, the stench of hamster musk mixing with the piss-soaked tiles. His tiny dick probed, finding my cat ass – wait, cats have asses? – and thrust in, veiny and curved, making me feel ways that made my human mind recoil but my animal body arch.

It was quick and frantic, him humping like a jackhammer on steroids, squeaking Trumpisms the whole time: "Tight! So tight! Winning! Imma drain the swamp in your boy pussy! Better than Sleepy Joe!”

Precum leaked, slick and salty, his balls slapping my fur with wet smacks, the sensation building despite the disgust roiling in my head.

I clawed at the floor, tiles chipping under my paws, the world spinning in fractals, a Taylor Swift song suddenly plays from some radio outside, her voice twanging in my ears like a bad trip soundtrack. But kinda making me fall in love with her. First, I turn into a cat. Now, I’m a fucking Swiftie.

Cutiepie's thrusts got harder, his paw gripping my scruff, biting down with those gnarly fangs, drawing a bead of blood that tasted metallic on my tongue.

"Yuge! Feels yuge!" he gasped, and then he came, tiny spurts flooding me, hot and sticky, dripping out as he kept pumping, milking every drop.

My cat body shuddered, some fucked-up orgasm ripping through me, waves of pleasure mixed with revulsion, my dick – wait, cats have barbed dicks? – twitching uselessly.

Then, as quick as it started, the high peaked and crashed. The walls stopped breathing, colors faded, and my body expanded, fur receding, limbs stretching back to human size. I was on all fours, naked somehow – wait, my clothes were shredded on the floor – ass sore and leaking, Cutiepie tumbling off me with a satisfied hum, curling up in the corner, paw lazily stroking his spent cock.

"Best fuck. MAGA queen pussy," he murmured, eyes half-lidded like he'd just conquered the world.

I vomited into the sink, bile and toad slime burning my throat, the taste mingling with the phantom feel of hamster cum trickling down my thigh.

"Fuck... you," I gasped, scrambling to my feet, legs shaky, grabbing what was left of my jeans and shirt, the fabric ripped like I'd been mauled. Still doesn’t make me gay though, nope, I'd just been cat-fucked by a Trump hybrid. That ain’t gay. That’s just weird.

I scooped Cutiepie back into the cage, ignoring his happy squeaks, and bolted for the Chevy, the drifter waving from the door like nothing happened.

The engine roared to life, and I peeled out, gravel flying, the desert blurring again. That hum from the diner? It was louder now, like laughter in the wind. I swore I'd never talk about this, never think about it, but my ass twitched with every bump, a reminder that this trip was only getting weirder.

Florida couldn't come soon enough.

Trump, Vampire Sex Cults, and Nutraloaf (written to piss off Lemmy, liberals, and conservatives, by Universal Monk)

Chapter 2: Nutraloaf Dreams and a Creepy Cage

"What the fuck is nutraloaf?" I grumbled as I slid behind the wheel, the vinyl seat hot enough to sear my ass through my jeans. The car smelled like old fries and regret, with a new layer of hamster musk from Cutiepie's cage. I cranked the engine, and it coughed to life like a smoker hacking up a lung, belching black smoke that hung in the dry Arizona air.

"Prison food, dummy!" Cutiepie squeaked, banging on the bars.

"Documentary said it's loaf of nutrition, great taste, perfect for winners like me! Yasss, feed me, bitch!" He started humping the air in his cage, his tiny dick poking out, veiny and pink, balls swinging like fuzzy pendulums.

I peeled out of the lot, tires screeching on the hot asphalt, the sun beating down like it had a personal grudge. The road stretched out, endless desert on both sides, cacti standing like middle fingers to the sky.

Cutiepie kept ranting the whole way, spewing sexist crap that made me want to chuck his cage out the window. "Women drivers suck! Build the wall around your ass!"

I blasted the radio to drown him out, some country station playing Dolly Parton, her voice twanging about love and heartbreak.

Cutiepie perked up, humming along in his squeaky voice. "Jolene, Jolene, take my man pussy please!"

Fuck, this trip was gonna be hell.

Hours blurred by, the Chevy eating up miles, gas gauge dipping low like my patience. My stomach growled, and Cutiepie's nutraloaf obsession was getting to me.

"Fine, you little shit," I said, spotting a diner sign ahead, the kind of place with neon flickering like it was on life support. "We'll stop. But if they don't have your prison slop, tough luck."

The diner squatted by the highway, parking lot cracked and weedy, a few trucks parked like they belonged to guys who chewed tobacco and voted red.

I hauled the cage inside, ignoring the stares from the truckers at the counter, their flannel shirts stained with grease and sweat. The place smelled like fried eggs and cigarette smoke, the air thick with that greasy haze from the grill.

A waiter sauntered over, young and cute in a way that made my not gay dick stir, tight jeans hugging his ass like they were painted on, apron tied low.

"Table for one? And... what is that?" He pointed at Cutiepie, who was rattling the cage bars.

“My therapy animal,” I said, flashing a grin. “Law says you have to let me bring him in. I can call my lawyer if ya want.”

The waiter shrugged and led us to a booth in the back, his hips swaying just enough to make me wonder if he was flirting.

I set the cage on the seat, Cutiepie squeaking, "Where's the nutraloaf? Where’s Sleepy Joe? Are you Sleepy Joe? You look like him. Get Harris on the phone! Imma fire all you bitches!”

The waiter chuckled, leaning in close, his cologne mixing with the diner grease, a musky scent that hit me low in the gut. "Cute little guy. Kinda looks like Trump if he got shrunk in the wash. What'll it be?" His hand brushed my arm, lingering a second too long, fingers warm and suggestive.

I ordered a burger, but my eyes were on his crotch, the bulge obvious, like he was packing heat. “You all got anything like nutraloaf? The prison food stuff?”

The waiter laughed, shaking his head, but his foot nudged mine under the table, toe tracing up my calf. I’m not gay, but my cock hardened anyway, pressing against my zipper like it had a mind of its own.

"No nutraloaf, but I got something else you might like," he whispered, his hand sliding under the table, fingers grazing my thigh, inching toward my bulge.

I gasped, shifting in the seat, the vinyl sticking to my ass as he cupped me, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing the head through the fabric. "On the house, if you play nice." His grip tightened, and he started stroking slow.

But Cutiepie ruined it, screeching from his cage, "Weak hands! Real men grab pussy! Nutraloaf now, homo, or you're fired!"

The waiter jumped back, hand pulling away, face flushed red as the truckers turned to stare. "What the hell is that fucking thing?” he asked, backing off like he had touched fire.

"Long story," I muttered, my dick throbbing in frustration, balls aching from the tease.

The waiter brought the food, no more flirting, just an awkward smile and a quick exit.

Cutiepie gnawed on a fry I tossed him, ranting between bites. "This ain't nutraloaf! Fake food, like fake news! Fucking libtards!”

I scarfed my burger, the meat juicy but tasting like disappointment, grease dripping down my chin like last night's spit. The diner felt heavier now, the air thick with that fryer smell and something else, a low hum vibrating through the floor, like a truck idling outside but deeper, more animal.

The truckers grumbled, one saying, "Sounds like a goat in heat." I froze, the hum growing, a distressed bleat echoing faintly.

“Time to go,” I said, grabbing the cage, Cutiepie squeaking protests. “I don’t even wanna know what’s about to go down.”

I bolted for the door, the hum following, unnerving as hell, like something was watching from the shadows. The Chevy waited, engine growling as I peeled out, Cutiepie laughing in his cage. "Run like a bitch! But find me nutraloaf! Do you think it was that talkshow dude, Stephen Colbert? Smelled like him. Truthiness this, homo!”

The road blurred ahead, desert heat waving like a mirage, but that hum lingered in my ears, sensing something off, like the trip was just getting started on its fucked up path.

Danny “Slick” Malone thought it was just a freaky delivery job. Get the Trump-faced mutant hamster to Florida, get paid, get drunk. Instead, he’s tripping balls on toad slime, getting chased by vampire nuns, and maybe falling in love with a lab-grown monstrosity who screams about Nutraloaf. It’s sweaty, sleazy, and soaked in weird. Just the way I like it it. (Guys, it's satire. Plus, I'm bisexual so I'll write all the big gay, cursing hamster stuff I want to. Calm down.)

Trump, Vampire Sex Cults, and Nutraloaf (written to piss off Lemmy, liberals, and conservatives, by Universal Monk)

Chapter 1: For A Little Thing, It Sure Has Really Big Balls

Ok, so just for the record, I’m not gay. Not all the way. But fuck all, I like sucking cock. I mean, if it is for money anyway. And Jimmy Soudan’s dick was a really fun one. Thick, slightly curved, veiny, and big.

Loved having my mouth on it and just making loud sucking sounds as I gobbled it up. Slurping that shaft like it was the last popsicle on a hot Tucson day, feeling the veins pulse against my tongue, the salty precum dripping down my throat like some twisted reward.

I’m Danny Malone, called Slick by people who know me, ‘cause I can slip in and out of gigs without getting tied down. Hustling is my thing. Pretty much I give blowjobs for cash. Keeps the rent paid and the beer cold.

Jimmy’s place smelled like old pizza boxes and a weird chemical tang, like a lab exploded in a frat house. Beakers everywhere, papers scribbled with formulas I couldn't give a shit about.

I bobbed my head, slurping loud, the way he liked. His hand gripped my hair, pulling me deeper.

"Yeah, Slick, that's it. Suck it like you mean it." His voice was raspy, like he'd smoked a pack while jerking off to science porn.

I gagged a bit, eyes watering, but pushed through. Spit dripped down my chin, mixing with the sweat from this Arizona heat. Window AC unit hummed like a dying bee, not doing shit against the stickiness.

I looked up at him, his face crooked from the angle of his nose, which I could see had been broken a bunch of times. This dude had taken more punches than a boxing bag at a drunk's gym. He was big and burly. All muscle and scars, the type who probably shattered many other people’s noses in his youth.

And now, as he gripped my head with those meaty paws, fingers digging into my scalp like he was trying to crack a walnut, and jammed his dick further down my throat, it seemed like he was looking to fuck mine up too.

While I was goin’ at it like a pro, feeling his balls slap against my chin with every thrust, my eyes got hypnotized by the elaborate tattoo right in the middle of his stomach. An unholy trinity of political power players. Donald Trump, George Bush, and Dick Cheney. Locking lips in a passionate embrace under the watchful eye of a cross adorned with dollar signs.

It was a display that could make even the most devout atheist question their disbelief. Trump’s orange mug smooshed against Bush’s smirky grin, Cheney looking all sinister in the background, eyes carved to look eternally horny.

I pulled back for air, dick popping out wet and shiny. "Dude, what's with the ink? You into that shit?"

Jimmy chuckled, stroking himself while I caught my breath. "Patriotism, Slick. Real men. Not like these snowflakes today. Guys posting on Lemmy, crying about people not getting canceled enough. Buncha fuckin’ babies these days.”

He jammed back in, fucking my face harder. I let him, hands on his thighs, feeling the coarse hair. My own cock twitched in my jeans—traitor! I'm not into dudes. Not really. Just the money. And maybe the power rush, having a guy like Jimmy moaning 'cause of me. He bucked, grunting, close now. Cum building. I could taste it.

He put one of his legs up on my shoulder, and it was like getting hit with a wall of stench. Holy shit, the smell of foot in the room was already overwhelming, like a locker room after a marathon mixed with rotten cheese, but with his foot on me, it was suffocating.

Sweat soaked. Heat radiating off his sole like a goddamn furnace. But the real horror was his toenails. They were like some kind of twisted experiment in neglect, curling down over his toes like gnarled, overgrown vines snaking out from a jungle of doom.

The sickly green color made me question whether he was intentionally cultivating a new species of fungus, yellow crusties built up under the edges, probably home to some bacteria that could wipe out a small town.

I powered through, slurping louder, letting the spit drip down my chin like some porn star audition.

"Hang on a sec," he said as I was going to town on his dick, my lips stretched wide, jaw aching from the girth. "I gotta go check on something real quick."

"You fucking kidding me?" I asked as I popped his cock out of my mouth, a string of saliva connecting us like some gross umbilical cord. "You have to check on it right now?" My voice came out muffled, throat raw from the pounding.

"Shut the fuck up. It’s complicated. It involves Donald Trump. So kinda fucking important."

"Are you being serious right now?" I asked. "Dude, I’m sucking your dick and I’m not even fucking gay. This is a timing thing. I’m not always in the mood to suck dick."

That’s when I heard it. A weird noise pierced the air, sending shivers down my spine and causing my dick to retreat into hiding like a scared turtle. It was a sound that defied description, sounding like a mixture of a wailing baby, a distressed mule, and a fucked up cat on its deathbed.

High pitched squeaks mixed with low gurgles, like something was dying and laughing about it at the same time. Echoing from the back room, bouncing off the walls covered in peeling wallpaper that looked like it had seen better decades.

My balls tightened up, not in a good way, like they wanted to crawl back inside my body and hide.

"What the fuck is that?" I asked. Didn’t matter though, I had already lost interest. I was getting up to leave. I stood up, wiping spit from my chin with the back of my hand, feeling the wet spot on my jeans where I had been leaking precum earlier.

"Government stuff," Jimmy said, zipping up his pants with a casual shrug, like it was no big deal. "There’s a bunch of groovy shit we’re working on."

Then the sound again. Louder this time. Closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something dart across the floor. Small, furry, orange blur zipping like a fucked up mouse on speed.

I jumped back and screamed like a little girl. High pitched yelp that echoed in the small apartment, making me cringe inside. Now see, I know I was just sucking a dude’s dick, but screaming like that, made me feel pretty fucking gay. I tried to compose myself, straightening my shirt, pretending like I had not just shrieked like a damsel in a horror flick.

Jimmy jumped up. "Oh shit. That’s Cutiepie!"

Then the weird baby meowing sounds again. Scratching and squealing as Jimmy bent over to catch the thing.

Whatever it was that Jimmy caught, it was about the size of his hand and was thrashing around as Jimmy carried it. The thing stuck its head out from between Jimmy’s fingers, and I realized it was some sort of deformed rat. Its tiny face was twisted in a grimace.

And holy shit, the balls on this thing. Huge balls for its size, swinging like pendulums. It stared at me, jerking its tiny dick furiously.

Squeaking, "Imma grab your boy pussy! Yasss queen, suck that cock!"

Freaking out, I jumped backwards, tripped over the coffee table cluttered with empty beer cans and ashtrays, and fell on my ass. Hard landing that jarred my spine, pain shooting up my tailbone. "What the shit?" I screamed. My voice cracking like a teenager’s.

"Told ya,” Jimmy said, holding the wriggling bundle like it was a precious baby. "Government stuff. My latest experiment.” He was smiling, pushing up his glasses that had slipped down his sweaty crooked nose.

The thing jumped out of his hands and scurried across the floor, humping the air, squeaking more bullshit.

"Losers! Weak men! Make America great again!" It’s voice was high and screechy. Fangs too, I swear. Sharp little points glinting. And that dick, erect and pink, bobbing as it ran circles around us.

"It's a Trumpster,” Jimmy said. “A cutting-edge genetic experiment. Hamster-human hybrid. Cloned from Trump's DNA sample. I was supposed to destroy it, but... couldn't. It’s too perfect." He scooped the thing up again; it bit his finger, drawing blood, but kept jerking with its free paw. “Its name is Cutiepie Mandango. He's got all of Trump's charm. And appetites."

The Trumpster wriggled, squeaking, “Check out my balls! Huge! Best balls ever!" It humped Jimmy's palm, leaving a tiny smear.

"You’re telling me," I said, staring at the thing’s orange face peeking out, its whiskers twitching like it was plotting something evil. "That that fucking thing is part hamster, part Donald Trump?"

The resemblance was there, the comb over fur, the squinty eyes, the pursed lips like it was about to tweet some bullshit.

"Yeah. Cool, right?" Jimmy beamed.

"No fucking way, dude. No. Fucking. Way."

"It is totally tame. See?" Jimmy started to pet the creature, who seemed to be humming. Almost like it was happy. And then I noticed something else.

"It’s jerking off again!” I yelled, pointing at the thing’s paw furiously stroking its shaft. "And it's staring at me!" Those eyes locked on mine, unblinking, full of some twisted lust.

"Yeah, he’s a little sex freak," Jimmy chuckled.

"Ya ya!" the creature squeaked out as it stared at me. "Sex freak. Imma do you good. Real good."

“I’m leaving," I said. “I’m not watching a hamster jerk off while it stares at me like I’m its next meal."

“So he likes jerking off,” Jimmy said, still holding the thing. "Don’t blame him for that. He has needs."

"Nope," I replied. “Blaming myself. Poor life choices." I headed for the door, ready to bolt into the Tucson heat, and forget this ever happened. "This is fucked, man. I'm out."

Jimmy set the thing down; it scampered to my shoe, humping the toe. Tiny rapid thrusts.

"Wait, Slick,” Jimmy said. “I need you. Deliver him to Trump in Florida. He's waiting. Ten grand. Cash."

Ten grand? Fuck. I stared at the Trumpster, now rolling on its back, balls flopping, squeaking about walls and pussies. Absurd. But ten grand?

"Fine. But if it humps my leg the whole way, I'm tossing it out the window."

"Deal. And Slick? Watch out. He's got a thing for nutraloaf. Saw it in a prison doc. He’s obsessed." Jimmy grinned, handing me the creature’s carrier. Cutiepie climbed in, still stroking.

I grabbed the cage, the thing's squeaks echoing like a bad dream. Sweet fuck, this was not my day. But money's money.

Outside, my beat up Chevy sat baking in the parking lot, rust spots like freckles on a redhead's ass, the engine probably as hungover as I was. I loaded Cutiepie's cage into the passenger seat, strapping it down with a seatbelt because the last thing I needed was that furry bastard escaping and humping my leg while I drove.

The cage rattled as I slammed the door, and Cutiepie let out a high pitched rant. "Nutraloaf! I need nutraloaf! Saw it on TV, prison shit, best food ever! Make diners great again!" His voice was like nails on a chalkboard mixed with a bad Trump impersonator, all bluster and bullshit, his whiskers twitching furiously. “Drive, bitch! Florida awaits! Huge success!"

I shook my head. Ten grand. Road trip with a masturbating Trump-hamster. What could go wrong?