We've never done a story about the Presidential Debates before. BUT NOW WE REPORT LIVE!
Before the two candidates come out to the stage, the cameras flicker over the hollow faces in the crowd, ghastly faces like Dick Cheney and Henry Kissinger.
Hofstra University is a well known occult nexus, as it is both in the center of the richest place on Earth, and it is named for the future sacrifice of Richard Hofstadter at the hands of the Church of Gates. That death is a fitting tribute as the media coverage begins and the bloated and lifeless husks of the endless bloviators wheeze, begging for sexual deviances to be committed on the barren altar. They trade barbs as they sink into the mire, but only one cybernetic being can sustain himself in the cruel, irradiated chamber that is the only atmosphere in which the candidates can exist.
Finally, the bells in the sky toll and the candidates shuffle onto the stage, each trailing a longer shadow than seems appropriate. Dear God, they look old. It may be an artifact of sexism that we only discuss Clinton’s health, or some latent ageism that causes us to think that these candidates should not be old, but each crawls out to the stage ancient and decrepit, any energy that sustains them is being drawn up through the purple lights that form laser-focused beams heading toward the spotlight.
Black ichors speckle around their eyes and mouths as they position themselves between the alien onyx obelisk inserted horizontally into the arena.
The first question goes to Clinton, draped in fabrics soaked in the blood of the innocent, their inaudible cries for mercy in a thousand languages lost before the tormented crowd.
As she answers in words torn from memory, the writing on the wall crawls in curls of blood, carving itself in moonstone, each arcane angle potent with meaning.
At last, Trump opens his mouth, to reveal razor rows of teeth, shredding his blackened lips. The names of the chiefs of dead nations cross his bleeding tongue, and in between each blasphemous utterance, he rattles off the name of a job that no longer exist, eating the livelihoods of the dead, each victory a purple light drawing energy into him, revitalizing him.
Clinton then summons up the bone spectres of Trump’s golden gilded past, excoriating him with the Soul Names of those she has thrown into the pit, as their histories light up the engraved words behind him, filling the screen, each affront burning thousands of acres of ancient woodlands on the west coast.
But it does not matter to the singular gaze of the camera. Now Trump is listing numbers. Trillions, thousands, millions. Other numbers that do not exist, until they are made real by the energies filling the stage. It is black life, light made of void.
The cybernetic moderator fails to notice the building current. Perhaps he cannot, perhaps the television cannot convey it, but our eyes at Pearl River Flow see the light arcing between them as Clinton begins chanting her own numbers into existence, powered by the souls of a world we can never see as she evokes the spectre of Trump’s separate reality.
The mere mention of Trump’s America, a separate hell into which he retreats to succor himself on the souls of the doomed, causes a portal to arise, a black mirror in all directions, showing what cannot be. The lights in the arena change, the obsidian stone between them cracks with a shrill pitch.
With that eardrum-rupturing noise, the pustule sacs that have swollen around the eyes of both candidates burst, releasing a thick oily ink-black onto their faces as they twist time around themselves like a maelstrom.
Time. It seems to stretch on, then bounce back, hours passing in seconds, seconds stretching into days, days that seem to starve the candidates of life, every moment grows the oily slicks at their orifices. Clinton’s blood red suit alternates between leeching the crimson lifeblood from the crowd and pumping it back into her body, the crimson demon reinvigorating her as Trump huffs and bluffs, black eyes wider and wider by the moment, veins bulging through thin skin, black not red, his blue neon tie glowing brighter and brighter to power the dark lightning jolting from the cyborg moderator. Lester Holt is a molten wreck, his batteries draining to energize the sparking capacitors showing through Trump’s suit shirt.
Trump’s skull is animated through his thin skin, he shouts and shouts that he will release his “Tax Returns!” Tax Returns are a nightmarish glamour from the dimensions of Dark Order, from which both of these lich-forms hail.
Clinton desires that we all be exposed to those mind-blinding facts, she revels in her wish to have our minds shredded by the endless iron bars of the infinite dimensional prison that holds what he owes.
The number-dimension screams into the view of our camera, which reverts to a binary madness for an unknown amount of time as Trump shrieks about the places around the world in which numbers have rent asunder the fabric of time and space and taken control. Clinton, in response, throws up a shield of the damned souls of the People of America, their screaming forms evaporating at the nihilistic pressure exerted on the stage.
The moderator’s flesh has melted under the barrage of Dark Archon Energy and his twitching cries leak into the crowd, which stirs and tremors. The black ink erupts into them, and they begin screaming in unison, words so low and dark that the shrill screams of Trump intertwine with them in a spell that cannot be heard with human ears, given a counterpoint at shrill soul-piercing intonations by Hillary Clinton as she spits teeth onto the vibrating membrane of the stage floor as it builds, tearing at the foundations.
Now both candidates bow down before the Dark Order, the bars of our cell become visible, our energies congealing, building into the imprisoning form. Clinton summons them, then Trump splits the sky with the Peal of the Doombell: “Law and Order!” he screams, damning the masses to hells of our own devising, screaming for thousands and thousands to die on the altar of the Badge and the Gun.
Now Donald Trump cries to the thrumming membrane that is cracking and stretching around the base of the arena, as it bounces to Clinton’s low and blooded throaty cry, extending her air sack and rolling the noise through the ether that has stretched between the bubbling wreck of rubberized wire and plasticized flesh, they all know that Overlord Obama is not a legal Human Being, he is one of the Overlords, not of the reptilian type, but of…
...and we cannot recall anything in the past five minutes, the true visage of Overlord Obama has faded away and been replaced with his human face. They are now shedding the tips of their fingers and jamming the bloodied nubs into the ports that create the internet, summoned into the arena by the Dark Archons.
915, Trump screams for more oil, more oil, Clinton’s blood-red suit has turned pink, salmon, now sandy and white, draining the blood from all the remaining human beings in the room as they are chewed up into a psychic blender that has activated, the words in blood on the walls behind them have activated, whirling and shredding, the blood of the humans in the room is being drawn, as the two animated corpses call forth the brood of human beings slain in the wars in the middle east.
It is a literal bloodbath. Blood in the gutters. Blood covering both candidates. Blood soaking into the screaming wires that make up The Moderator. The jerking flesh smolders and tears apart as they howl for nuclear annihilation, each evaporating soul vanquished into the onyx pit as it is drained and leeched as they are thrown into the linear pit, a hole that is a line in three dimensions, a hole in space from every direction that has sprung up between the two forms that are spewing black ichor, spraying ink and oil and doom across the frothing conglomeration of death that is roiling up onto the stage past the invisible walls of force that are burning any hint of goodness and truth from those ectoplasmic forms being sucked into the hellvoid.
Trump is screaming even though the television is off. Clinton whispers ice into all the hearts on Earth. Neta, Black Aten, the Dark Sun, the Hell Pharaoh, the tentacles of the sky, all draw our minds to the scenes of endless war, the Doom Star, the black death creeping over the sands, they scream as the sky over the arena is rent asunder as the invisible bells toll.
Death calls from the abyss and begins to haul us to our doom. They scream for the splitting of the sun, they scream for the sun on the earth, this is the end. This is the end, the oil bubbles over and flows into the sand with the blood as the conglomerate of flesh and death and electronic doom, the codes for the bombs flow up through the sands of time and hell, into the fingers of all who grasp at them, and now the crowd is part of the hellsky spilling into the Great Plains, washing across the Midwest, pouring over the silver cities, whose lights are now tinted with blood and now it comes across all times and places into Jackson, Mississippi, as David Brooks shrieks the screams of the doomed, all the frail and useless words that once formed a dam against the dark magics of the Outer Dark are mush in his mouth, his teeth are black and brittle and now we must sign off, forever.