And so too, for some reason, was Nate. Kelsey had invited him, but Brody found him abrasive. Rather than see Brody as a friend, he seemed to see her as a sexual rival. When they fucked in threesome, Nate would make sure to pound Brody until she wanted more, then finish inside of Kelsey instead. This left Brody sore, craving, and bereft. And when they hung out, Nate would make obscenely racist comments about Stode.
Like, for example: "Most black guys are hung like horses, but Stode's hung like a marmoset. Might as well call him 'chode'." And, "That jigaboo better not have put fried chicken in your ass, Kelse, or I'm gonna be so mad."
Kelsey assured him, that had never occurred. Nor would she let it, for the grease and discomfort would be immeasurable.
Brody found it funny that Nate needed to measure dicks, because hers was the biggest of the three; which left the two men competing for second place. But Stode was still carbon-comittal, so Nate was left feeling like he'd lost a race against himself. Perhaps that was why he took every opportunity to slap, smack, or punch Brody; in the shoulder, on the back, or just under her ass, she might receive any one of the three – before, during, or after sex. Meanwhile, Kelsey was a delicate princess whom both of them felt was too precious to hurt. Which made it all the more awkward when she started asking for it, to be spanked and bruised. So Nate, seeing what he'd done, finally relented. He and Brody both were, more than anything, simply frustrated with the wait. November was months away, and The Feast of Trumpets was soon to be upon them. Nate, a surprisingly devout Protestant, had prayed that Don Wumpet would be shot. Kelsey predicted that a meteor would strike the White House. Jerbo decided that meteor was an alien spaceship, and theorized that it was here to make a deal with the true leaders of the planet, who lived underground as a secretive reptilian armada – which was only true if you counted the billionaires, who'd allegedly spent the last couple of decades building themselves a paradise below. It even, so the rumors said, had its own train system – and may have been the reason why all infrastructure above had crumbled, pot holes to go ignored and busing routes canceled. Brody simply believed that Aurson would be poisoned at dinner, perhaps in his cola, like the prophecies of Nostradamus declared... something of a 'face of milk and honey, looking up'. The demonstration in Paris, the man on a plate, had seemed to hint towards it as well. In fact, most of the world was hoping for the death of Presidon Aurson Wumpet, for his presidence over them was an ever-president source of dread. Everyone knew he was a Russian plant, and that he worked for Fyodor Slaskov, not the people. Everyone could see his interests were in selling out the nation, not 'making it great again'. A great bargain, perhaps, for overseas buyers. A priming of the livestock before slaughter, a dabbing of mascara on the goat before sacrifice. They could see on the price-tags in the grocery stores that his tarriffs had unequivocably (or was it unequivocally?) made things worse, especially for them – the consumers. The very notion that they would 'help boost the economy' had turned out to be no more than a misunderestimation... of the damage one could do by evading all branches of government except the one he sought to hang his enemies from, by an executively ordered noose. Even those who'd once supported Aurson were forced to admit that he didn't support them back, and if anything, refused to even try. That national relations were growing thin. That Canada and Europe were preparing to live without the United States of Amereich as allies, and contrary to Western Ego, were better off for it. A heartbreak that even a Texas-sized blood-pumper couldn't take, though the honey-mustard smokescreen would indefinitely misimply otherwise. That only the Cult of Wump would dare claim his theft as sovereignty, when it flew in the face of the original theft from British dominion which made America what it was – that the petty burglary of the Nazis behind Project Reich was a sliver of hair from the head of those white-wigged master thieves; who'd declared their independence with a constitution that could weather any storm, when ships full of tea in Boston could not. And the Wumpites, their minds once pure with white ignorance, now were stained with proverbial kool-aid, drenched until their bliss was washed away from them. And they, red of ballcap, could only mock Christ in all their worship of him – for the crackers had claimed it was wine. They Wumped could not admit: they had tried to make friends with the political-yard bullies, only to be punched in the stomach and shook down for coin. That they themselves eating shit (because the farms were unmanned, and their workers had been deported) was in fact, someone else's Just Desserts. They just couldn't pin down whose, is all. The liberals? Who celebrated internationality, and ate plentifully of imported goods? The fatcats, who'd imported them at a profit? The aristocrats, who shared tables and beds with both? The previous president, Jackon Waiter, who slept through his term like an elderly baby? The would-be presidentress, Wendela Davis, who got to sit back and laugh as their betrayal became their own end? No, it must be someone. How about the queer teens, who'd been outlawed? And had gone into hiding, or moved up-country? Living in tenuous acceptance or God-pitied squalor? Or the immigrants, who were separated from their children, and concentrated into camps? For doing no more than the jobs no other American would let themselves do?
"Yeah, that'll show them who we are," one might claim. "Don't mess with the land of freedom, or we'll put you in the gulag."
No, someone must be eating those desserts – those richly served dishes of revenge shan't grow cold. Else it would be... appropriate. Anyone but they, themselves, whose vote was a crowbar which only served an already-rigged machine of election (which Aurson had bragged about, and thanked Manued by name). Anyone but them, who'd recently grown quite famished and tread-upon, by tariff prices and the cost of eggs and ignorance. But if no one else was hungry... then perhaps? If none would mind? The dish did beckon. Truly, as far as any whose eyes weren't blinded by the brimmed cover of red at those born of brown, the meal was theirs to eat, all along. But it's bitter, and burnt, isn't it? It doesn't taste very good at all. Its crust is scorched, the filling is like rubber fruit and sweet gasoline. So they push it away, as anyone would, but then their stomachs growl. And soon, the dish is gone.

The days slog on. The Feast approaches.
Aurson vows to declassify the Wipestain files, then has agents pour over them to redact his name from thousands of pages. Because it was in those files, thousands of times.
Brody picks up a book at the bus station, from the dying grass. It's title: 'Teen Issues, and What To Do About Them'. She considers taking it home, but gives it to a custodian sweeping the pavement for the lost-and-found. Thinking someone more in-need might come back for it, imagining its journey. He throws it in the trash, in front of her, then ties up the bag and walks away with it.
Maslaina Wipestain is taken into custody, and given a farcical interview by her own co-conspirators. She's given a deal nearly as generous as the one her husband Jiffy once got, which absolved him of sex-trafficking and more; simply because he'd been an instrumental inside-trader during the 2008 financial crisis.
Brody goes into the subway below, and sees a homeless man standing on the tracks to fetch a small bag of chips he'd dropped. He climbs up to eat them, legs sticking out, as a sign nearby flickers: 'CENTRAL, 2 min.'. Brody approaches, to warn him. He moves, and yet seems unconcerned with the danger.
A series of 'birthday letters' to Jiffy are released to the public, which detail prominent figures engaging in joint debauchery – the public are both jealous, and enraged. One infamable card, by Aurson, says 'Here's to wonderful secrets', and shows an outline he traced of a woman – which damningly matches the silhouette of his own daughter. His signature marks the hair of her crotch.
Brody sees a new image-generation meme on Facelook, which entails of volunteering selfies to make celebrity porn. Popular choices include Jorgenoff 'Storkjerker' Störkas, warehousing mogul and supervillain incarnate; Jiffy Wipestain, back from the (allegedly) suicidal dead, but still in his prisoner's orange; Manued Tusker, both as one of his movie cameos and dressed in full Nazi attire (with a little mustache and all); Aurson Wumpet, all-too expectedly (through twenty to thirty years rewound); and the owner of Facelook himself, Ezark Nuckerstein (in all his serpent-faced glory). It serves as a distraction from the leaks, wherein he promised that the future was white male fragility in place of diverse leadership (no girls, no colored folk, and no moderation allowed), as well as sex-chatbots for every child. Nate takes Brody's selfie without asking, and spams her personal page with fake-made erotica (both images and full motion-pictures); a homunculus of splayed, miscounted fingers and melting, digital flesh takes Brody's resemblance into the laps of illuxury, to relish in what the world had become: an endless mill of garbage, sloptent, and miserable tidings.
Brody grunted while scrolling to delete them, "If I wanted to feel fucked by a billionaire, I could have just read the news."
Truly, man was sculpted in God's own image, as was the sloptenner in man's own likeness. Not a flaw uncapt.

Finally, the day arrives. September 23rd. A prominent Republican is assassinated, and a face of milk and honey cries to the heavens for him. It's his wife, giving a speech in his memory. Aurson is only stalked by a would-be killer, who is caught before he can slaughter the hog. On this day of the Feast of Trumpets, the people eat not of food, but of relentless noise. Just as the name might suggest, though in a clever fashion which had disguised the true menu. And their damnation is sealed just as the seventh is broken, just as the final truth is revealed: nobody is coming to save them. There is no higher power who can stop The Beast of Revelations, whose heads are of wounds healed and hungry, vacuous mouths. It is up to the people themselves to slay this beast and heal the world – and nothing could scare them more. This revelation is more than they can stand to witness, and its sheer light blinds them white again, but far too late to render them pure. It is bleach to their spirits. They would rather be raptured, or abducted by aliens. Or deported. For all upon with the country of God (hold the saving of queens) was built has been stolen, or laid to waste.

Now, the Tribulations begin.