Brody was in a hospital bed, beeping of her own heart beside her. She sighed, then remembered what had happened, and felt her body crawl with centipedes of self-disgust, coreant loathing, and indecisive lust. She had been preyed upon in a coma by archons, and taken for a grand, fat, ugly ride. And she wasn't sure she could ever face her friends again – that was, if she could even remember them. Then it stung – her head, along with a thought she'd forgotten: Kelsey preferred Nate. Soon, Brody would have no one. Or so she thought. Before she was ready, Kelsey and Nate found her there, and asked how she was.
"You've been out for a week," led Nate, looking dorkier and more meek than Brody remembered. It was hard to believe he'd shot someone to death.
"We were worried sick about you," Kelsey followed, holding Brody's hand and kissing her on the cheek. Brody could not describe the horrors she'd endured, nor the unfathomable terror that archons are real, and had abused her in her slumber. 'Or were they?' she pensed, with gritted teeth. But they had to be. What happened was too much to be nothing. Then, she saw orange, and pain flashed in her wound. It was Aurson's face, gilded like the label of a beer-bottle, looking down on her with that smug lower lip she shared. When she tried to shake her head, it remained, only seeming to get stronger. She growled, and swatted Kelsey's hand away. It was then that she learned she'd sprained her right ankle, so badly it made her entire body jolt. Her friends looked on with concern.
"I'm fine, please. Let me recover. I'm not thinking straight."
They looked worried, and stared. It only made Brody more furious. She'd been fucked by a nightmare's strangers at her most vulnerable, and felt like a dog defending its yard. Or a princess disgraced, made to wear a dented crown and rags, then bukkake'd. Which was pretty much what the whole nightmare had been about – the defilation of the daughter of the Crypto King, the Devil of Bitcoin. She began to wonder if she should ever have sold herself for such wealth, after all.

Brody went to the bathroom with her phone, and looked up hentai. She wanted her old favourite material, but it didn't feel right anymore. Too soft for what she'd gone through, she was afraid to disturb 'sacred ground' by retreading it in muddy boots. So, no Bladelock, and no Dash the Rabbit. She remembered the hogs, and grew morbidly curious – she looked up something comfortable, first: Boartusk, the big pig Gotchimon. She'd had an embarrassed crush for a couple of years, but now found what was once shameful and brutish to seem adorable and companionate by comparison to what she'd just been through. She imagined herself living on a campground with her big pet pigman, cuddly and round, and laying on his belly with her breasts in only jean shorts and a tank top. Then, she'd spy the erection of his massive, spiraling cock. She fondled her breasts, then fingered herself below, imagining it railing her. When she came, she felt almost proud – she'd taken something horrible, a sickly lust, and made it safe again. Something that felt romantic, and no longer scary.
The next day, she came back, and looked up a hentai where two women did sex-work for a fat ugly bastard, but who was friendly of face and demeanor. And it stopped her cold, and turned her stomach. She read it, but she couldn't like it. She just sat hard, not really enjoying it, nor the story. She tried lolicon next, and was equally off-put by what she felt was overly small figures, lately, impossible to pretend were of any age considered 'ready'. She was unable to feel fetish towards that which she knew to care for at a distance. So she went back for what she knew, and finished – but her wound flared, and Aurson returned – almost seeming to be watching her, proud of himself for interrupting – and it scarred her brain with stress.
The day after that, she felt daring. She flitted to goblin crowd rape, then dogs on women from behind, and cat-girls only four feet tall. And it worked for her as it usually did, but it didn't challenge her fears. And somehow each sting of her left brain seemed to bring Aurson closer, like a stamp on her nerves done to humiliate her and rob her of her pride. So she dared where she despised to tread, and searched up: 'Aurson_Wumpet' on fapnet.xxx. And it was disgusting, cruel, stupid, and insipidly disgusting content that couldn't excite her in the least, even at her most self-destructive. It was only moronic at best, and served no other purpose than to affirm: Aurson was nothing to covet, not for America and not even as a secret, guilty pleasure. The only people who seemed to take joy in that were the political cartoonists, aristocrats who enjoyed depicting every detail and curve of his face as if it were a marble statue in their own home. Barely even a man to men, let alone women. So she searched for hentai of hogmen, of rapists with stupid-looking faces just like his, and challenged herself to enjoy it – and what she found was that she could. That the denigration was kind of hot, when the partner was of worth to be scared of. For when it was only a rotted pear, no substance or grain, no sweet but for a cheap burger's old ketchup upon his breath it was garbage and nothing more. A lump of compost for the pil, or a slaughterfod to serve as example. She imagined herself as the queen of hogs, chubby as twice her size, shared by the whole tribe, then raping its women with powerful thrusts. Then lavishing in their exquisite moans. Her, tooth bikini and jewelry abreast, clacking against their raw pink, tan, sweaty backsides. Then marching into the white house, taking back that sacred throne, and letting her men, butcher the old fleshwaste with their tuskmaces. And when she was done, she would suit up, make bouncers and guards men of her tribe, keep her women to mate with at home, and run the whole damned country by herself. And she would go door to door, rip off her clothes, adorn her elegant tooth-mail and rags, and treat everyone to herself-
"Nngh!!"
Well, actually, that was where she nutted, because it got weird, and she stopped enjoying the power fantasy. Nor did the logistics add up, nor did it seem like a good example to set. So cum streaming down her hand, she wanked out her last to the thought of an orgy with her suited guards. And when she was done, she felt complete. She finally understood what Aurson and his cronies had done, and yet failed to accomplish – they'd united the tribe, but delivered none of what was promised – nor what a tribe would ask. By acknowledging the pig within, Brody had realized that within her own nature lied the true key to proper leadership: we are all animals. We all want to be fed, fucked, and sheltered. And the Amereich had only endangered all three, by economic consequence. Eggs were not cheap, and neither was hunger. Her post-nut clarity was a realization: the conservatives were only pigs, desperate for a king. She may not be that king, outside of her mind, but if she could somehow use that information... she could win. And topple a hog onto his own pike, for a spitroast... and not the fun kind, which she'd be wanking to the idea of tomorrow.

Brody came back to her spot the next day, but the wi-fi wasn't loading. Agitated, she tried her imagination alone. But it wasn't going her way: Aurson, smug as ever, had lept from the wreckage and fortified himself in a new wing, and taken Kelsey hostage. When she tried to fight the terror of that thought, her wound stung and throbbed with agony, and it crept ever closer. Nothing would save her, no breath could clear her mind, and soon even Aurson himself, as Bretasmode declared:
"This isn't fair. I have my wife, and my daughters and sons, and my whores. Who is doing this? Who makes this vision so real? Who abuses my image to harm this one of my distant blood, and his precious one of blood's mane?"
Then, the unthinkable occurred. Bretasmode turned around, to defend Brody and Kelsey, and rose a storm. Across them in a field was an archon, then another, all wearing his face. They had gone too far to harm Brody's mind, and she knew then, desperately, it was to stop her from giving her speech. Aurson Wumpet, scoundrilous as he was, had reached his spiritual limit within her mind – a life already lived, he had nothing to gain. He only clenched her ass and puss with his mind, to assert himself, which made her feel grisly and awful all over again. Then he brandished more lightning, against the reptiles. But they won, and he was forced to retreat, ashamed of how his image had been used.
"I do not endorse this," he said wearily, "My soul is heavy with sin, and I am proud to burn with it – and yet this shame they've placed on you is an anchor. You do not deserve it."
So he struck them away, and Brody watched as they ignored the strikes, and crawled faster and faster towards her. Her erection long since lost and hands gripping her knees, she felt a tension crawl up her body, and she was paralyzed awake. Then they crept into her skin, held her by the legs, and raped her with a fake Wumpet of middle age, as Bretasmode himself shook his head to see it. He was not a king, he begun to realize, but a scapegoat for mad degenerates – and his likeness was a mere cover-up of orange powder, for the nakedly pallid – those unmet by the sun, and its truth. So he left Brody to her fate, as if for nothing else than a reminder not to deify a fatass criminal dirtbag. Just as Brody thought she was safe, she began to see the Archons for real – black of heart, soulless, and reptilian around her, seeming to morph through time and space itself, just to reach her by some unknowable force – and then her head turned around, quite against her will, and she felt her neck begin to creak. She thought she was going to die, right then and there. But someone smiled her, and it stopped. She hung her head, and saw herself sitting on a beach with Christ. He held a gun, a sniper rifle, chamber empty, singular bullet already fired. Then he palmed her head, said, "You are chosen, Angel of Land and Sea. Go, pour your bowl into the ocean. They cannot stop you any longer."
Brody smiled, and then found herself being lifted up into the air, to fly with him. In real life, her head was still hanging, and her neck was bruised from the torment. But in her mind, she felt safer than she'd ever felt in her life. She couldn't help but dream, and cry. But it wasn't long before something felt fake – artificial. She perceived Jesus to be of a shallow presence, unaware of the true threat of what he'd dispelled, and knew somehow that when he left, she'd be returned to it. She tried to hold his hand, to cling to him, but all he did was smile.
"Do not trust my father," he said to her. "Never trust a man who'll let his son be bled for an ideal, nor be martyred for the sake of the cross itself."
"I don't understand," said Brody, in more thoughts than words. "Are we not supposed to pray to God?"
Jesus said next, "My father put Aurson Wumpet on this earth to be his greatest failure... and I believe it was sabotage. Now, he plays the halo of the Beast of Revelations, and blesses its destruction."
Brody tried to make a joke. "Is mankind not already his greatest failure?"
Jesus looked concerned. "Make of it what you will. Take comfort in your heart: you are not of God, you have the light within you already. You do not need him to take it from you, and give it back in exchange for common senselessness. You are of me, and of man."
"For all I know," Brody lamented, "I could be of Satan."
"Maybe you are," he laughed, calm and gentle. "And yet no better than He. Nor worse."
Then Christ left, and Brody sat there, useless. Pants down, arms at her sides. Wondering what the fuck had just happened. She put her loins away, washed her hands, and left the bathroom.
She went to look for a doctor, and explained in only a few details what had happened – they told her that bones moving on their own sounded like scoliosis, or epilepsy. She was told to drink water, and lay down. She sat in bed, miserable, as voices rolled over her mind, and images of fear and dread played like inkblots on her nerves. She twitched, and howled, and tried not to scream. She felt herself be raped, cockcheeked, and defiled by archons, whether in bed or with friends, when calling Bedishi, and when begging for help from the nurses. They gave her opiates, and what that did was make her easier to take. She cried, groaned, screamed, and threw pillows. Kelsey and Nate attested, she'd had no signs of mental illness before. In one short week, she'd proven herself utterly mad – and the rally was soon to arrive. She knew now, their plan, whose worse than demons and dragons alike: they were to stop her from pouring her bowl, and breaking the seal. And God was letting them, laughing down at her and at all his angels, because he cared so little for them. He'd made a hog sized just right for a throne, and laughed when the kingdom took his bait for a joke. He made a game of America's downfall, and watched as his own people burned for not being perfect enough for his precious, gilden kingdom. He'd usurped the Greek Gods in belief ten times over, then let their empire fall. Now, he scarcely challenged, was usurping his own unto nihilists – to malatheistic ruin of the once-free dream, where lack of theory was twisted into lack of spirit. That was America's future, without the movement against it – and without Brody's words. Or at least, that was how it felt. Damned, daunted, and terrified, she wondered if God was punishing her for something she'd done – like joining in the orgy with Stode and Tina, or raping Walde, or even, God forbid, being unkind to Beelza. Or for letting Brin do as she pleased. Or for letting Nate kill Geoffert, even though it wasn't her fault at all – and they all at that table wanted him dead. She talked herself down, grandly.
"There are many angels, with bowls to pour. Mine is only one. I will pour my solution into the hearts and minds of my nation's kin. And they will hear me, and drink of my wisdom, as land and sea stand acrash."