The Yuge Wall of Jina: It's Fully Loaded (The Face Palm Chronicles Book 2)

by Jaid Black

  My forehead crinkled. “What is it?”

  “It’s a fucking acronym here,” she breathed out.

  I stilled. Warren gasped.

  “C-O-N-G-R-E-S-S,” Hillary said grimly. “Committee On Newliest Grievances & Related Enforcement (of mandates) on Spouses & Slaves.”

  I briefly closed my eyes. “Wouldn’t that spell C-O-N-G-R-E-M-O-S-S at best?” Not that it mattered. These people were as stupid as they were insane!

  “There’s a sign on the wall to our left,” Hillary said dejectedly. Her breath hitched. “At least they knew to use parentheses.”

  I opened my eyes and zeroed in on the sign in question. I did a double-take. My nostrils flared to wicked proportions. “The proper use of parentheticals would be more impressive,” I bit out, “if the sign wasn’t written in crayon.” I decided against mentioning the obvious capper to that observation, but Hillary couldn’t stop herself.

  “The R and E were written in reverse,” she whispered. Her voice and expression took on a faraway quality. “They were written in crayon and they were written in reverse.”

  “Who cares!” Warren cut in. “Have either of you noticed the part about slaves?”

  My eyes widened with the acceleration of my pulse. I had and I hadn’t. I’d been too busy polishing my grammar police badge to let the far greater threat make the impact it should have.

  “Slaves,” I said with a calmness I didn’t feel. Beads of perspiration formed on my brow. “The Cro-MAGAnons are slave holders.”

  “Oh my God!” Hillary gasped. “I’m what they call ‘black’ here! And Snow is half! What do we do now?!”

  My world started to spin. Nausea flooded my belly.

  “I don’t exactly blend in with the locals,” Warren hissed. “Have you seen one single person in this godforsaken hellhole with black hair and an olive complexion?”

  She had a point. Not even a female of Italian heritage would be safe from colorism in the land of pasty, fangless vampires. Paul Ryan was the tannest specimen the Cro-MAGAnons had to speak of and that wasn’t saying much. It was like comparing the color of marshmallows to sugar.

  My now trembling hand found its way back to my forehead. A heinous vision of me and my besties picking cotton under the unforgiving sun and saying things like “yessa Massa” or “you sho does look pretty, Miss Scarlet!” slammed through my brain.

  “What if they enslave us if we refuse to end the filibuster?” Hillary frantically asked. “What if we’re demoted from spouses to slaves?”

  “This is a nightmare,” Warren muttered. “We must have lost our minds while tripping on the Bill Maher and now we’re stuck in some Freddy Kruger kind of thing.”

  The three of us shared a pained look. The last virtual cinema experience we’d taken in together had been Freddy Vs. Jason XXX: Would One of You Stay Dead Please?

  I took a stabilizing breath. “Look. For all we know ‘slave’ means something else here.” It was a weak argument, but it was all I had. “Everything else in Trumpgolia is the opposite of its meaning.” That was true at least. “Don’t let them intimidate us into submission. I doubt spouses have any legal rights here anyway!”

  My head was starting to ache. I rubbed my temples as a seemingly endless stream of what ifs flooded my brain. The exorcist picked that precise moment to slam down the gavel he wielded. I winced.

  “Gentlemen and Gentlemen,” the odious little man began, “the case brought before this here congress today is Three Male Patriots vs. Their Three Commie Libtard Wives.” He cleared his throat and straightened his atrociously outdated tie. “Let the record show the word possessed isn’t in the docket because I done gave all three of them exorcisms.”

  Thunderous applause ensued. The desire to roll my eyes gnawed at me despite my ever growing headache. I resisted the temptation—barely.

  “The opening statement will be made by Sergeant First Class McKillery. Gowdy, I yield the floor to you at this time. Let’s adjourn this here congress.”

  My gaze clashed with Paul Ryan’s. The overly confident expression he wore caused my green eyes to blaze with fury. Unfortunately, that only seemed to amuse him, which in turn annoyed the shit out of me. I thrust my chin up and dramatically looked away from him.

  “Thank you, Professor-Preacher Angus,” Gowdy began.

  Hillary’s alleged husband straightened the tie he wore before leaning in closer to the conference table. Steepling his fingertips together as if in deep thought, his blue gaze zeroed in on me. I blinked. Shouldn’t he be questioning Hills?

  “Since she is the wife of my commanding officer, the first questions will adjourn with Mrs. Snow Whitey,” Gowdy boomed out.

  My teeth gritted. From the improper usage of adjourn or the humiliating utterance of my farcical name I couldn’t say.

  “Mrs. Whitey,” Gowdy continued. “You will remember you are under oath and will be struck down by the emperor’s bigly hand if you tell a lie to this here congress.”

  Oh for fuck’s sa—

  “He’s dead!” I blurted out, already exasperated. “How will he strike me down from the grave with his allegedly big hand?”

  It didn’t take long to regret asking the question. Especially when Gowdy’s voice assumed a patronizing tone as if I was the simpleton in this equation.

  “Apparently y’all have not read the Really Terrific Newliest Testament of the Bible yet.” He cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. “I shall now quote Goodbye Losers And Haters chapter 25: verses 16-21.”

  As the stupidest word salad ever put to paper was recited to the three of us, it took all the energy I had in me to resist a neck swivel and eye roll combo. A tic began to work in my cheek. I grimly wondered if this exercise in self-restraint would kill me.

  “And so, like, when I die,” Gowdy recited in the world’s longest run-on, nonsensical sentence, “and, you know—death—we all have batteries in us that expire—I can promise you that with great surety—but when I die, the losers and haters, like the very dishonest media outside the wall, all of them will be happy because they have bad ratings and nobody buys their failing papers, but I’ll haunt them because they’re pathetic and strike them down for telling lies about me.”

  Gowdy finally took a breath. It reminded me of the massive surge of air a whale sucks in before re-descending into the depths of the ocean.

  “I can totally strike them down when I’m dead. Right now I’m sending an armada to get them, but since it’s traveling in the opposite direction it won’t arrive until I’m dead ok? But that armada is coming I can promise you that and the losers and haters will get the same fate that the first armada delivered to their enemy—that armada was, like, back in prehistoric times, before they had toilet paper.”

  Gowdy came up for air again. The tic in my cheek grew more pronounced. Like a pressure valve that needed a small release before it exploded outright, I permitted myself one head shake and a “mm mm mmmm”. Hillary, unfortunately, was far less discreet.

  “The first armada was defeated by its enemy!” Hillary blurted out before Gowdy could continue. She narrowed her eyes at the man who called himself her husband. “The king of Spain dispatched a fleet of ships with the intention of overthrowing Queen Elizabeth I of England.” Her next words came out slowly, distinctly. “The king lost. The queen won.”

  Gasps permeated the air. The assembled crowd of reporters and onlookers mumbled to one another, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying—at least not at first.

  “Fake news!”

  “Bigly fake!”

  “The commie libtards ain’t had no schoolin’!”

  I exchanged a woe-is-we look with my besties as Gowdy attempted to hush the crowd. I wasn’t certain how much more of this rabbit hole my sanity could withstand. Judging by their crestfallen faces, I surmised that Hillary and Warren had reached a similar mental juncture.

  “Y’all quiet down now!” he yelled. “I’m leading this here witch-hunt!”

  The crow
d kept up its collective chatter. I didn’t know who or what to root for—Gowdy’s idiocy or the gossips thwarting his efforts to get back on the Trumpgolian version of track.

  “Enough!” Paul Ryan bellowed, making himself heard over the din. He slammed his fist onto the table in front of him. His voice was a loud, deep boom that made even me flinch. “This open congressional hearing will become a closed one if you don’t shut up right the hell now!”

  Whether it was his tone, his threat, or both, Paul Ryan succeeded where Gowdy hadn’t. The entire chamber fell silent.

  I frowned at my captor. He beamed back a fake but effectively annoying smile. I gritted my teeth then quickly looked away so I wouldn’t see his further reactions.

  “Now then,” Gowdy said, “y’all heard the Master Sergeant.” He waved a hand in Hillary’s direction. “And just ignore my commie libtard wife’s lack of schoolin’,” he grumbled. “She can’t help that she was born a commie libtard so she don’t know no better.”

  I was quasi-touched by his defense of Hillary, yet paradoxically completely enraged by it. That these Cro-MAGAnon males actually believed we were the dumb ones was surreal to me. The people of Trumpgolia felt like the genetic result of what happened after every village on planet earth exiled its resident idiot to this side of the wall to breed with one another.

  “Besides,” Pence interrupted, speaking up for the first time, “Gowdy’s wife was ranting about a fleet of ships.” He rolled his eyes and half laughed. “Helloooo? The emperor was talking about an armada.”

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Tweedle Dumber didn’t know that an armada was a fleet of ships.

  At the crowd’s collective chuckle, the threadbare grasp I had on my temper began fraying at an alarming rate. Though my eyes were closed I somehow knew Paul Ryan was still staring at me. Determined to get through this ridiculous hearing without a death or enslavement sentence, I turned that ten-count into a twenty.

  “Now,” Gowdy intoned, “let’s continue.” He paused for a moment before asking his first question. “Master Sergeant Paul Ryan Whitey, did you or did you not repeal and replace Snow Whitey?”

  “I did,” my captor intoned.

  “And why, sir, did you repeal and replace her?”

  “I want a wife and babies.”

  Thirty-count. Maybe I’d stop bodily shaking by the time I hit thirty.

  “Why, sir,” Gowdy continued, “did you choose to repeal and replace one Snowflake Whitey in particular?”

  “Well look at her,” Paul Ryan rumbled out. “It ain’t rocketeer science.”

  I stilled. I didn’t know what he meant by that. The chuckling from the peanut gallery was somewhere between well-humored and lecherous, further confusing me.

  “Let the record show,” Gowdy said, “that the Master Sergeant chose one Snowflake Whitey to become one Snowflake Whitey because she’s scorching hot. She has one of them there model faces. Plus she got big titties and a round ass too.”

  My eyes flew open. So did my mouth. I sat there, slack jawed, unable to believe anyone would say those things aloud in what was supposed to be a formal congressional hearing much less want them “on the record”. I didn’t know how deep this rabbit hole called Trumpgolia went, but neither did I wish to find out.

  “Oh my God,” Warren muttered from beside me. “And this is being broadcast on live television.”

  I had momentarily forgotten that part of the overall humiliation. I wanted to strangle Warren for reminding me.

  “Is it accurate and patriotic to say, Master Sergeant, that you were promised a wife by the government and when the government was unable to provide you with one you looked to the emperor’s scriptures for guidance?”

  “Yes.”

  Gowdy nodded. “Is it accurate and patriotic to say, Master Sergeant, that you based your decision to repeal and replace a smoking hot commie libtard on the basis of the emperor’s most quoted verse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please quote chapter seven: verses 8-14 from the book of I Have The Best Words.”

  Paul Ryan cleared his throat a bit before speaking. “Might makes right. Have you heard me say that before? It just came to me like a few minutes ago. I totally invented it. It’s true. Might makes right. Ivanka, didn’t I just invent that saying?”

  The crowd broke into applause and gave my abductor a standing ovation. Some of the men looked to be on the verge of tears, as if Paul Ryan had just delivered the most eloquent speech in the history of eloquent speeches. I blinked, unable to understand the crowd’s reaction. I used my right hand to forcibly push my lower jaw up so my mouth no longer appeared unhinged.

  “Thank you, sir,” Gowdy said, saluting him.

  Warren, Hillary, and I shared a bewildered glance. What the hell?

  “Is it true,” Gowdy continued, his tone turning harsh, “that despite repealing and replacing Snow Whitey, seeing fit to having her properly unpossessed by the preachers, and only then legally marrying her…” He paused for effect. “Is it true that she remains in denial of the results of this here election?”

  “Yes. It’s true.”

  “Is it true she declared a filibuster?”

  “Yes. That is also true.”

  Gasps and murmurs punctured the room. My gaze darted back and forth, comprehension failing to dawn. Was I losing my fucking mind? How could all these morons understand what sin I’d allegedly committed while I remained as lost as a blind guide dog with Alzheimer’s?

  “Let the record show,” Gowdy boomed out, “that Snow Whitey has failed to allow her patriot husband to wiggle his worm in her fishing hole. In legal terms, Mrs. Whitey has given up a grand total of zero pussy to the Master Sergeant.”

  “Oh my God,” Warren breathed out.

  “Sweet Jesus help us,” Hillary gasped.

  I hoped the caramel-gold coloring of my skin effectively shielded the instantaneous head-to-toe blush that engulfed me because I could feel heat radiating off my face in waves. Said heat kicked up to nuclear as deafening boos were hurled at me from seemingly every man in the amphitheater. The peanut gallery was treating me like a deranged serial killer rather than an unwilling captive.

  “Femi-nazi!” one guy shouted.

  “Cock blocker!” an old man accused, shaking his fist.

  I glanced to Warren, uncertain how to handle this bizarre situation. Unfortunately, her expression was as confused as it was shocked.

  “Enough!” Paul Ryan bellowed.

  My startled gaze flicked toward him. I watched his face turn a mottled red, though it appeared to be born of anger rather than embarrassment. He shoved away from the conference table and surged to his feet. “I said enough!”

  The chamber immediately fell silent. I stilled, unsure what to make of his furious demeanor.

  And then I remembered one of Paul Ryan’s many deplorable traits—obsessive punctuality. I might have been his prisoner for only a couple months, but it had taken all of two minutes to establish that particularly annoying fact about his person. I supposed the Cro-MAGAnon asshole didn’t want the crowd wasting his precious time by slowing down Gowdy’s humiliating line of questioning.

  My lips pinched together in a frown. Good lord, he was irritating! Everything was always about him. I wanted to go all she-ninja on his funky ass, but I knew a scene like that would likely result in another so-called exorcism. There was but so much a Normal American female could take in one horrid day. I settled for narrowing my eyes at Paul Ryan while mentally barraging him with names.

  Jerk! Asshole! Venereal disease ridden dick! Son of a—

  “That commie libtard cock tease sitting right there,” Paul Ryan said through gritted teeth as he pointed at me, “is still my wife. You will not disrespect her with your booing!”

  My constricted gaze softened against my will. Again, just like earlier when Gowdy had defended Hillary to the chamber’s occupants, my thoughts and feelings engaged in a rampant game of tug-of-war. I felt humiliated, angry, and oddly
protected all at once.

  The emotionally draining experience proved exhausting. I slumped a bit in the chair, my emerald gaze averted and absent. I just wanted to go home with my besties—to our real home—and back to our lives beyond the wall.

  My parents would be as relieved to see me as I would be them when at last we were reunited. My career awaited me in NSA. My domicile. My precious belongings. And, of course, my many, many medicinal bongs.

  Sweet Mother Nature, I silently implored, why hast thou forsaken me?

  Chapter 2: He Said

  As the congressional hearing wore on, the dejected look on Snow’s face started to bother me. I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want to think about how I’d feel if the situation was reversed, yet here I sat doing that very thing. I sighed. There were times—like right now—when I wished I’d been born as dumb as Gowdy and Pence had been. Neither of my buddies would ever be forced to wrestle with their consciences because they were too stupid to have them. They were good soldiers and loyal friends, but the type of higher thinking apparently necessary for being able to empathize with female sensibilities simply wasn’t there.

  I didn’t wish for my wife to hate me, but I wasn’t willing to let her go either. The mental predicament those competing realities caused was one I didn’t like. I wanted to be as gleefully ignorant as Gowdy and Pence were. All those two were thinking about was getting a ruling in our favor from Professor-Preacher Angus so we could finally get some damn sex out of this deal.

  I absently listened as Gowdy put questions to his own wife and got her answers on the record, but my gaze never once strayed from the sexy face and killer bod of my commie libtard bride. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on, period. Not even the very wealthiest Cro-MAGAnon men in all of Trumpgolia could claim to have wives hotter than mine. The same could be said of Gowdy’s and Pence’s brides, even if I was partial to my Snow.

  I was so wrapped up in lustful thoughts about all the things I wished to do to my wife that the congressional hearing seemed to fly by to me. I blinked, coming back to the here and now, when Angus cleared his throat and prepared to render his judgment.