So I finally cracked and wrote a political size-fantasy story. This one has death, destruction, hard vore, scat, and more catharsis than we’re ever likely to see from our actual political system. Felt good to write it, though.
It was a Sunday morning, just like Pearl Harbor. I was having a smoke before the start of my shift at the Washington Monument. I had that job since they finally reopened after the renovations. Of course it’s closed again like all the rest. I suppose I should be looking for another job, but I just don’t see the point.
I was on the observation floor when it first hit. It wasn’t very long, less than two seconds. A sharp jolt shook the Monument, and I felt it worst on top. I didn’t have time to worry about the Monument falling down, and afterward I spent several minutes just holding a railing and convincing myself that it was over and that I would be okay. I was mistaken on both points.
