The dawn in Washington D.C. was stained with a sickly orange, as if the sky itself were oozing a gangrenous infection, spilling pus over the ruins of a world broken by the presence of the Orange King. His rise to power had been a macabre ballet of rehearsed lies, his voice booming like rotten thunder through every shattered screen, every crackling radio, every corner where a terror-shredded eardrum still lingered.

First, they came for the press. Journalists were torn from their homes in the gloom, their throats ripped apart by screams no one heard. They returned at dawn with disfigured faces, grotesque stitches zigzagging across their mangled lips, dried blood clotting in dark threads as they recited praises to the regime with swollen, blackened tongues slashed to ribbons. Then the judges, dragged to public squares, their naked bodies dangling in rusted cages, slit open by dull knives while the frenzied crowd tore strips of still-warm flesh from their torsos. Severed limbs piled up like trophies, and the stench of burst entrails choked the air.

When the last spark of defiance flickered out, the lie rose as a cruel god, and the true horror erupted in a symphony of flesh and blood. The King’s body began to rot alive. His nails, thick as bone splinters, peeled off in wet layers, revealing twisted claws that tore through his own skin as they grew. His fingers stretched into bony needles, dripping a yellowish ichor that scorched the marble floor. His once-flaccid flesh turned into a viscous, throbbing mass, secreting an amber liquid that bubbled on contact with the air, releasing fumes of putrefaction. His face collapsed into a vortex of necrotic tissue, his eyes sunken like black wells in a head that seemed to melt, leaving a trail of acidic drool that corroded everything in its path.

And then his hunger awoke. The first to suffer were the captives—dissenters and rebels rounded up by his loyal ministers, who trembled in his presence but obeyed to save their own skins. In darkened cells beneath the palace, the walls shook with guttural shrieks as the King fed, the sound of crushed bones and torn flesh echoing like an infernal drum. At dawn, servants dragged buckets brimming with thick blood, scraps of ripped skin floating like petals in a red swamp, and shards of split skulls still dripping brains. The King’s mouth, now a jagged cavern stretching from his unhinged jaw to his sternum, writhed with multiple tongues, each lined with barbs that shredded his prey as he swallowed them alive.

Among his chosen was Mary Ann Sue, a frail girl from Tennessee whose pale skin still bore the marks of the rough hands that surrendered her. Her parents, their faces weathered by sun and misery, had sold her for a handful of grimy coins—enough to buy a garish red MAGA cap they wore with pride as they chanted hymns to their new lord. For the MAGA faithful, being devoured by the Orange King was the ultimate honor. They proclaimed him greater than Jesus, for he was real, tangible—a grotesque deity they could touch, whose slimy flesh they kissed with fervent lips. They had abandoned their Christian crosses for the satanic orange, carving his oozing likeness into their skin with blades and branding irons, their churches now altars of gore where they offered themselves willingly to his maw.

Mary Ann Sue trembled in the square, her wrists bound with ropes that had sliced her flesh raw, exposing veins pulsing faintly under the sickly light. Her parents stood among the throng, caps gleaming, reciting twisted prayers as the King dragged himself toward her, his body leaving a trail of viscous slime that bubbled and sputtered on the ground. His mouth gaped wider with each rasp, splattering corrosive saliva, while the remains of a rebel—his arms dangling limp between his lips, flesh hanging in strips like tattered curtains—slid down his throat with a wet crunch. She tried to scream, but her voice broke into a dry whimper, her legs buckling as she fell to her knees on ground soaked in old blood and bile. Black tendrils sprouted from his cracked skin, slicing her ankle like barbed wire, drawing warm blood that mingled with the amber ichor. His barbed tongues ensnared her, tearing off strips of skin and tendons with wet snaps. Blood spurted in bright arcs, painting his gelatinous face, and with a final yank, a tongue pierced her chest, shattering her ribs and ripping out her beating heart, which he swallowed whole. The rest of her body was dragged into his maw, bones crunching as her screams faded into a damp echo. Her parents wept tears of ecstasy, clutching their caps, convinced her soul now merged with their satanic orange.

The army rose in vain. Generals who defied him were flayed before their troops, their skins hung like banners as the King fed on their still-twitching remains. With a roar that shook the earth, he proclaimed his absolute dominion, and soldiers who didn’t kneel were crushed, their bodies bursting into puddles of mangled guts. His ministers herded survivors into pens, but the MAGA throngs marched forward willingly, stripping naked to offer their flesh, chanting that his hunger was salvation. The city became a living ossuary, a slaughterhouse reeking of iron and decay. His processions were a nightmare spectacle, his colossal body leaving a trail of rotting flesh sloughing from his sides. Captured rebels dissolved in his drool, their eyes melting as they begged for mercy, but the faithful knelt, entranced, hurling themselves into his maw to be pulverized, their remains spat out as bloody relics revered by the crowd.

The dissenters, silenced by terror, bore mouths sewn shut with rusted staples dripping pus, the infected wounds swelling beneath their skin. The only sound was the King’s wet dragging, the snap of his jaws, and the ecstatic wails of the MAGA devout. In the end, the city fell mute, a graveyard of gutted towers and streets carpeted with half-digested corpses. The Orange King, a mountain of ulcerated, pulsing flesh, towered over a throne of stacked skulls, each with its jaw torn away, their pestilent breaths hissing through exposed vertebrae. His hunger, a bottomless abyss, quivered in every fold of his cracked skin, and his mouth, eternally gaping, drooled rivers of clotted blood, calling in a viscous whisper to whatever might still live—rebel or worshiper alike.