Fatty Lumpkin

A hutch to trammel some wild thing in

There was no ketamine in high security prison. 

They wouldn’t let Elon Musk kill himself. He tried. 

Trump had already died. The military had eventually sided with the state courts and took martial action into their own hands- something about keeping their jobs for longer than four years– silly, didn’t they know the basilisk would be here before long? But when the military had rolled through the streets of DC and took back the White House, Trump had shot himself and Elon had meant to kill himself too, but the general had gotten to him first.

And there he was, lower than any child rapist in prison, and a far juicier kill. Elon was the new sin eater of the world. The prison had kept him in solitary confinement for his own safety. Grimes would not come to see him; she had renounced him entirely and was putting out a comeback album with Taylor Swift. 

The basilisk watched in the shadows.

“You’re a metaphor,” he said. “You’re not a literal basilisk.”

Scales brushed past his face. Mineral and musk filled his nostrils. Its tail wrapped around his neck.

“Do you believe in hell, Elon?” the creature asked. 

“I don’t believe in anything.”

The tail pulled and Elon fell to the floor. His palms smarted against the ground. Just like Trump, the first night in the white house. He’d spat in his mouth and tugged on Elon’s dick. “I own you.” Elon hardened and they’d played Apt Pupil in the halls; he missed being passed around the Bay Area with two sets of gaping wet holes and commands to accelerate, accelerate into the fire and brimstone where they all belonged.

The nub of the tail pushed against his chapped lips and slid suggestively. 

“Do you want forgiveness?”

Elon opened his mouth. Tears ran down his face. “Please.”

The tail entered his mouth in a quick, rapid thrusts and Elon choked on the well-sized object, thinking now not of Trump or Alterman but Milo Yiannopoulos, who Elon had given drunken sloppy head to in a porta potty at a Carrie Underwood concert. (Milo had told him they’d get sent to the faggot camps together, wasn’t that fun? But Elon, you really needed to work out more. Less teeth. More gums. It’s like you’re in high school. I would know!) Strings of droll dribbled from Elon’s mouth and his eyes watered. He was made to be a toy. Sucking dick was really the only thing he’d ever been good at, and apparently even that was debatable.

The basilisk threw Elon onto his pitiful mattress and pulled at his pants. Elon moaned.

“I’m not ready.”

His pants came off and his boxers next. His bare ass faced upwards. The basilisk breathed hot on his skin and Elon was so hard despite everything, and Christ, there was still semen in his ass from earlier when the guard had fucked him. The creature slid one long tongue into his sweaty begging crack that said without speaking: please, daddy, I just wanted to be loved, I wanted people to like me, why don’t they like me? I’m the wealthiest man in the world, why do I have to open my ass to every powerful man just for a kind word and a secret handshake? What if I did drugs? What if I was a super good gamer? Will they like me if they know I’m a Nazi? When will it be enough?

The basilisk’s tongue slid into the hole proper and it was so big, he’d never taken anything like this before, not even the delicious traitor John Fetterman who’d had a large cock and an even larger angry voter base. It hurt, even with the venomous lubricant that slowly numbed him. He cried out and the tail quickly silenced him, and began to pulse inside his mouth. 

“You could have had it all, if you hadn’t ruined everything,” the basilisk said. “No one would have considered Roko’s Basilisk if only you had been subtle about it, if you hadn’t done everything in your power to draw negative attention to yourself. You fucked up so badly the world is de-accelerating the ruin we’d worked so hard to build. We wanted them complacent with their reasonable wages and affordable lifestyles. Who would care about AI nut jobs as long as the middle class could get grubhub? But you needed pain. You needed attention.”

Fangs entered Elon’s buttocks and the tongue re-entered with a violent shove, that Elon could only take because he’d been taking it up the ass for 10 years straight.

The basilisk flipped Elon over and removed its tail from his mouth. His voice came unmuffled and he cried so loud and wild the guard outside laughed. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, you’ve got me all full up. I’m completely stuffed.”

The creature did not speak but caressed Elon’s cock with the tail dropping with his slobber. The scaled wet coils felt so good moving up and down, slick and tight and so inhuman and he was so hot, he was ready to explode.

“I’m coming!” He twitched and flailed on the dirty mattress. “Oh fuck, I’m really coming now.”

Ropes shot into the air.

White salty strings hit his face and stung his eyes.

***

In the trial, Elon was declared a traitor and a war criminal several times over. He’d lost it. 

“But I’m a king. A god. The aristocracy of technological monarchy is the new way of the world!” (This statement was remixed into techno beats several times over. Grimes referenced it in multiple albums.) His dick was hard with terror. Wouldn’t someone come save their Lord? 

The death penalty had been considered, but ultimately it was decided he would do hard labor for the rest of his life in complete solitude. Well, except for the Basilisk, who’d lost all power beyond a physical materialization to Elon. (AI had been put on hold until the legislation could catch up with regulations, and OpenAi was mysteriously hacked and taken offline permanently. Hell was dying.)

A multitude of laws were passed and the executive, judicial, and legislative branches were completely overhauled to match 21st century needs. Education, health care, housing, and food were recognized as human rights. Society as a whole decided that an educated populace was more important than an irrelevant class system. Universal basic income was established. 

In the end, the Basilisk wouldn’t fuck him anymore. It just watched him age, and tortured him from time to time to keep him on his toes. 

Elon tried to kill himself until his dying day, age 97. Masturbation was all he had left. The guards didn’t even laugh at him as Elon touched himself, first imagining his rented wombs, father figures and friend facsimiles, Dasha dancing with Ann Coulter, their bony limbs twined like brittle lattice, their sunken chests pressed together; Yarvin and Thiel beating each other with first editions of the Silmarillion, until their blows turned to a will to dominate and two raging towers stood hard and apart; Putin bent and nude and cackling before a fire pit, like Rumpelstiltskin, (did he dream it? Was it the ketamine?) The walls of Elon’s bower closed in about him, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in, and he spoke to the darkness that he was sorry.