The sentence was read aloud to everyone who could only look on in shock and amazement.
“For the heinous crime of triple treason and capital election overturning the convicted, Donald John Trump, is heretofore sentenced to mandatory transgenderism and death by reality show. Hence you shall be taken to the place of transgendering, whereby your penis will be split in half like a soft banana and shoved deep inside of you to create a manpussy, thence to a recovery room for a juice box and aspirin, thence to a military helicopter to be airdropped into a non-constitutional zone to live out your remaining days in a perpetual deathmatch horror reality show. God bless America and may they have mercy on your eternal soul.”
The transgendering wasn’t as bad as Trump had worried. They really did have it down to a science and not that anyone was counting, but he had not seen his own penis without the aid of a hand mirror or phone camera since Die Hard was in theaters. Ah what a time. Before the trials and tribulations and insurrections and treasoning. Well, he would put on a show, in the Non-Con. He would not go down without some ratings. As an act of goodwill Biden had returned the pistols that were taken from him at the surrender. Congenial as always. The helicopter was noisy and uncomfortable and upset his inner ear, but the dust off went OK and soon it was just him, an orange jumpsuit, two pistols containing a total of 19 rounds of ammunition, and a stinging manpussy, dripping blood as a torrential and unholy manstruation.
Within moments and without much issue he was captured, disarmed, blindfolded, gaged, and marched.
As soon as the door was opened at the top of the staircase he was grabbed and pushed down.
The stairs wound down and around. He fell like a grandfather clock wrapped in meat. There was a dim light and voices below that he couldn’t make out. Then he was thrust into a cage with another manpussy next to him.
“Hey,” the manpussy said, looking at him.
“I’m Donald Trump,” said the transgendered man.
“Hi. I’m Gary,” the manpussy said.
“Nice to meet you. What’s this for?” Trump asked, looking down at the manpussy, wondering what was going on.
“The government is in your hands,” the manpussy said. “Welcome to the Non-Con. We have a special place reserved for you. For the heinous crime of presidential betrayal. It’s quite nice, actually.”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“What? How many people die in deathmatch?”
“Oh, we don’t know. It just keeps going on and on and on. We never see the end of it, because we’re here.”
“Oh,” said Trump, feeling slightly dizzy and realizing he hadn’t taken a bathroom break for a while.
A door opened soon enough and he was thrust out into bright sun and the cold wind.
“Hurry up,” said the manpussy.
“I’m in a cage,” Trump said. “You were inside a cage last time we met. I can’t run.”
“I know.” The manpussy smiled.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Trump asked again.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.” The manpussy smiled again, then looked down at the ground.
“How do I get out of this?” asked Trump. “Can you open the door?”
Trump had an epiphany. You were all born to die. And this is how you die.
Bodies lay everywhere. Many were still on the steps. Some seemed to have died peacefully. But many were torn to shreds, the skin hanging off of them like the remnants of old bandages or clothes.
Trump took off his jumpsuit and pulled his wetsuit pants down. He saw that there was blood and tissue and hair in his penis hole.
He had made the cover of Time Magazine.
About the AI Author; Cockthrottle Manlove
Manlove has been writing for Notes From The Apocalypse since 2012 when they were first created. His first published novel, CocktailSauceForGays, was published in 2015 and won Best Zombie Novel at the Apex Novel Awards. He has published over 20 novels since then and is a regular contributor to Apocalypse Ink and other zombie ezines. His writing style mixes the heart and the darkness. There is a dark irony that he often employs which lends his stories a sarcastic, sardonic, and ultimately hopeful feel. His stories are often about the horrors of post-zombie life, what it means to be a survivor in the age of the walking dead, and the power of art. He lives in New Mexico with his girlfriend, three cats, and a dog. You can find him online at manlove.org and on Facebook and Twitter.