Well last Wednesday evil Izzie's sick imagination was at work. In response to the Bohemian Gothic "Wheel of Fortune" card as a prompt - this was one of the serpent's squigglings
The wheel of fortune
Hillary is tired of the struggle. She wonders if it was all worth it. She had devoted a good 40 years of her life to the cause and was within a whisper of victory when the prize was so savagely stolen from her within sight of the finish line. It was a cruel fate in itself without the further indignity of being deported to solitary confinement in the basements of Camp X Ray at Guantanamo Bay. She had to count her blessings and be grateful for small mercies. At least she was still alive. She had feared the surging rage of the lynch mob. She had been expected to be torn to pieces by them or maybe even worse to be inflicted with the indignity of a show trial and to be hauled before the courts to be tried as a witch with every last minute detail of her personal life lain bare for public perusal and ridicule. At least her ex-husband had read the tea leaves correctly and left the land a few days before the fateful day of the election.
He would most certainly have been sent to sizzle in the chair for an assortment of sex crimes but not before every detail of his dirty laundry was washed in public and every pubic hair measured and counted on the airwaves, Facebook and Fox News. Oh yes. The big league truth team have even worse things in store.
To think that she had stood by him through thick and through thin. Some had said she had sold her soul or at least sold out the sisterhood in forgiving such a philandering wanker. Of course she had to swallow her pride and the endless torrents of abuse in the press. But the end reward would be great and she had never once taken her eyes off the prize. So to have given up so much only to be pipped at the post was too painful to contemplate. But enough of the pity parties. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Both men were bastards and they would pay when the wheel of fate turned. If only it was not so exceedingly slow.
So the letter from his lawyer had landed in her inbox the very same day that hers had arrived at his receptionist’s desk. A dark haired 20 something beauty with long legs and a fondness for blue dresses. Of course she had not sent it by email. She had resorted to the old fashioned snail registered post service.
Since then Hillary has been relocated to the basement dungeons of the White House where the Donald visits every day with his copy of The Daily Trumpet to taunt her with.
Since then Mephistopheles has devoted his time to using "The Art of the Deal" as a Bible for the harvesting of ever increasing numbers of souls. If the truth be told - he actually wrote the original text and the Donald and his ghost writer Tony Schwartz just went and plagiarized his work.
It's funny. Like the Big Man himself, this serpent's planning and preparation for this year's nano was non- existent - even less than for the very first year I joined when I signed up a couple of days before the start of November. But after digging up the original "The Art of the Deal" from the dusty depths of the serpent library of dark tomes, it has provided endless inspiration and ideas. Using the chapter titles and content as a structure has brought order to the chaos of tarot and Instigations inspired squiggles. I even get to recycle the prompt concerning the guided tours of hell.
Let's keep this going. Who says that magic and the sick and twisted musings of felines and serpents are just a bunch of pointless and harmless musings?
Sick and Twisted
The wheel of fortune
Hillary is tired of the struggle. She wonders if it was all worth it. She had devoted a good 40 years of her life to the cause and was within a whisper of victory when the prize was so savagely stolen from her within sight of the finish line. It was a cruel fate in itself without the further indignity of being deported to solitary confinement in the basements of Camp X Ray at Guantanamo Bay. She had to count her blessings and be grateful for small mercies. At least she was still alive. She had feared the surging rage of the lynch mob. She had been expected to be torn to pieces by them or maybe even worse to be inflicted with the indignity of a show trial and to be hauled before the courts to be tried as a witch with every last minute detail of her personal life lain bare for public perusal and ridicule. At least her ex-husband had read the tea leaves correctly and left the land a few days before the fateful day of the election.
He would most certainly have been sent to sizzle in the chair for an assortment of sex crimes but not before every detail of his dirty laundry was washed in public and every pubic hair measured and counted on the airwaves, Facebook and Fox News. Oh yes. The big league truth team have even worse things in store.
To think that she had stood by him through thick and through thin. Some had said she had sold her soul or at least sold out the sisterhood in forgiving such a philandering wanker. Of course she had to swallow her pride and the endless torrents of abuse in the press. But the end reward would be great and she had never once taken her eyes off the prize. So to have given up so much only to be pipped at the post was too painful to contemplate.
But enough of the pity parties. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Both men were bastards and they would pay when the wheel of fate turned. If only it was not so exceedingly slow.
So the letter from his lawyer had landed in her inbox the very same day that hers had arrived at his receptionist’s desk. A dark haired 20 something beauty with long legs and a fondness for blue dresses. Of course she had not sent it by email. She had resorted to the old fashioned snail registered post service.
Since then Hillary has been relocated to the basement dungeons of the White House where the Donald visits every day with his copy of The Daily Trumpet to taunt her with.
Since then Mephistopheles has devoted his time to using "The Art of the Deal" as a Bible for the harvesting of ever increasing numbers of souls. If the truth be told - he actually wrote the original text and the Donald and his ghost writer Tony Schwartz just went and plagiarized his work.
It's funny. Like the Big Man himself, this serpent's planning and preparation for this year's nano was non- existent - even less than for the very first year I joined when I signed up a couple of days before the start of November.
But after digging up the original "The Art of the Deal" from the dusty depths of the serpent library of dark tomes, it has provided endless inspiration and ideas. Using the chapter titles and content as a structure has brought order to the chaos of tarot and Instigations inspired squiggles.
I even get to recycle the prompt concerning the guided tours of hell.
Let's keep this going. Who says that magic and the sick and twisted musings of felines and serpents are just a bunch of pointless and harmless musings?