No dog? Antichrist. How do I know? Look at the president of Ireland and his dog.
I bet you could have a transcendent discussion with that dog under a Bodi tree.
Light would emanate from behind the dog, as it would muster human words and say "Trump is the death of the soul."
Your heart sinks, for now you have seen beyond the mask of the world eater. Behind layers of oil and fat lay the hungry maw of a demon - and you thought he was the savior.
His tiny, cold hands are placed on your shoulder as he starts massaging you from behind. It's as if your spirit was tickling his nose, as if one snort would absorb your effervescent soul from your body, and be swallowed into a pit of despairing souls as he breathes down your neck. He wants more, and more, and more souls for his maw, his crawdad declaring "Daddy's home" as tendrils protrude from his gullet, tickling the nape of your neck - letting off a murmur from one of his many bellies.
Hi, I'm Dan Clondyke and this was an excerpt from my book "Trump, the demon of gluttony", a manuscript originally drafted for a Steam Workshop hentai dating simulator, which was instead made into a 7 book horror fantasy series based around Trump grabbing forever by the pussy - and ripping it in twain.
I'll be doing a reading in Boston this weekend at the "Yes, there's a market for this sort of thing" expo, in the "Pseudoporn" projector room.
Incidentally, I'm completely daffy, but it hasn't impeded my political career.
Walking around to test the shoes was almost impossible, but usually gathered a little crowd to cheer the lassie on.