Hillary Clinton Seen Morphing Into Lizard, Scurrying Toward Hole
At two a.m. on Wednesday November ninth, the glass ceiling of Manhattan’s Javits Center remained intact. There were no shards on the ground from the first female president’s ascent through that metaphorical yet very real tempered enclosure. The only things that littered the floor and sullied people’s shoes were the tears of her stunned supporters. No confetti, no streamers.
Hillary herself lay in a trance-like repose at the back of a palatial dressing room deep within the bowels of the building. Dripping with the accoutrements of high office and upper-crust lifestyle, this purported champion of the blue collars looked like anything but.
Her right arm covered her eyes as she lay in seeming exhaustion. She sighed deeply while most of her inner circle left the room. I, a humble reporter, and her campaign manger were the only ones left — the only ones to witness what would shortly follow.
“I can’t believe it,” she said through her elbow. “I can’t believe he won. What didn’t we see?”
“I . . .” her campaign manger stammered. “. . . I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t know, you imbecile!”
The words were shocking, and when she removed her arm and revealed her face, her appearance was even more so. It was somehow twisted, her eyes sharper, angry, red.
If you knew you wouldn’t have allowed it to happen, would you?” The question started out rhetorical, but her expression suddenly turned a shade darker, and suspicious while it hung in the air. “Would you? Did you sabotage me, you son . . .”
“Hold it right there.” The campaign manager stood up for himself. No doubt his balls were massive, considering the twisted face and red eyes and all. “How dare you accuse . . .”
She must have covered the distance between them — which was thirty feet if it was an inch — in the amount of time it took me to blink, because I didn’t see any of it. One moment she was on her feinting couch with her arm over her face, the next she was on him tearing and biting at his face. He screamed and threw up his hands in a vain attempt to fight her off, but it was immediately clear that fighting wasn’t his game, and that even if it was, he would likely have needed help. Her tenacity was astounding.
Though it shames me to admit it, in that moment I hesitated. I hesitated and gave serious consideration, only for a moment, mind you, but serious consideration nonetheless, to fleeing the room to ensure my own safety. It was as if she turned into something wholly new, unnatural, and frighteningly demonic and I wanted to run as far and fast as possible.
My better angels won out, however, and I swallowed my fear and turned toward the scene of carnage before me and hurried in the direction of Mrs. Clinton.
I remember grabbing her by the shoulder pads and those pads feeling surprisingly, which is to say completely, hard under my grip — hard and, to my great surprise, scaly. She immediately turned and bit into my right hand, causing me to release my grip. She leaped from her hapless campaign manager to the brown Burberry carpet floor in a four-legged and not-entirely-human motion, and scurried across it to the opposite wall.
What happened next will haunt me for the rest of my days. When she reached the doorway she looked over her left shoulder at me and I thought she was going to turn and attack me. So wretched, twisted, and unrecognizable was her face that I stood paralyzed with shock. I thought I saw scales or perhaps unnaturally darkened hives on her skin, but attributed that to my imagination, though looking back now, I think I was right the first time.
She didn’t attack. Through the doorway was a carpeted narrow hall with fashionable light sconces lining both sides which led to a set of double glass doors which opened into a short anteroom which led outside. She turned toward the doors and moved down the hallway using the same demonic crab walk and unnatural quickness she employed to cross her dressing room. Two secret-service agents stood guarding the set of glass doors. I could see the look of confusion on their faces as they drew their weapons. Leaning from the doorway of her dressing room, I yelled, “Don’t shoot! That’s Mrs. Clinton!”
Later I found out that both men recognized the suit she wore and that whatever it was that moved toward them wasn’t anything they had encountered before or even knew existed. It was these thoughts that kept them from firing their weapons.
As she scurried down the hall and the Secret Service men lowered their weapons I saw a lizard-like arm with equally lizard-like digits rise over her shoulder and tear her blue suit from her now shriveled and and completely scaled-over body. When she passed under one of those sconces I could see that her now-monstrous body glistened with moisture.
Naked and now mostly some kind of abhorrent lizard, she jumped into the doors and pushed them open. She went through the anteroom and did the same to the doors that led outside. Running after her — as I started doing after I yelled to the Secret Service agents — I saw her dart into a dirt embankment at the end of the parking lot just out of the reach of the security lights.
She was gone. But I understood that everything we knew as Hillary Clinton ceased to exist before she even left her dressing room, if it had ever really existed at all.