Hamilton: An American Horror, by Mike Pence
It is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. Oh what foul and indescribable horrors I saw on that grey November eve.
For some time I had been aware of the musical referred to as Hamilton. Being as I am of the opinion that the homosexual community and the musical theatre community are indistinguishable, and that both factions are screaming warts on the devil’s anus, I was loath to attend this monstrosity of camp. Indeed, if ever a colleague or friend mentioned the hideous production, I would immediately and involuntarily vomit on the nearest homosexual.
Then, of course, our Lord and Saviour Donald Trump was elected to be the Supreme Heavenly Father of this nation. As he chose me to be his vice-president, I had a change of heart and felt what I can only describe as a newfound sense of duty: I owed it to my country to bear witness to a tale that dived deep into the history of the United States. Oh, God bless these United States.
And so, making sure not to eat anything for fear of vomiting during the production and spoiling the suit I wear on formal occasions and when I make love, I embarked on our journey to the Richard Rodgers Theater. Even to write those words now, so soon after the events of that fateful night, is enough to send an icy chill down my spine. I, like so many, consider the theater a safe haven, a space to which one journeys to be cheered, to be lifted, to be hugged. This goodwill, I must confess, was a grave error on my part. The rain lashed our car as we sped towards the theater and I felt an unease in my blood. Perhaps it was because I had again accidentally imagined two men kissing — a habit that is becoming increasingly common, and whose cause is still undiagnosed — or perhaps it was because I knew that something evil was stirring in the shadows that night. There were foul spirits afoot as we arrived and paid $8 for parking.
Crossing the threshold of the theater, I remarked upon the chill in the air. “I say, there’s a chill in the air,” I said to the doorman, a beautiful and massive Afro-Caribbean man. As long as I live I will never forget his response. Under his breath he said to me, “Shut the fuck up, man.” My sense of unease only intensified.
As we journeyed farther, inching ever closer to the theater’s beating heart, we were pointed in the right direction by obliging staff. Knowing what I know now, I realise that they were obliging in their duplicity and complicity: they were luring me into a trap, much like a bear trap except that I believe that ‘bear’ is a term for a big gay man and I am not, absolutely not, a big gay man, can’t imagine anything worse.
Oh but what foul and corrupt energy I felt polluting that hallowed space. No sooner had I entered the theater proper than I saw with a start the frenzied, bloodshot eyes of the feral mob. Ghastly, ghoulish visages, foaming at the mouth, met my eyes at every turn. Many of them, reading the programme for the evening’s entertainment, momentarily glanced up from their booklet to bear their rabid teeth at me. Never in my life have I been witness to such profound evil. Never have I been privy first-hand to such iniquity. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! I saw babes bare their yellow teeth at me, snarling with undisguised rage. I saw crones with watery gums grimace and flick me the Vs.
I did the best a man could to ignore these satanic provocations.
But then the boos began.
The boos rained down on me like arrows. Many found their target and I yelped aloud as though physically struck. And still they came, and they came, and again they came. A chorus of angry voices weighed me down as though anchors pressing me below water. As though from a different dimension I heard a distant murmur — “I think this is row J?” — but I can scarce claim to have understood it, any more than I can claim to understand it when woman say “Sugar-Tits” is an inappropriate term of address when meeting a female politician for the first time. It seemed to me as if the very theater was made of noise; as if the boos were emanating from the walls, from the floorboards themselves. All around me I saw mouths contorted into ugly ‘oo’ forms; eyes ablaze with sulphurous hatred; spit-flecked mouths saying things like “Go suck a dick, Pence”. A few days hence I still wake up, sweat dripping from damp pyjamas, those dæmon faces gnawing at the very fabric of my skull, their invocations curiously vivid in my mind’s eye.
The musical itself was great fun. Funky tunes.
After the play was ended, the evening over, I bid a hasty retreat. I knew that any moment those beasts could turn on me, ripping me to shreds in their teeth. As I endeavoured to find the bright lights of the exit sign, my plan was foiled. As though the evening’s degradations could not get any more severe, I was called by name from the stage and humiliated like a condemned man in medieval stocks. Would that this torment would come to an end, I whispered to myself, shaking silently as I watched those costumed actors unleash their vitriol on me. A tear, unbidden, slid down my cheek and onto the soft carpet. Mama told you never to let them see you cry, I thought.
That night, as I lay shivering and naked in my bathtub, I felt fear course through my body. Was this the America that our Saviour promised? Could this scene of carnage, this ungodly cacophony of sin, somehow be connected to the election result? In the eyes of those theatergoers was such convulsive rage. As one paranoid thought followed hot on the heels of another, I asked myself a question I had never even contemplated in all my years on this earth. Do I…do I suck?
In the morning I woke to see that Donald had tweeted in outrage about the incident, leaping to my defence. Reading his eloquent outburst, I remembered in a flash: of course. We’re both awesome. It’s everyone else who are total idiots.