Happy Ending: The Political Comedy Of The Year — Warning: Sex & Violence

By Doug Elfman

What would happen if every conservative nightmare came true? What if there really was a War On Christmas Killer? What if the Deep State was a Socialist enclave in San Francisco? What if extreme Leftists ganged up on the poopy president and his party of unwashed wrestling fans?

"Happy Ending" — "the feel-good comedy satire of the year" — is what would happen.

Multiple award-winner Doug Elfman has written "the liberal revenge fantasy for our times.”

Prepare yourself for wild sex and violence in this laugh-a-minute comedy which will leave conservatives shaking in their bootstraps.

Doug Elfman is the celebrity journalist who has interviewed everyone from Al Gore to Donald Trump, Prince to Paul McCartney, and Britney to Mariah. He’s appeared on “Good Morning America,” “Marketplace,” and “Sharknado: The 4th Awakens.”

He rose to prominence as a nationally renowned celebrity columnist, feature writer, and concert reviewer, reporting not just on stars and Gatsby parties, but also strippers, swingers, and sex workers in Las Vegas.

He was also the TV critic at the Chicago Sun-Times.

Before all that glitz and glamour, he began his writing career as a hard-news reporter, swimming through snake-infested floods, and dodging hurricane-slung pinecones, in the dirty American South. That's where he covered politics, government, crime, courts, education and even catfish farm bankruptcies, making his way from New Orleans to Atlanta, Florida, and Tennessee.

Elfman also launched The Game Dork, the nationally syndicated video game column, which influenced a generation of game reviewers.

His third piece of fiction, "Happy Ending: The Political Comedy Of The Year — Warning: Sex & Violence," comes on the heels of his futuristic satirical farce, "The Siege of Las Vegas," as well as, "I Know What I Have And I'm Grateful,” his tender literary tribute to love and death in small-town America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Elfman
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386722533

Book preview

Warning: Sex & Violence

This story contains sexually and violently explicit stories. You should be of a certain age and belief system to process sex and violence. If you’re offended, back away from this satire. You’ve been warned. Turn back now.

With gratitude to watercolor master Elena Păun

To receive special considerations, visit:

Patreon.com/Elfman

Facebook.com/elfmonster

Twitter — VegasAnonymous

Instagram.com/dougelfman

Youtube.com/user/elfmonster

DougElfman.com

Happy Ending: The Political Comedy Of The Year — Warning: Sex & Violence

By Doug Elfman

––––––––

First Game Dork edition published in 2018 

––––––––

Copyright © 2018 by Doug Elfman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author and copyright holder. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to names, actual persons, living or dead, places, incidents, ideas, or actual events is purely coincidental. Names, places, events, ideas, characters, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Description and commentary are not necessarily endorsement. Published by The Game Dork LLC, a Trademark.

Dedication

For Alicia, who read this story and said the title should be dildobombpop

This Book’s Forward

I just want you to curl up next to me and read me like the book I am.

Just read me all over.

Rowr.

Lick your fingers.

Curve the page.

Flip me over.

Devour me.

Judge me by my cover.

I want to verb your direct object.

I want your eyes all over me.

Take me in.

Do you see me for who I really am?

Are you watching me?

I like that.

Am I your secret?

Don’t worry. I won’t tell. Shhh.

When you put me down, I’ll still be here, waiting for you.

Touch me. Caress me. Let me please you.

I’m not a quickie.

I’m not your first.

I won’t be your last.

But I’ll be your best.

I’ll work you up.

I’ll bring you to the edge.

I’ll play with you.

I’ll work you over.

And just when you can’t take the suspense any longer, I’ll give you a satisfying climax.

I want to be your Happy Ending.

You do like Happy Endings ... don’t you?

Chapter One

The Femdom Stepmom

By America's First Lady, Lady Lump

––––––––

It was Picture Day at Castle Dump, and I was running a con on corporate executives and other easy marks, charging them $25,000 each to pose for photos with me and my curvy, mouth-watering body.

My back is killing me, I thought in my high clear heels. My extensions itched, too.

But I am a goddess.

I was in a twelve-year lease as President Dump Lump's wife, and he wanted me to swindle back the money he borrowed to pay for me. He gave me a cut of merchandising. So we sold selfies to suckers.

One by one, business ticks from Nebraska slimed up to my lickable rent-to-own legs, and breasts, and ass, and face, and hair, and eyes, and lips, and oh just thinking about me made me want to fork my oyster.

I had always been sexual. It began when I was a girl, rocking myself to sleep, and it continued when I modeled in Brojniska, a tourism hole filled by CEOs and other robbing leeches.

I was just one of those addicts born to find orgasms a delicacy. Intertwining bodies were hypnotic, a habit.

I experimented with threesomes, sixsomes, moresomes, orgies. I tried submission. It wasn't for me. I wanted control. I wanted to oversee degradation under my assured guidance.

Eventually, I staked out my brand: The femdom stepmom.

I couldn't understand anyone whose passion wasn't lust. We are all born as an X, our two arms overhead, our two legs down below, and right in the center of our X is our sex, driving every movement and moment we make.

Our sex is the middle of us.

X marks the spot.

Everywhere I looked, I saw people as walking Xs, clothing themselves to hide their fetish, yearning to be freed to revel in all their sexually majestic glory, the fountain of life in all things.

But I must stop thinking of X or I will never finish this story you asked me to tell.

During this Picture Day sideshow at Castle Lump, I had no taste for the pinstriped animals parading by me. They were dullards. Peasants, worth mere millions, or worse, middle classholes itemizing my $25,000 fee onto corporate credit cards, unable to pay for me by themselves, the poors.

To grin and bear their poverty, I worked and I worked, and I turned my independent contractor frown upside-down.

Snap, snap, snap.

The official photographer for my humptacular body, Akemi, captured me as I grinned, deceptively, with one slobbering prick after another, male and female alike.

Our photo backdrop was a watercolor mural of moi, naked, enlightened, riding old Dump Lump, wrinkled and clasping his mortal hands behind his stupid balloon head.

You can't spell ‘classy’ without ‘assy,’ my momager always said.

This was on Mother's Day. I was a mother, after all, although ... had anyone seen little Damian? I was sure he was off having his own good life.

Taking photos is hard. It's like this:

A man comes up to you.

His name is Joe Jones, an insurance tycoon.

Happy Mother's Day, Lady Lump, the tycoon weasel squawks.

You unhinge your smile.

You don’t speak.

Snap, snap.

The sniveling weasel is shooed back.

Up next comes a porcupine who slinks by your side.

"You're purtier in person," says this thing named Pierce Fiver. He's a gun-runner.

He ogles your perfection in an emerald green tube dress. He sees you only for the sex you use to get what you want.

Pierce places his spindly mustache near your silky model face.

He smells like sauerkraut.

Surprising you, Pierce slides a business card and a roll of cash in your palm and clasps it shut. This is meant to be a tip for later services, if you desire.

You do not desire.

You flare your fist from his grip.

His proposition flops to the floor.

You're not that kind of lady, anymore.

You're a high-stakes lady. But you'll keep his cash.

I don't want him to feel insulted.

Your personal assistant, Cam, crouched nearby, speeds to your feet, snatches the cad’s commission, and trots off like a ball retriever at Wimbledon, trot, trot, trot.

A lot of ball retrieving went on at Castle Lump.

The only thing about this particular Picture Day was, I just wasn't in the mood for the cash grab, for once. My perfunctory attention to this side business grew impatient.

I could kill Dump Lump for scheduling this today, I thought.

But I had no choice but to trade time for money, because a gold-digger goes where the gold digging’s good.

And on this stormy Sunday, the gold-digging was big and shiny inside stony Castle Lump off the Atlantic Coast harbor of Daniels, East Carolina, where the mosquitoes were as big as the hicks.

Outside the castle, rapturous rains from Hurricane Tonya chanted her ire, kicking at our tastefully gold-painted doors. Lightning licked the air like a snake wiggling its tongue for rats. And inside our seaside castle, we rats ruled supreme.

I'm a fucking hurricane, take me seriously, Hurricane Tonya seemed to be saying. What an asshole.

Unfazed by something so meaningless as the weather when wealth was at hand, I, your luxurious First Lady, continued mugging into the photographer's erect lens which curved up at my beauty.

Under the camera, a portrait mirror was hung and returned my gaze. I didn't want to go a minute without seeing the woman of my dreams.

I recognized my ironed reflection as the facade of who I aspired to be, smooth, creaseless, filled.

It was, to me, the seductive face of currency and prominence.

Ah, Lady love, how I long for you, I thought to sumptuous me in the mirror. Lady, Lady, I wish my hands were all over your smooth and slippery body.

Once I drained them of their blood money, every executive vampire was batted away by the crook of an elbow, replaced by fresh teeth from a chamber of neckties and wingtips.

I, omnivorous for their green blood, gobbled them up and spat their bones.

This is your final gentleman payer, my Director of Public Narrative, Noa, called out to my tall figurine.

I posed with the wretch, snap, then turned on my heels, my long hair swinging by.

I clipped away slowly, cumbersome on my giraffe legs, clip, clop.

My smile came to a close.

My lips pinched an anal pucker.

I aimed for the back of the gold-and-forest-green Monetization Room, and left those pork bellies to raise a toast to their photographic merchandise of me.

I counted the day’s booty in my mind.

Oh, what treasures spray from the blowholes of America’s great white whales.

I surged through a door.

I shut the door.

I locked the hole with a long key, and tossed the key in a meat-eating Venus Fly Trap planter beside the wall.

The Venus Fly Trap — my darling Betsy — was eating a bug. Like mother, like daughter.

––––––––

I appeared to be alone in the Flower Room.

All four walls were lined with standing vases, displaying freshly wetted pedals-on-stems for all to see their wanting fruit.

Sensuous flowers. Clitoria ternatea. Clitoria macrophyllas. Peony daisies. Phygelius. These were flowers to fuck to.

Hurricane Tonya eased up a notch. Her winds whipped shutters, but gusts went on break. Earlier, Castle Dump had been pelted, profusely, by plastic water bottles dredged from the sister sea.

I am a fucking hurricane, Tonya kept saying, over and over. I was so over her.

I, born stiff as a chair, clip-clopped to a Russian table, in the middle of the room, a table topped in doilies and orchids and shackles.

I sat and spoke to the software assistant who lived in the walls.

Alexandria, I ordered. Turn on 'Keeping It Johannesburbs,’ but mute the sound.

Keeping It Johannesburbs was a fictional reality show featuring the everyday boredom of a billionaire family from South Africa during Apartheid. Poor darlings.

Turning on 'Keeping It Johannesburbs’ and muting it, Alexandria said.

Alexandria obeyed me more pleasingly than any man could.

Alexandria projected my favorite show onto the wall to my left.

Allow me to rhapsodize the show's star, Cara Crashington.

Ahhh, Cara Crashington.

Cara Crashington was wearing a thong, a corset, eight-inch heels, a replica of a horse tail, angel wings, eyeglasses with no glass in them, and she was taking a selfie for money, mmm, monnneyyy.

I was an idolater of Cara Crashington.

"Beauuuteeful," I purred, smiling with my frown.

I, Lady, (born Weinig Lulinde Dijen, in Krakow) opened a secret compartment inside my mirror ring on my left pinky.

I placed my other pinky nail into the ring hole.

I scooped out a mix of speed-heroin powder, a legal prescription, mind you. I was no illegal druggie.

I placed the ruby-tipped nail in my nose and snorted.

I closed the ring case, shut my eyes, rolled my head back into the ornate blood-red Russian chair.

I rubbed a tit, strolling a hand down my alluring landscape to my secret garden.

I pulled up my tube dress, slumped in the chair, and slid two fingers down to the fork in the road.

I began polishing the fork.

Once the initial relaxation of prescription opiates toned down, I couldn't stop thinking about the social pressure I faced every day, the pressure to convey grace as your America's First Lady.

It made me wish I could escape to a deserted island.

A deserted island where it would just be me and my thoughts.

Just me and my thoughts, and my lover Sasha, and my other lover Felicity, and my other lover Sal, my maid Will, my pharmacist Phil, my masseuse Kim, my stylist Adelajda, my personal assistant Cam, my director of public narrative Noa, my nanny Inga, my seed-investment-child Damian, my butler Ning, and many others whose names escape me.

I would need to take all these servants with me to my deserted isle, because it is impossible to be alone and happy in the world, I thought to myself.

I was my favorite person to think about and to.

One must be accompanied by alone helpers.

Alone helpers stop me from feeling alone.

They do things for me.

But also they do things for themselves by doing things for me, because they earn dollars as my lovers, my family, and my friends.

Money is God's gift to America for bringing sex and family and friends together, Amen.

––––––––

A sound crumpled behind a curtain.

I opened my eyes and pulled my hand away from my red canna.

I sat at attention.

I looked in the direction of the white-pink curtains where the sound came from.

One curtain moved slightly.

I panicked.

Is this an assassin?

A burglar?

A creep?

What kind of man is this? It's obviously a man. It's always a man.

My instinct was to hop out of the Russian chair and race for the door, but I chose to remain. I didn't want to alarm Curtain Man.

Maybe Curtain Man is pointing his weapon at me, I thought.

The prescription heroin coursing through my blood made me feel relaxed.

The prescription speed swirling through my arteries made me feel energy.

What should I do? I am torn.

The curtain moved again, where the vile creature lurked.

I noticed movement at the bottom of the curtain.

I saw feet poking out from behind the curtain.

I know those feet, I thought. Where do I know those feet from?

I studied the crotch level of the curtain.

Ordinarily, I exhibited an exquisite immunity to fright. I was a fearless protector of my golden fleece. Whatever I did with my golden fleece, and whoever got fleeced by it, was my choice. I was the captain of my clitterati, and the master of my analogies.

But Curtain Man caught me off-guard just as I was swimming through the pharmacological universe I'd ingested. Could I be steady on my feet?

It's moving. It's moving at crotch level. Someone I know with those feet is rubbing his dick behind that curtain. Who is this?

I decided not to run to report this pervert, this nesreča, to the guards in the Monetization Room. Instead, I would confront Curtain Man like the femdom warrior I'd been faking it till I’d been making it.

I stood and kicked one clear heel off of one foot.

I raised the other foot to my hand, took off the other clear heel, and I wielded it up high like the God of War Kratos’ mighty hammer.

I walked stiff-legged toward the curtain, slowly at first, and quicker.

Then I hurtled into the white-pink curtains.

I pulled back the curtain to reveal the perfidious picaroon in the room.

To my excited delight (although, I hid my excitement), it was Dump Lump Jr., my husband's first son from his second imported