Geert Wilders approaches the podium. He beams as he faces the press following his parliamentary gains.The room darkens, his head falls forward, and hits his chest. The walls blush deep purple and Geert's head moves: following the rolling thunder that circles the square room, sonically tethered to that tickling roar. Thick saliva plumes in his mouth, flowing from the gushing well under his tongue and rendering his gob to a writhing and shivering pool of ecstasy, incapable of speech. Drooling onto some gray-white structure beneath him, he releases enough fluid to speak, eyes rolling back: “The impossible has happened,” he hisses to a press-filled party gathering. “The Netherlands chose more security, less crime, less immigration and less Islam.”
The last 'm' tickles his upper lip and resonates throughout the room longer than he cares to notice. He rolls his head around his neck again, tuning in to a high pitched whine coming from somewhere inside himself sickly and wet. He looks down and accepts that he's fucking Trigiten Scar Vyn Kittten, editor in chief of the NRC Next Newspaper. The fat man's wearing a stucco minaret that covers his torso and head; the rest as you'd expect. Geert thinks of his now reachable ban on minarets; how the minaret appears to him not commonly phallic, no, but the phallic's negative; the sheath of his ambitious sword; the instrument of conflict; can holey europe die a third death? Vyn Kittten leans forward and breathes into his microphone placed at dog-level: '“A divided Netherlands.” “Never has the voters’ message been so mixed,” NRC Next said in an editorial. “A stable governing coalition with three parties does not seem possible.”'
Geert leans forward. The night hints at latex, whispered transgressions, unforgiveness, the dark woman who hides in his room, to expose her, to see her face. He falls to the side as the bells ring white.