An Andrew Breitbart fanfiction
“No, Mr. Breitbart. Please!”
Andrew Breitbart’s stringy gray hair was greased back with sweat as he loomed over a child, heaving and groaning. In his shadow, the small boy covered his naked shame with both hands and fixed his eyes on the wall, where a picture of Jesus was hung. He was supposed to meet a star.
Through blurry tears, the fresh boy pleaded silently into a haze of pastel colors, bargaining with the figure in a helpless bid to take away the blinding pain he knew was coming again, and again. The picture, slightly a shift, just stared back.
“Please,” he mewed. “Don’t.”
Breitbart reached under his well-fed and sagging One Percent gut where he fished around in an area of fat – barely distinguishable as a human crotch – to release his flaccid member from an outcropping of silvery pubic hair, and he peed on the child. Neither said a word.
Breitbart wiped coke from his mustache, then lost his balance, collapsing into sturdy hotel furniture, driving a chair into the wall with a thud and a smoker’s cough. He quickly regained his composure, squinting to combat double vision toward the bed where a guest with backstage passes cowered palely in the fetal position. Across the floral pattern of a posh Hilton comforter, the child seemed a rare delicacy served up on a platter of foliage among which he was the flower.
“Spread ‘em,” commanded Breitbart through the darkness. “Roll over, and spread.”
The boy looked about seven, or maybe nine. His dad was a staunch supporter of the Second Amendment and admired Breitbart’s throbbing tirades against the Fourth Estate, who just lie to propagate the Jewish agenda. “Nothing but the best for my boy! Let him spend an afternoon with a real American hero, and see what a modern businessman does.” This was nothing new. The man was secretly afraid his son might be “turning into a faggot,” so he once bought him passes to the New York Giants locker room after their 2012 victory against the Patriots.
The boy rolled over and, with uncomfortable familiarity, did as he was told.
“Mm, good,” burped Breitbart, pumping his limp genitalia. “Now what does Daddy say about Reagan? You know the presidents, boy?”
“Reagan was a good president!” he recited tremulously.
“He was the best!” roared the conservative orator. “He won the fucking Cold War. He beat the Commies!” Breitbart was now sporting a self-supporting second stage erection, which he aimed at the child. But the young boy had not proven his loyalty to Reagan well enough to satisfy Breitbart.
“You like Star Wars?” Breitbart cajoled the child who still lay submissively on the bed. “Like the movies?”
“I like Jar Jar,” he said in a lighter tone. His muscles relaxed as the TV star and author appealed to his love for science fiction.
“Yeah, Ronald Reagan knew Star Wars. And with it, he scared those rubes into submission!” Breitbart pulsated, allowing a single drop of conviction to seep out, forming a clear bead. “Thanks to Ronald Reagan, we didn’t have to fire a shot.”
“Reagan liked Star Wars?” The boy was confused.
Breitbart dropped to his knees on the bed and positioned himself directly over the quivering mass of dry, supple flesh, which assumed innocent passivity. And reeking of fermentation, Andrew breathed hotly into his left ear, “Yeah. Reagan liked Star Wars.”
20 replies on “Fanfiction: Righteous Indignation – Excuse Me While I Rape The World!”
#ugh #really #KILLitWithFire
I just turned this in. To a teacher.
Well I guess someone is about to lose their literary virginity to a very TerribleAuthor. Bloody good show!
da absolute fuck?
da actual fuck?
it beats the obituaries, i guess.
i miss when you guys were cool and interesting
me too. where did we go so wrong?
as for that, i cannot say.
your paths and mine once ran together in harmony, and indeed lulz were abundant. in a sweet symphony of hate we formed an alliance, one sure to undermine all authority or delusions there of. who could have guessed that which brought us together would be the very same thing that caused our paths to diverge? now the brightest of suns could not penetrate the depth of hate for which we hold for each other.
if forced to speculate on your current issues, i would point at that you, too much like kilgoar before you, are starting to revel in the effigy that now goes by Frank Mason. Old Brutus is the author i fell in love with, and he seems to have been entirely consumed by the terrible author. i lament the loss of interesting reading material, but more so the loss of two of america’s former greatest journalist.
in the event that either of us pass before we clear up this asinine squabble, i will point out i quite like the color scheme you have going on here. very well done.
and geo’s hate cycle begins once more
No, he likes the color scheme
on a brighter note (if it can be called that) you’re doing much better than sp00k.
‘Old Brutus is the author i fell in love with’
Gay much geofag….I think he wants to be Frank’s muse to suck at the e-cawk and tities.
‘if forced to speculate on your current issues’
No one asked you retard, so your again you’re wasting invaluable writing space…..
And Kill yourself, the sooner the better geohazbeen, who never will be!
*so you’re again
we don’t need Geo now that we have Beefrave
BEEFRAVE’s appearance marks a new era in lol
Finally something we can agree on fishfag….
hey bitch, put down the needle for a second and read.
“where did we go so wrong?”
that is known as a question.
fucking morons on this site, i swear
Actually geofaghaghazbeen it is known as a rhetorical question, if ya wanna get picky…but fags like you tend to be picky.
There’s actually– wait, I think we have a form for that. Yes, here it is! http://chronicle.su/wp-content/uploads/butthurtform.png
Actually geofag likes activities that make his butt/ass hurt…
ahhh the lengedary “butthurt form” i do . detect a hint of butthurt after analyzing “geos” posts he is definably the right guy to fill out that form .
get to wrk.
i like blueberry pancakes with a lot syrup and butter. i wash that shit down with purity chocolate milk. if i had pancake mix and some blueberries, i’d make a whole buncha pancakes, and eat all of ’em.