The Bad Seed
This is a true story:
“Kill that homo bastard!” Hillary shouted. “Make him pay. I don’t care how, mow him down with a truck! Firebomb his house, but kill him!” She screamed with an apoplectic menace, as an engorged vein in her neck pulsed with blood. “I’ve killed more people than Lyndon Johnson and Al Sharpton combined.”
“Julian Assange? Who’s he? He’s not Hillary. I’m Hillary. I’m the first woman president….or, I will be. No damn homo is going to change that, by god!”
“I know!” She said, and then paused for a second as a gleam lit her eyes and the fading light flickered off a drop of spittle as it descended from her canine teeth.
“A drone. That's it! We’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch him with a drone.”
Her handlers looked at one another, trying hard not show their fear as the most powerful woman in the world plotted cold, blooded murder.
“Uh…Ms. Clinton….I mean Hillary….uh…I mean…Mrs. Clinton? Do you really think you should be saying these things out loud? What if somebody hears you?” Asked one of her female advisors. Hillary spun on her heels, almost falling to the ground as she turned towards the woman and said, “If you ever call me Mrs. Clinton again, I’ll kill your whole family, grandma, mom, dad, kids, I will drone strike them as they picnic in the park, as the say their prayers in their beds at night. You got that!”
“Now, let’s get back to Assange, that gay, child molesting bastard.”
From the back, a familiar voice spoke, it had a slight rasp, with just the hint of a southern accent, “Hill.” That’s what Bill called Hillary. “You can’t kill Assange. He’s too hot right now. He’ too much in the public eye. We’ve got to play it smart, baby.”
Bill lowered his voice, doing his best Barry White impression, hoping to calm the drooling monster standing in front of him. “Keep it smooth and don’t get her riled.” He thought to himself.
Even Bill Clinton—a former two-term president—was afraid of Hillary.
Behind her back he called her the “Bad Seed” taken from that old movie of the same name about a murderous sociopathic little girl. Only a very small inner circle knew that it was a true story, based on Hillary’s youth.
Eventually, Hillary began to calm. Maybe it was her failing health that slowed her down, but Bill wanted to take no chances. At that moment he motioned to her doctor who sidled up next to her, giving her a quick shot of medication, the kind used on the African savanna to tranquilize lions and other dangerous animals. And, as she sank into a chair, she began to snore, and talk in her sleep… “Kill Assange….kill Assange.” She said, as her voice faded into a whisper.
“Damn! That was close." Bill said as he wiped the sweat from his aging brow. “Keep her shot up for the next day or so, and then send some old video of her talking to a crowd of school kids to the media. That should keep them happy. After all, they’re not going to ask any questions. Those fawning idiots.”
Epilogue:
Yes, my friends, that is exactly what happened. It was all behind closed doors, mind you, but it happened. That’s the real Hillary Clinton.
A cold, blooded killer.
A maniac.
A democrat.
Is there any difference? Not anymore, there isn’t. Not anymore.
Claude Hopper
“Kill that homo bastard!” Hillary shouted. “Make him pay. I don’t care how, mow him down with a truck! Firebomb his house, but kill him!” She screamed with an apoplectic menace, as an engorged vein in her neck pulsed with blood. “I’ve killed more people than Lyndon Johnson and Al Sharpton combined.”
“Julian Assange? Who’s he? He’s not Hillary. I’m Hillary. I’m the first woman president….or, I will be. No damn homo is going to change that, by god!”
“I know!” She said, and then paused for a second as a gleam lit her eyes and the fading light flickered off a drop of spittle as it descended from her canine teeth.
“A drone. That's it! We’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch him with a drone.”
Her handlers looked at one another, trying hard not show their fear as the most powerful woman in the world plotted cold, blooded murder.
“Uh…Ms. Clinton….I mean Hillary….uh…I mean…Mrs. Clinton? Do you really think you should be saying these things out loud? What if somebody hears you?” Asked one of her female advisors. Hillary spun on her heels, almost falling to the ground as she turned towards the woman and said, “If you ever call me Mrs. Clinton again, I’ll kill your whole family, grandma, mom, dad, kids, I will drone strike them as they picnic in the park, as the say their prayers in their beds at night. You got that!”
“Now, let’s get back to Assange, that gay, child molesting bastard.”
From the back, a familiar voice spoke, it had a slight rasp, with just the hint of a southern accent, “Hill.” That’s what Bill called Hillary. “You can’t kill Assange. He’s too hot right now. He’ too much in the public eye. We’ve got to play it smart, baby.”
Bill lowered his voice, doing his best Barry White impression, hoping to calm the drooling monster standing in front of him. “Keep it smooth and don’t get her riled.” He thought to himself.
Even Bill Clinton—a former two-term president—was afraid of Hillary.
Behind her back he called her the “Bad Seed” taken from that old movie of the same name about a murderous sociopathic little girl. Only a very small inner circle knew that it was a true story, based on Hillary’s youth.
Eventually, Hillary began to calm. Maybe it was her failing health that slowed her down, but Bill wanted to take no chances. At that moment he motioned to her doctor who sidled up next to her, giving her a quick shot of medication, the kind used on the African savanna to tranquilize lions and other dangerous animals. And, as she sank into a chair, she began to snore, and talk in her sleep… “Kill Assange….kill Assange.” She said, as her voice faded into a whisper.
“Damn! That was close." Bill said as he wiped the sweat from his aging brow. “Keep her shot up for the next day or so, and then send some old video of her talking to a crowd of school kids to the media. That should keep them happy. After all, they’re not going to ask any questions. Those fawning idiots.”
Epilogue:
Yes, my friends, that is exactly what happened. It was all behind closed doors, mind you, but it happened. That’s the real Hillary Clinton.
A cold, blooded killer.
A maniac.
A democrat.
Is there any difference? Not anymore, there isn’t. Not anymore.
Claude Hopper