THE DEBATE WAS about to begin. Backstage Ronald snorted a long white line of crushed powder off the compact mirror in his hand. His bloated body shook as his nerves jolted to life, adrenaline shooting through his veins like flame across a gasoline trail. With two more deep snorts, the rough powder was gone. It burned his sinuses. Looking in the mirror he examined his pudgy face. A bit of white was stuck to his nostrils. He wiped it off, staining his fingers with a smear of spray-on tanning lotion. He clenched his teeth together as the drug took hold. Passing a hand through his hair, he forced his grimace up into an approximation of a sly grin.

“Lookin’ good,” he whispered to himself before shoving the mirror into his pants pocket.

Peering around the curtain he saw the light techs making last-minute adjustments. Multiple cameras were aimed at the two podiums. Ronald’s grin widened. His brain buzzed with euphoric excitement. Words passed through his head in a stream-of-consciousness flow. He had no notes. Didn’t need them. He was a perfect speaker, the best really, articulate and intellectual. His supporters adored him for his rousing speeches and witty insults.

Tonight was his night. He would show the entire nation why Ronald Bolla was the only candidate on stage worthy of being president.

A darkly dressed stagehand came from behind him. “Mr. Bolla?” the young woman said, tapping him on the shoulder.

Ronald jumped, his heart pounding against the thick layers of fatty tissue surrounding it.

“Sorry to frighten you,” she said.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Don’t sneak up on a man like that!”

“Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were ready. We’re going live in two minutes.”

Ronald patted the bag of bath salts in his pocket. He wondered if he had time for another quick snort…

“Shall I touch up your face really quick?” the stagehand asked. She held up a small brush dusted with orange foundation.

“Naw, I’m perfect,” Ronald said. His entire body vibrated with energy. He felt thirty years younger. He always did after a hit. He pushed her out of the way. “Lemme at ‘em!”

He walked out to his podium before the announcer had time to introduce the candidates. The moderator fumbled with the notes on his desk. The camera operators scrambled to finish making their adjustments. “Mr. Bolla, we’re not quite ready yet!” the producer said.

“Well, I am, so let’s get this shit show on the road!” He roared and then proceeded to hump the podium like a horny dog. It was a stunt he frequently performed at his rallies. He knew the ladies loved to watch his fine buttocks thrust back and forth.

“Mr. Bolla, please don’t do that,” the producer said. He ran up and readjusted the shifted podium.

“But the ladies love it when I make the loooove.”

The camera crew looked at each other. They’d all seen Ronald’s onstage antics on TikTok and Facebook reels. It was part of his charisma. He was crude, rude, and had a face like an inflamed hemorrhoid, but his unconventional stage presence brought in viewers. Social media hits were never higher than when Ronald Bolla was in front of the camera. People tuned in by the millions to hear his long-winded, rambling rants. Most of the time he didn’t make much sense, but he was entertaining.

“Why don’t we begin?” the moderator suggested. “President Clark, would you please come to the stage?”

Ronald’s political opponent, President Dexter Clark, approached his podium from the opposite side of the stage. He was a thin, eighty-year-old man with white hair. Ronald often made fun of Clark’s age, calling him too old and senile to be president, even though Ronald was only two years younger.

President Clark moved in to shake Ronald’s hand. Ronald reached out as if to accept before snatching the hand away and running it through his hair. He cackled like a hyena, loose jowls jiggling, as he bounced back to his podium.

“What are you on, man?” Clark mumbled.

The cameras cued up. Energetic intro music played over the PA speakers. It made Ronald want to dance. He shimmied in place, pumping his fists and grinning like an idiot. A runner of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth, dripping to the floor. God, he felt good!

Ronald was no spring chicken and even though he had the body of a fit, athletic twenty-five-year-old —as so many of his supporters testified on social media —he still sometimes found himself running low on energy on the campaign trail. He couldn’t afford to disappoint his millions of followers with lackluster rallies, so he got his team to locate the best stimulants they could find to keep him at the top of his game. They started with large cups of coffee, but the caffeine quickly proved insufficient to keep the big man going. This was followed by amphetamines, methamphetamine, and cocaine.

The drugs quickly lost their effect. “It’s my perfect body,” he complained to his advisers one day while scarfing down a greasy bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken. “I absorb the drugs too easily. My metabolism is too efficient. It’s the most efficient metabolism in the world —ask anybody.”

It seemed they were running out of options. Then his new intern, Ryan, suggested bath salts. Ronald had never done bath salts before but the moment he snorted his first line before a massive rally in Houston, he knew he’d found the perfect remedy. He performed for over three hours that night, dancing around the stage, lobbing effortless insults at his political opponents, and even inviting several women on stage so he could squeeze their tits with his tiny, meaty hands. It was his most successful rally to date. Ronald fed on the adoration of his fans. They loved him.

They would do anything for him.

“I could fuck a nun in the ass on top of the Capitol Building and they’d still worship me!” he once said during a TV interview. If the polls were any indication, he was correct in his assumption. The bath salts only added to his unpredictable charisma.

Bath salts were a miracle drug. They made him feel like Superman.

On cue, the moderator stared into the camera. “Good evening, America. I’m Joel Logan, the moderator for this, the first debate between incumbent President Dexter Clark and his challenger, Ronald Bolla …”

Joel droned on with the introduction. He explained the rules and etiquette and other things that didn’t apply to Ronald. Meanwhile, Ronald’s head buzzed with answers to questions not yet asked. His eyes rolled in his head. His heart pounded violently in his chest. He realized he could see ten steps ahead while everyone around him was moving in slow motion. The moderator wouldn’t stop talking. It grated on Ronald’s nerves. He gripped the edges of his podium so tightly that the wood cracked.

“Gentlemen, let’s begin the debate with the issue of illegal immigration,” Joel the moderator intoned. “President Clark, can you tell us your plan to improve the illegal immigration situation at our southern border?”

The president gave a wimpy answer about…paving a road to citizenship for every immigrant who sought sanctuary. The answer bored Ronald. He began to hum loudly, throwing off the president’s rhythm.

“Would you stop that?” President Clark snapped.

“Lies! All Marxist lies!” Ronald yelled, pounding his fists on the podium. He wasn’t even sure what Marxism was, but the word never failed to get a rise out of his fans.

“You’ll get your turn for a rebuttal, Mr. Bolla,” Joel interjected. Ronald didn’t hear him. He zeroed in on the camera, picturing his millions of disciples sitting on their sofas, mesmerized by his glorious presence on their TV screens. He spoke to them directly.

“All the president wants to do is let illegals through the border so they can take over this country! That’s right folks! This’ll be a Mexican nation before you know it! We’ll be eating Mexican food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Don’t get me wrong —I love a good taco now and then, especially when it’s served between the legs of a lovely young woman, and believe me, I love those young women, ripe and fertile, the way God intended, but I certainly don’t want to eat tacos all the damn time! That’s what you’ll get with ol’ Drowsy Dexter’s immigration plan. Tacos all the time until you’re sick of ‘em. I know —ask anybody.”

President Clark glared at his challenger. The moderator stammered. “Um… Mr. Bolla, why don’t you tell us about your immigration plan?”

The words spilled freely from Ronald’s brain. “Glad you finally asked! First, I would round up all the illegals, round them all up, and put ‘em in a nice single-story barracks in the desert somewhere. Then I’ll put a fence around all of ‘em, that way they can be concentrated in a single place and while they’re there we might as well put ‘em to work making…”

“Are you seriously suggesting we put immigrants in concentration camps?” President Clark shouted in shocked disbelief.

Ronald held his hands out to his sides. “Concentration camps! It’s my idea! And many, many good people have told me it’s a good idea. Many more have even said…”

“You’re unbelievable,” continued the president. “You can’t put human beings in camps! This isn’t Nazi Germany.”

“I’ll put you in a camp, buddy!” snarled Ronald. He bared his teeth and hissed.

President Clark took a few steps back. “What’s wrong with you?”

A surge of violent energy pulsed through Ronald’s body. Blood-red anger rose like a tsunami. Who was this crusty-ass Clark bastard to question his genius concept of a plan? Ronald beat the sides of his head with his fists. His breathing grew rapid as he advanced on Clark’s podium. Spit flew from his mouth in a rabid froth.

“Mr. Bolla, please get back to your podium,” Joel pleaded, his voice cracking.

The cameras continued to roll, following Ronald as his orange skin turned dark purple. Veins like garden hoses popped out of his neck. The producer grinned. The ratings were about to soar.

President Clark backed away from his fuming challenger, eyes clouded with disbelief. What the hell are you doing, man?” he demanded. “Get away from me.”

Gnashing his teeth, Ronald lunged at the president. His little sausage fingers dug into Clark’s body as he tackled him to the floor. The cameras zoomed in as Ronald restrained the president’s arms, lowering his snapping jaws to the man’s cheek.

President Clark began screaming as Ronald took a bite out of the side of his face. Ronald’s teeth scraped audibly against Clark’s cheekbone as he clamped down and jerked his head upward. There was a loud rip as Clark’s cheek pulled free of his face. Blood splattered the stage in thick drops. Ronald gnawed away at the president’s flesh like a hungry wolf. Blood and slobber ran down his shirt and tie. The president writhed on the floor, rocking back and forth, his teeth and tongue visible through the large, tattered wound. Secret Service agents attempted to rush the stage and assist the flailing president, but Ronald’s security guards forced them back so the debate could continue.

“Help me! Oh God, please!” the president moaned. He looked at the cameramen pleadingly. The producer stood by, indicating that the cameras continue rolling. He smiled, no doubt in his mind that this was going to be the most-viewed presidential debate in history.

Ronald chewed the president’s cheek until it disappeared. The large lump of flesh traveled down his throat. He leaned in again and chomped down on Clark’s nose. The cartilage crunched like a crisp apple. Ronald pulled back, munching, leaving a massive hole where the president’s honker had been.

“See?” Ronald declared to his followers beyond the cameras. “I’m eating him the way his supporters eat their own aborted babies!”

Joel raised a finger. “Uh, fact check, Mr. Bolla. There is no evidence anyone is eating aborted babies.”

“Liar! Just like your entire fake news network! All lies, lies, lies!” Ronald jumped off the president and lunged over the moderator’s desk, tackling Joel to the floor. Ronald bit into the skin of his forehead, leaving the white skull beneath exposed. “See? Your media lies are as thin as the skin on your fucking face! You should all be eaten alive! You and all Clark supporters!”

Joel shrieked, beating his fists against Ronald as the big man continued to gnaw away at his cheeks, nose, and lips. With a face covered in blood and flecks of flesh, Ronald stood and rushed at the cameras, mouth open, babbling incoherently. The production crew dove for cover as Ronald crashed the cameras, knocking lights and boom mics to the floor. Ronald ran out of the studio, waving his arms in erratic loops. His security detail followed him.

As soon as he was gone the crew came out of hiding, silent and stunned. The producer panted heavily. He took off his headset.

“Did we catch all that?’ he asked.

“Oh yeah, we caught it all.” The camera op said.

“Cut to commercial.”

***

Ronald ran out of the building and into the street where he seized a passing pedestrian. He bit into the woman’s neck like a manic vampire, ripping out long strands of gristle and arteries. Gore exploded over his face as the vessels ruptured between his teeth. People screamed in shock as the presidential candidate cannibalized the woman’s flesh. Many pulled out phones and started recording what they knew would become viral videos within the hour.

Reaching a hand between her legs as he sucked out her eyeballs, Ronald grabbed the woman’s pussy in a possessive clutch. He dropped her to the pavement where she bled out in a widening puddle. He grinned for the cameras, waved, and ran down the streets of America, devouring whoever got in his way. His security guards followed him. Nobody stopped him.

***

In a modest, two-story house in suburban Ohio, Vance and Sarah watched the debate with interest. Both wore “Bolla for President” T-shirts. They held a bowl of popcorn between them. They cheered as Ronald took the stage.

“He’s on fire today,” Vance exclaimed as Ronald spoke.

“And handsome to boot,” Sarah added.

They gasped in tandem when he bit into the president’s face. The popcorn bowl spilled to the floor as they rose from the couch.

“Holy shit!” Sarah said.

“He’s really digging into him,” Vance followed.

They watched as Ronald attacked the moderator and then ran off, screaming and thrashing. The cameras fell over.

Cut to: antidiarrheal commercial.

After a moment of silence, the couple looked at each other, mouths open, their eyes wide with excitement.

“Did you hear what he said just now?” Vance asked.

“Yeah! This was it! The sign!”

“He’s ready! It’s time!”

The couple ran out of the house and across the street to their neighbors, the Fletchers. They knocked over the “Clark for Re-election” sign in the Fletchers’ yard then pounded on the door.

Mrs. Fletcher, who walked with a roller, answered the door with a withered, shaky hand. She barely had time to yelp before Vance and Sarah dug their teeth into her face and neck. When her wheelchair-bound husband rounded the corner to see what was happening, they proceeded to eat him too. The Fletchers’ living room walls were quickly splattered in blood and bits of wrinkled flesh.

As the couple devoured their elderly neighbors, the streets filled with Bolla supporters, all on the hunt, all eager to emulate their hero. The quiet evening was soon assaulted by screams of agony and terror.

***

In the weeks leading up to the election, the streets of America became littered with the faceless, blood-shrouded corpses of Clark supporters as Ronald’s base continued their rampage. It swelled into a movement called “The American Biters League.” The purpose of the movement was simple: to cannibalize the opposition. T-shirts and hats were sold with the slogan, “When he bites, we bite.”

President Dexter Clark barely survived the debate. After an emergency reconstructive surgery, his face was still disfigured. Most people could hardly stand to look at him. Media outlets called him too ugly and decrepit to be president. “We can’t have a president with a face like that,” claimed one news commentator. “He doesn’t even have a nose. He’s got to go.”

Ronald Bolla turned this into a campaign slogan that quickly became a popular chant at his rallies. “No Nose has got to go!”

On election day, Ronald won by a landslide. By that time millions of Clark supporters were either dead or disfigured and chased away from the voting booths by Bolla’s mindless mob.

At his victory speech, Ronald pumped his fists. There was a smear of bath salts across his upper lip, but nobody seemed to notice or care. “We did it!” he said. “We took a bite out of America and damn… does she taste good!”

The world watched as basic human decency was forced underground in the rising wake of a violent and destructive monster.

The nightmare was just beginning.

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