The date is January 20, 2030. President Rafael Theodore “Ted” Cruz, the Canadian Zodiac Killer suspect, enters the Whitehouse for the first time as Commander-in-Chief. He giggles stupidly as he steps into the Oval Office, patchy beard catching his spittle. His prodigious belly jiggles beneath his too-tight dress shirt and suit jacket as he walks. The seams of his pants strain with effort.

“Oh boy, are we going to do great things in here,” Ted says to no one in particular. His arms outstreched, he completes a full spin before plunging his face into Trump’s chair and inhaling deeply. The prior administration’s aides left it here for him, specifically as he requested. He savors the musky, faintly fecal aroma, his crooked member growing turgid, almost pressing against the inside of his trousers. Teddy shivers at the sensation.

“EVERYONE OUT!” his voice cracking as he authoritatively commands his aides to leave the room. He can’t take the arousal anymore. They stare at him open-mouthed, but they comply. They’ll always comply now. Ted smiles smugly, assured of his stately presence and presidential demeanor. Kneeling before the well-worn leather chair, Cruz meticulously unbuttons all but the top button of his shirt and tosses his jacket aside. Arms shaking, he drags the shirttails erotically over Vienna sausage nipples. Giggling, he says to himself, “Wouldn’t want to get you boys messy”, before throwing the shirttails over his shoulders. He feels majestic. Like Count Chocula from the cereal boxes mommy would never buy him. But now mommy is so proud of him and he can buy all the Count Choccy he wants. And oh does he want.

Ted whips out his phone but fumbles it. Wormlike, he inches across the floor to retrieve it. Retaking his position before the chair, he sniffs again. “Please look into the camera, no face detected”, his phone reads. He looks, poutingly at the camera. He tries smiling. He tries frowning. But still, the phone will not recognize his face as human. He begrudgingly enters his password, “Z0di4c1776,” and it unlocks. He holds up his Whitehouse ID to log into PornHub and navigates to the incest section by muscle memory. “Hot Latina MILF Makes Teen Boy a Man” catches his fancy. “Teddy’s been a good boy, mami”, he whines in a feigned Cuban accent. His hands are cold and sweaty with excitement. As he pushes play, his fat finger slips and the share menu pops up.

“Oh no Teddy you’ve done it again, don’t post it to Twitter like the last time - and on 9/11 too, so naughty,” he again shivers with an erotic sense of shame. “Oh, X, I’m sorry Elon”, he says turning to Musk, “No, it’s okay, keep going”, says Vice President Musk before crawling into an armoire, beady eyes glinting through the cracked door.

Teddy’s finger hovers over the X on the share menu, trembling. He catches a faint whiff from the chair and spontaneously orgasms. The muscles of his hand sieze up. “Oh Teddy look what you’ve done…”