Puppet-Blood-Lighter by T. M. Obaid

*click*. The lighter went off in the darkened room. A small yet bright flame, like our sun in comparison to the gaseous mammoth giants in the universe, embraced the end of the cancer-stick. He pouted his big lips, took a long drag, and exhaled like a dormant dragon. “That’s good stuff, the best, lemme tell ya,” he said to himself. He leaned back in his leather chair, which creaked against the weight of his fat pompous ass looking like a freshly roasted ham, as he sat in his Oval Office. His beautiful luscious yellow mop reflecting against the sunlight, his tiny baby-like hands clasped onto the cigarette like a lollipop. The smoke danced against the sunlight like puppets, casting faint shadows on the blue. “Melania, sweetheart, can you please come wash my toupeé?” he called out to the hall. He leaned back relaxed, not giving a rat’s ass about all that blood,

All that carnage,

All those lives,

All that beautiful green paper seeping into his big fat wallet.

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