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I was hanging out with my horse-man pal, pickle horse-man, in the bath, when I got the call from the president. And it was, like, the third phone call we got from him in a week. Which, is not necessarily a lot, but it feels like a lot. Coming from a friend it’s not a lot, but coming from a civil servant it’s a lot. “Hey guys,” he said. “Just lonely.” “Right,” I said, setting my jaw. In the facetime app his coat was still whiffling in the wind, and the world was far below, hurtling at incredible speed. “Mr. President are you skydiving?” “No, fellows. I just - you know how I convinced NORAD to fire me at an incoming nuclear threat, right? Well, I realized it was the happiest day of my life. I had never felt so free. So I’ve chosen to embody only that moment in time. I’ve abandoned all other incarnations. I live exclusively in that moment that has now no doubtedly passed you by. It must feel very strange for you.” “But you’re lonely.” “Right, guys, freedom is lonely.” I thought about it and rolled my lollipop around in my mouth, clacking it against my teeth. “As president, I was really focused and concerned with trying to solve the loneliness epidemic. One face of it that greatly surprised me was that many millions were lonely as a byproduct of the very privilege that I, as president, engendered. It’s by no means a complete map of the issue, but it is the one that I related to on a personal level. You see, I used to own this little red sled-” “Yo, Mr. President,” Pickle Horse-man cut in. “Wassup,” said the President. “Don’t tell us the sled story again.” “Ok. Thanks, guys. Sometimes I get a little long-winded,” he chuckled, “I’m old - if you haven’t noticed.” “He old,” I said, my lids all low and sleepy with the hot water calming my muscles. I toed the button to hang up but the phone slipped off the edge of the bath and into the water. Pickle Horse-man sunk his nose down below the water level and snorkeled out bubbles. Suddenly, the water jets turned on and I was like “What is going on!?” “Ha ha,” he laughed, splashing water. Then the water got hotter, and the jets got faster, and I started getting scared because I thought it might be a witch and I didn’t want to die. But then Pickle Horse-man shouted, “Ah! The water’s lava!” And he jumped out and I realized it wasn’t a witch after all, it was just Pickle Horse-man being silly. So I laughed and said, “Ha ha,” but Pickle Horse-man fell on the floor so I had to help him up and dry him off, and while I was drying him off I noticed his penis was wrinkled from the water. "You need moisturizer," I said, "for your penis. The water is making your penis dry." "Water is wet," Pickle Horse-man said. "Yeah, but it can cause skin dryness. "Water," Pickle Horse-man emphasized, "is wet." "You need ointment," I said, and open the medicine cabinet. I scanned our various beauty products. Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. I was like, "Oh, crap!" And Pickle Horse-man was like, "Huh? Oh!" And we both scrambled around frantically looking for something to wear. I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me, and Pickle Horse-man grabbed a bathrobe that was hanging on the back of the door. The knocking continued, and I was like, "Um, who is it?" "It's me," came the voice from outside. "The president." I was like, "Oh, crap!" again, because I knew we were in trouble now. I opened the door a crack, and there he was - flying, goretex whiffling in the wind, ground far below passing by at incredible speed. He grinned at us with his grey teeth. "Hey there," he said, his voice all cheery and chipper. "I heard you guys needed some help with your dry penis situation." "How did you know about that?" Pickle Horse-man asked, his voice all high pitched and nervous. "Well, I heard you talking through the phone," the President explained, "and then I saw you on the security cameras, so I thought I would come down here and lend a hand." "Wait, what?" I said, my heart pounding fast. "We were on camera? And you can hear us through the phone? Is nothing sacred anymore?" The President just laughed and gave us a little wink. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'm here to help." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tube of something - I couldn't quite make it out from where I was standing. "Here you go, fellows," he said, tossing the tube over to Pickle Horse-man. "That should do the trick." Pickle Horse-man caught it and looked at the label. But the label was blank. "Don't worry about it," the president said. We squeezed out the tube onto the counter and looked at the cream. It was a greenish-yellow color, like mucous, and it smelled like camphor. "What is this stuff?" I asked, my nose wrinkled up. The president just laughed again. "You'll see," he said. So we spread the cream onto our penises, and at first it felt really cold and tingly. But then it started to feel really hot, like it was burning. We both jumped back in shock, but the president just laughed harder. "Relax, fellows," he said. "It's supposed to burn. That's how you know it's working." We stood there for a few minutes, holding our burning penises, while the president watched us with a big grin on his face. "It hurts." Pickle Horse-man said. "It feels like the devil is grippin my wiener," I said. We were really starting to panic. The pain was out of control. The chemical was penetrating our glans, spreading through our cells, permeating the screaming skin, and entering our blood stream. It was a fire that we could not put out. I screamed. I screamed and cried. The president stood there laughing, looking at us, watching us suffer. He was enjoying this. He wanted us to hurt. He was getting off on our pain. I ripped the toilet phone from the wall. I called 911. "911 what is your emergency?" "My penis is burning!" "Sir, where are you?" "In the bath tub!" "Sir, calm down. What happened?" "There's cream on my penis! And it burns! And it hurts!" "Is someone else in the room?" "Yes! The president!" "Yeah, bullshit, pal. You call this line again and you're going to get arrested." I looked over at Pickle Horse-man. He was convulsing on the floor, his body writhing in agony. His penis looked like it was melting. It was shriveled up into a tiny raisin nub. It was so gross. I looked at the president and saw that he had undone his belt. His pants were down and his underwear were down and he was spreading the cream on his penis and his mouth was pulled back as if he were screaming and his teeth were bared like he were going to bite someone. Pickle Horse-man and I were screaming, out of pain but also out of fear of the president who we thought that we knew, we thought he was our friend, but here he was spreading his evil devil cream on everyone's wiener, including his own. No penis was safe around this man. We had to stop him. We ran for the door, but he grabbed us by the ankles. He dragged us into the realm of air and we kicked and screamed and struggled but he held us fast. "Please," I begged. "Why are you doing this? Why do you want to hurt us?" The president just laughed again, that same high pitched cackle. "Because it's funny," he said. "You see, fellows, when I was president, I realized that the only true freedom comes from the abandonment of all responsibility. And what is more irresponsible than hurting people for your own amusement?" Now that we existed in the moment before the nukes dropped, he held us there and spread more of the cream on our penises, rubbing it in deep, laughing all the while. We screamed and cried and tried to kick him away but it was no use. The pain was overwhelming. Our bodies were burning from the inside out. The cruel high-altitude air whipped around us, intensifying the pain. And that is the story of how I was taken up into the air by the president of the united states of sacramento, and tortured for eternity with bengay on my penis. Also Pickle Horse-man was there. Also getting tortured. For eternity. With bengay on his penis. Forever. The End.