9/11 Doesn't Want to Always Be Your Excuse

9/11 was sitting in her apartment in the early evening yesterday when there was a knock on the door. Just home from a day at the office, she had only five minutes ago taken off her shoes and was getting ready for a long evening finally catching up on Orange Is the New Black and downing leftover Chinese food and drinking a decent Pinot. She sighed and went to the door. When she looked through the peephole, her heart sunk. Men in suits. They had come to get her, she knew.

She thought about running, but 9/11 knew there was nowhere she could go. They always found her. She had hoped against hope that, despite all the phone calls she ignored, they would leave her be this time. But no, no. They knocked again. "C'mon, 9/11, we know you're there," said the nice one. There was always a nice one. This would inevitably be followed by the mean one.

"You whore bitch, get your ass out here," he said, the mean one. "Your president needs you."

She opened the door and said, "Let me get my shoes," thinking she'd be treated as well as she had always been by this president, usually the kind lover. Before she could turn, there was a bag over her head and a needle in her arm. She blacked out quickly.

When 9/11 awoke, she had had her clothes changed. She was wearing a thong and tassels, high heels and a green crown. Someone shoved a fake torch in her hand and pushed her into the hallway. There 9/11 was standing in front of the cameras with the president speaking. "We can’t erase every trace of evil from the world, and small groups of killers have the capacity to do great harm," the president said. "That was the case before 9/11, and that remains true today. And that’s why we must remain vigilant as threats emerge."

The president nodded at her. She knew the routine. She started dancing, slowly gyrating, shaking her ass, thrusting out her twat, spinning the tassels on her tits, drunkenly wobbling from the drugs they had injected in her. A tear streaked down 9/11's heavily rouged cheek. She had thought it would be different now. She had believed, sincerely believed, that things had changed.

But here was this president announcing bombing in Iraq, destroying terrorists, taking the battle wherever he wanted, and using her as his excuse. 9/11 felt the torch start to buzz. She looked offstage and the two men gesture that she should use it. One of them was already hard. "Tomorrow marks 13 years since our country was attacked," the president said and that was her cue to start using the vibrator. She sat on the floor next to the president and spread her legs. She pulled the thong aside, and 9/11 fucked herself with Liberty's torch.

She woke up this morning in her bed, her clothes messily put back on her, pussy aching from how long she rode the torch. She saw images of herself, grotesquely splayed out, fingering her nipples. Everyone on the news was analyzing how much she was a part of the new strategy, the new war that wasn't a war, how well she had performed for the nation. "Used, used, used," she thought. She popped a couple of Adderall and turned the channel, watching the reading of names.

9/11 wishes this was all she was: a symbol of mourning, of loss. That would be so easy. She could comfort the weeping, embrace the loved ones. Instead, she has been returned to whoredom, the mistress of those who are impotent before the tide of violence they created. They blame 9/11, but it's always easy to blame the slut. It's always easy to find people who think the slut deserves it.