Everyone I fall in love with dies... or do they??

Hello everybody, my name is David. You may remember me as the man who causes people to die if he falls in love with them. It's a curse I've lived with all my life. When I was younger I thought people just weren't calling me back, but, no, they were definitely dead. I checked. They all died in horrifying and odd circumstances. I was often a suspect in their deaths but there was never any proof as it works by magic. A lot of hot celebrities that die for instance that's my fault too, but it's not like I stalked them relentlessly and then murdered them. They died by magic.

Anyway, once the FBI found out about my special powers they enlisted me to fall in love with The President of the United States. I was like fine, whatever, this was early 2016 and I thought Hilary was gonna ride it home. I could fall in love with Hilary Clinton easy, she is crackerjack hot. But no. The great people of America had other ideas.

"We're going to need you to fall in love with Donald J Trump." Said my handler at the FBI as he slid across a snapshot of the man.

"...right..."

"He's not an easy man to love, but we're told it helps if you find dirty money and faux power attractive."

"Hmm, not really. Do you think you could get him to wear some guyliner?"

"Sure, we can look into that. Now, we've also arranged a dinner date between the two of you at Romero's for next Tuesday at 7p.m."

"Ok."

"Make sure to wear something slutty. And no underwear so he can grab your junk."

"I have just the thing."

Next Tuesday at 7p.m. I met the POTUS Trump for an intimate candle lit dinner.

"This is very interesting. I see you're wearing a kilt David. You know I love Scotland. I love all things Scotland. My mother was Scottish. I'm Scottish too but I'm also very American. The most American. And boob tubes also, that boob tube you're wearing, got to say, I'm a big fan. Big fan."

"Thank you Mr. President." I replied, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

Now, I know what you're thinking. There was no need for me to try so hard to make him like me, afterall I only needed to fall in love with him for him to disappear and never call me back, but it never hurts to grease the wheels.

"What beautiful eyes you have, Mr Trump. They're quite deep. Introspective."

"Sure, I have great eyes. There's a lot of sincerity in my eyes. I can, I can read the room and people know I'm reading the room and they'll say..."

He continued for a long time, and I have to admit my mind began to wonder. I started to worry that I'd bitten off more than I could chew. Suddenly the sensation of tiny, little hands grabbing my cock and balls dragged me back to the moment.

"I said I want to take you outside and fuck you." Said the President of the United States.

So that's what we did. It was a cold, rough, loveless three minutes in the back alley behind Romero's. Afterwards, Donald cried briefly in my arms. Then he said;

"Hey, my buddy, Ron, he has unlimited access to Disneyland Florida. Come with me this weekend we can all just hang out together there, see where things go. You know, get some hookers and blow in. Shoot some rounds off Minnie's ass."

I knew I had completed my first objective, but was a long way off my target.

"Sure Donald. That sounds lovely."

That weekend we flew out together to Disneyland. Donald's friend Ron had the whole place shut down for us. Donald could relax like he was MJ whizzing around the supermarket. We rode the teacups together. Got our pictures taken with Mickey and Goofy. It was a fun time, but the repeated instances of extreme egomania and bigotry still made Mr. Trump somewhat difficult to love.

Later in the evening we met with Ron for dinner. Almost immediately he broached the topic of mine and Trump's relationship.

"What is this? You said you were bringing hookers and cocaine. This is just some dude wearing a skirt."

I was offended, and Donald could see I was offended. He immediately slammed his tiny hand on the table.

"This is David. He is wearing a kilt you mother-fucker, because he's very Scottish like I'm very Scottish. Did you know that? Not a lot of people know that about me. And sure we've fucked a few times. So what? So what if we have. Maybe you own Disneyland but I don't care. Disneyland is low energy. I saw Micky Mouse earlier, he stopped to take a shit. There's just a regular guy in there. Did you know that? So fuck you Ron. Fuck you! You fuck!"

Donald sat back down. I could see Ron had been scared into submission, and in that moment I fell in love with Donald J Trump 45th President of the U.S.A.

Only... he didn't die.

Rather than call my handler I spilt the beans with my new lover, the only one to successfully survive my crazy curse.

"Oh right. Interesting. Interesting." He said, pulling back his neck and looking at me with his discerning eyes.

"It's probably because I sold my soul to Satan that time. Didn't you notice? I said to Satan. Satan take my soul and make me President of the United States, and give me lots of money, and send me to Disneyland, and..." He paused to take my hand, "help me find true love. And he did it. He did it all. That Satan sure is something else, isn't he? I say."

So, yeah, everyone I fall in love with dies unless they've sold their soul to the devil. Which also explains Taylor Swift.

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Credited to koalazeus 

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