Democrat's grin

In the underbelly of the city, where the neon lights flickered like dying stars, lived a worm named Silas Crowe. He wasn't born a worm—no, he slithered into that form through years of moral decay, a man so blind to right and wrong that he'd sell his soul for a crumpled dollar bill. Silas couldn't stoop low enough; it was his superpower, his curse. He'd hawk his body on rain-slicked corners, pimping his arse to heroin junkies with eyes as dead as forgotten graves, their needles glinting under streetlamps as they paid in stolen change and hollow promises.

"Lower," they'd whisper through cracked lips, and Silas would oblige, sinking deeper into the filth, his dignity a distant memory buried under layers of shame and sweat. The junkies admired him for it—the way he groveled without a flicker of remorse, turning degradation into an art form. Word spread through the alleys, from the dope dens to the dive bars: "That Silas, he's got no bottom. Man's a legend of low."

One day, the suits from uptown caught wind. Politicians, power brokers with their own dead eyes hidden behind polished smiles, saw in Silas a mirror of their world. "This guy's got potential," they murmured in smoke-filled rooms. "He stoops lower than any of us—imagine what he could do in Congress." They propped him up, dusted off the grime, and paraded him as the everyman's hero: the one who'd go to any depths for the people.

Election night came, and the votes poured in like sewage down a storm drain. Silas won in a landslide, elevated to the marble halls of power not despite his lows, but because of them. There he sat, arse sore but throne secure, grinning as the junkies cheered from afar. In Washington, the game was the same—just with better lighting and bigger payoffs. Silas had finally found his level: rock bottom, with a view.