face to face with the man who sold the world

Holy god almighty, I'm currently reading the most incredible thing ever written.

It is not Nabokov's Invitation to a Beheading (although the book is awesome).
It is not Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said.
It is not The Great Gatsby.

It is not a book. It is, however, fiction. Fan fiction.

Political fan fiction. American politics meets Lord of the Rings.

A few exerpts:

We followed the Ronpaul’s trail for fifteen days, from Joplin to Springfield to Peoria, until we were down to our last drum of corn-whisky, and Abigail’s turbines were smoking hot. We passed the days with tales of the Beltway Lords, and their incessant warring. Barrister was our navigator, and kept the ship’s logs, and he knew every Fed-yarn there ever was. He sang of Lord Gore: how he gained the power to speak the language of beasts by killing the god of werewolves, and how he called the last seven living griffins to him, and harnessed them to a chariot, and flew to the moon. I have been assured that he lives their still, in a city of silver and marble, and that all that dwell there are immortal, but cursed never to know laughter or joy, and there is no music allowed but Air Supply. He sang of Romney Three-faced, the Great Salt Pope, who wields the spiked and golden miter of Moroni and has twelve thousand brides, all fashioned, through surgery and sorcery, to look like Jessica Alba. He sang of fey Kucinich, who loved the queen of Faerie so much that he ceded her the great redwoods of California in which to make her court, and went to dwell there with her, and put up a girdle around the forest so that no man who enters can ever leave. He sang of Dame Hillary, and how she summoned up Old Man Coyote, and tricked him into wearing a manacle on his paw, and refused to release him until he taught her the secret of Skinchanging. The trickster-god denied her until she killed all his seven and seventy mistresses, and cut off his tail, and starved him for forty seven years.

...

The Ronpaul was in possession of the second largest gold reserves in the world, following only upon the heels of the Elder-Wyrm Thompson, who lay sleeping, his scaled bulk curled around the shattered halls of Fort Knox. He rolled over in his sleep from time to time and shouted angrily for bourbon and chewing tobacco.

...

We pointed mutely at the corpse and, I swear, I saw a single tear trickle down his face. He wiped it away and I gasped, for I suddenly understood why the Ronpaul wanted him dead; his hand came away gilded with dust, for Obama cries tears of molten gold.

Goddamn brilliant