July 23, 2008
Living Dead (Ten)
If you asked John Ashcroft, he was lured against his will into a darkly lit space that was half rustic wood shed, half seedy porn fantasy. The redhead heifer whose pimp had sent her to him approached without the least bit of grace or common courtesy and asked him how he wanted it. Ashcroft had three basic choices: fully clothed, tits out, or naked. Nothing good as far as he could see could come from her complete nudity. On the other hand, he did want to stick his face into those two soft pink flesh pillows of hers, so he split the difference. What Ashcroft remembered was her crudely grinding her ass into his crotch to no avail. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was cum in his shorts. The sheen of erotic physical sweat on her exposed chest was what got Ashcroft going. But it wasn’t just the smell of BBQ’d pork sandwiches and sliced watermelon that made her special. More importantly, it was the strong waft of bad perfume, nicotine, alcohol, and more bad perfume mixed in with the other sensual smells the body gives off when it’s turned on that finally got him hard.
If you asked The Decider-in-Crook what happened that night: Anne Colture walked down the stairs and made a mime of knocking on a door. It was the signal the meeting was on. The only problem was she kept miming the same movements all night long. In fact, according to the Decider everyone at the bar seemed to go through the same motions over and over again. To Dubya, the whole evening at the strip club was like a spastic version of a cocktail party. Everything happened rhythmically in straight time, but for some reason everyone’s movements and actions seemed to be off-key and out of synch. Wherever the President looked it was as if he watched a disjointed mini-play. The speaker on the podium said, “I wish to turn my thoughts to a favorite topic: The Supernatural Occult Influence of the Dark Side.” A distinguished looking older gentleman whispered to his companion, “Germs can pass through the telephone.” His friend nodded in agreement, “That’s how I got sick. I answered the phone.” The whole thing was like the dream sequence right out of Brian de Palma’s movie from a year before Phantom of the Paradise, called Sisters (1973). Margot Kidder plays the Siamese twins Danielle Breton and Dominique Blanchion. Heavily drugged, hypnotized and made to remember her childhood in an experimental mental hospital, she painfully recalls her drug-induced visions from that time: Three men in white jumpsuits stood side-by-side and danced a little jig; beside them some nuns in Dutch habits played cricket; four devout rabbis in black frocks who adamantly discussed theology behind them; reporters walked about with microphones extended and camera people flashed pictures.
Now if you happened to ask Darth Cheney what happened that night, his experience was even more difficult to believe. He described a futuristic police-state in which star NBA athletes were made to fight to the death in a game not unlike the one in which Inca gladiators had to shove a ball into the narrow hole on the opposing team’s end of the court in order to survive certain death. The fate of the losing team was written in stone, but The Vice President had the power to decide who on each side could live in the meantime. Rules varied: even minor fowls could warrant harsh punishments. Right away Cheney killed off all the team role-players. Then he started executing the major players. When he was done with basketball players, he started asking for the heads of well-known NFL athletes. Nothing could stop him. In the end he was holding football league MVP quarterback Tom Brady’s bleeding severed head by the hair, and berating the kneeling New England Patriot coach Bill Belichick for the cut-off sleeves on his “raggedy-ass” hoody. In the future distopian fantasy of Darth Cheney, stadium seats rose high above the court and each one was filled with an enthusiastic audience spectator. Every time Cheney made a deadly ruling on the floor the crowd went wild. He could simply do no wrong. No matter what he decided, they stamped their feet on the metal bleachers and cheered: “Blood on the wall, blood on the wall! U-S-A! U-S-A!” They absolutely adored him! And at the end of the game when only one warrior still showed any signs of life, and the Vice President finished him off with a sharp dagger blow to the heart, Darth Cheney was showered, like a self-satisfied god, with thousands of multi-colored synthetic flower petals.
Posted by dm-b at July 23, 2008 07:58 PM | TrackBack