It was a scorcher beneath the Oval Office and I was up to the thirsty business of running the entire world. Before my alabaster throne (like Lincoln’s but with real fasces) grovelled the worthless, fucked-through form of John McCain III. There were tears on his ugly oven-mitt-looking face, and he was begging to be released from our horrible bargain.
“I did everything you asked for,” he said in his flawless Vietnamese. “I am an old man, and not suited for the use to which you wish to put me.”
“Silence, worm,” I reminded him. “I have made my decision and it is final.”
A betrayed look crossed his face. “But — but you promised if I —”
“John, John, John,” I said, “I lied.”
“I’m never going to tell the truth, John. I’m always going to lie.”
“If drafted I will not campaign, if elected—”
I cut him off with a fuming blast of ice-cold pure ethanol straight out of my X-Bladdr®. “Fuck Sherman and fuck you,” I said, indulgently, as if to a child into whose eyes I was pissing pure cryogenic ethanol.
I waited for his pathetic mewlings to stop and I put my Lasalle wingtip loafer right up to his mouth. Trembling, he kissed it; his tongue was still shivering from the unbelievable cold.
“Just for this shit, I’m leashing you to whoever that dumb fuck Kristol thinks of first,” I said.
“Thank you, my liege,” he said around his numb tongue. “You are too kind and generous.”
“I know,” I said. “Now out of my sight, Wet-Start. I have business with the adults.”
He scurried away, still on his hands and knees, like a supplicant before an oriental despot. Thinking of the connection, I withdrew a dull jade stone from one pocket and awakened the spirit of Pu-yi from his eternal nightmare. A look of recognition, and even — dare I say it — the ghost of a smile passed over his face before his customary agonizing screams resumed.
The Senator didn’t know what the fuck, and that was how I preferred it. As his trembling, naked feet passed out of view around a corner, I grew bored of the womanish shrieks from the jade prison, and I stopped it with a rhythmic tapping Sharper Image claims to paralyze the ghost with unbearable pain.
With a shrill whistle, I summoned Mike Johanns. (The help were basically interchangeable, but Johanns had been especially docile since I had locked him in a dep-tank and forced him to watch those uncannily high-definition videos of his own conception until he cracked.) He clicked his heels obediently. “Posca and hyssop,” I ordered.
“Right away, Mr. Vice President,” he said, deftly catching the priceless if unassuming wooden cup I kept throwing at his head. He took one look down the hall and he bolted with unseemly speed, and I couldn’t even threaten his family before the reason became clear: Condoleeza Rice had swiftly and silently rushed the door. Before I could kill her with my mind, she fired a round of buckshot into my face.
“Wow, that really hurt,” I said, admiringly. “You must have really blessed the shit out of that thing.” I spat a ball at her for contemptuous emphasis.
Then I reached out with my mind and stopped her heart. Oddly enough, it started right back up. Smiling in triumph, she removed from her bag a fattened, blood-slick heart, beating slow and regular and emitting a red light all its own. She held it up, and it seemed to pull her arm towards a wall I thought to be solid.
“No!”, I shouted — mostly because it’s the done thing in these circumstances — but I was unable to kill her from a distance and too thirsty and lazy to get up and do it by hand, so I watched literally helpless as she blew open the false wall to my right with more blessed buckshot.
With a blast of singing sulfur in my eyes and shrieking of the elder damned filling my cyber-ears like Lou Reed music, another Dick Cheney appeared in a glory of fire.
“There’s the impostor,” shouted Rice, in that horrible cat-lady voice of hers. “Kill him now!”
“No,” said the other Dick Cheney, and with delicate finesse he plucked the heart carefully from her hot hands. He allowed a profoundly betrayed look to cross her features before turning her to a pillar of salt, right down to her tacky-ass dominatrix stilettos. I stood up.
“Who the fuck are you,” I said wearily.
“I’m Dick Cheney, bitch,” said Dick Cheney Prime. For the first time in my apparently cloned life, I knew fear.
Squeezing my withered core muscles, I forced my Rex-Gen® artificial vent passage shut hard enough to deter a work-hardened Sybian, but it was no use; in an instant, Dick Cheney Prime was behind me, literally jackhammering my asshole open with his diamond-tipped telescoping Cokk™. His clawed hand had me by the throat before I could blink. He was really hammering away down there; my Brooks Brothers banana hammock had completely disintegrated under the extreme torque.
“Get off, you fuck,” I said.
“You love it, you fucking faggot,” shouted Cheney Prime, loosely quoting Churchill. “You love your clonefather’s diamond dick in your loose ass.”
Inevitably, with a gush of my most masculine remaining blood, my cyber-ring tore open under his concerted assault. By blind instinct, I bit his clawed thumb to the bone.
His wrathful bellowings were literally loud enough to wake the dead — in fact, just loud enough that the shitty little emperor began screaming again from my bloodied, torn vest pocket — and he threw me with more force than I had ever seen anyone but me throw anyone or anything: hard enough to propel me right through the salt Condi like she wasn’t even there and right through the reinforced, ensorcelled fiberglass floor of my basement level, right through the crowded Diplomatic Reception Room and up, up, up, until a warm darkness interrupted my trajectory.
I thought for a moment I was dead: that I had been released from the brief life of unbelievable torment prepared for me by the demonic presence from whom I had probably been cloned in 1993, and that now I had an eternity to relax and regroup on the hell-planet Kolob. What clued me in that I was not was a bestial squeal of surprise and pain, and the unmistakable cruel laughter of Crown Prince Abdullah bin Abdulaziz.
My head was completely lodged in George W. Bush’s cavernous rectum!
“Get outta there, you,” he shouted with some insane measure of calm, somehow, even though he had a grown man’s head up his ass. Even through my slick, malodorous prison, I could feel the percussive sting of a camel-whip on the President’s tender skin. “Look at you, you moron, you’ve just made history,” said the Crown Prince, beating the President relentlessly as was his wont. The President, hooting like a fucking baboon, tore ass right into the President’s Bedroom, trying and failing to shit the whole way. No sooner had he reached his pissing corner than I could suddenly smell the penetrating odor of the White House press corps: gloriously potent, even through George’s asshole — a special tang of failure, the most delicious smell in the world — and that alone gave me the energy to pull myself loose.
“Help me up, you worthless shit,” I shouted to whichever worthless shit it was was standing next to me. A split second later, I recognized him by his shitty off-the-rack spendy-for-a-peasant slacks: Ron Fournier. I grasped his hand and hauled myself up just quickly enough to see his eyes lose focus and roll back into his little bald head. For a split second, I hoped that was just Ron Fournier being Ron Fournier, but no: Cheney Prime was behind me again. As I turned to the West Sitting Hall exit in a futile attempt to escape, three more identical copies of me rounded the corner to block my way, their 6.74” cocks plopped out of their fine Italian-cut slacks and flapping gently, almost hypnotically, in flesh mode.
Cheney Prime had me by the neck again, this time carefully angling his wounded thumb behind my jaw. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he lied.
“Go fuck yourself,” I grunted.
“Presently,” he said.
The otherworldly whirring thrum of three cocks windmilling in perfect synchrony distracted me for a split second, but that was all it took. As my eyes darted to catch a glimpse of this, the most beautiful sight in nature, a knee to my priceless Wedgwood testicles and a right cross to my dumb mouth dropped me like Social Security privatization. Through my bleary fucked vision I could see the hellish glow of my own original heart.
Slowly, with a tenderness I would have thought impossible out of Dick Cheney, Cheney Prime worked my own greasy, bloated heart up my torn asshole. I was unashamed to weep as, for the first time in what I would have sworn was decades, I could feel the horrible sensation of my own heartbeat once more. Denied the perpetual orgasmic pleasure of a heartbeat-free body, I wept openly, unashamed. I was now less than Dick Cheney; I knew in my horrible original heart, deep in my shattered robo-rectum, that that meant I no longer deserved to live.
One final sensation pulled me from my existential misery: a spluttering hiccup in the cockwhir as great heaping spats of my own jizz struck my blubbering tongue with literal laser precision. Instantly, my mouth was full of an awful taste, mediciney with an acetone tang.
Of course! It was light sweet crude all along!