Sunday, September 11, 2011

Cheney. Dick Cheney.

(The following is an excerpt.)

In My Time
by Dick Cheney

September 11, 2001

Prologue:  Special Agent Jimmy Scott burst through the door.  "Mr. Vice President, we've got to leave now," he told me.  My body stiffened at his words.
     Nobody tells Dick Cheney what to do. 
     Before I could reply he moved behind my desk, put one hand on my belt, another on my shoulder, and tried to propel me out of my office toward the "PEOC," the Presidential Emergency Operations Center.  I put my hand over the one he had on my shoulder.  In a fatherly way.  In one quick move I grabbed his index finger and gave it a vicious twist.  I felt a satisfying "snap!"
     Nobody touches Dick Cheney.
     Just then President Bush ran into my office, a Glock in each hand.
     "Dick," he said, forcefully, "the United Sates has just been attacked.  I'm either going to kick ass or chew bubble-gum.  And I'm all out of bubble-gum."
     "Okay, Mr. President," I told him.  I could see the determination in those smart, steely eyes of his.  I put a hand on his shoulder.  In a fatherly way.  "What are your orders?"
     Before he could answer I applied just the smallest amount of pressure.  It was the Vulcan Nerve Pinch.  A trick I learned from...  well, let's just say from some out of town "guests" during my time in Roswell, NM and, after that, Area 51.  Bush fell faster than Obama's approval ratings.
     "Take him someplace safe," I told Scott.  He was still whimpering over his injured hand.  These young pups.  Worthless, all of them.
     He did as he was ordered, and it was just in the nick of time.  Running down the hall at me were Muslim terrorists, and the worst kind, too:  Ninja terrorists!  The White House had been breeched!  Using the skills I learned in mixed martial arts as an Ultimate Fighting Champion, I quickly dispatched them.  I looked up from the dead enemies of America.  Condoleezza Rice stood in front of me.
     "Dick, Dick," she gasped.  "Thank God it's you!"
     She fell into my arms.  I could feel her body underneath that manly suit she wore.  It felt soft.  Warm.  If she were an Almond Joy, then all of her almonds were in the right place.
     "Time to show you a trick I learned in a Vietnamese whorehouse," I told her, eyeing that sexy gap between her teeth.
     Afterward, as we tumbled out of a stall in the men's bathroom, she pressed her dark, full lips close to my ear.  I could feel them brush lightly against the wiry tangle of gray hair growing out of them.
     "Call me," she whispered, seductively.
     "Get lost," I told her, bluntly.  She ran from my arms.  Crying.
     I heard grunting from behind me.  I turned.  It was Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld huddling over the dead bodies.  The smell of blood had attracted him like the mad dog he was.  I could see a vicious glint in his eyes.  And then I saw what he was doing.  He was taking their scalps.  That man was a heathen, but, goddam, he gave as good as he got.
     I went into my office.  My heart was beating fast.  Too fast.  I had to regulate my heartbeat, or else I'd be good to nobody.  I grabbed my portable defibrillator just as my heart gave out.
     "Clear!" I yelled out, and then laughed at my own morbid joke.  I gave myself a jolt of electricity that would have killed any normal man.  Was it painful?  What do you know about pain?  All that mattered was that I was rejuvenated.
     "That felt good," I said to no one in particular, and willed myself to believe it.
     That's when I heard whimpering coming from beneath my desk.  It was Secretary of State Colin Powell.  Hiding like a scared child.  Hurriedly trying to change into a burka.  For a disguise?  Who knows?  I don't want to get into his private proclivities.  I spat on the floor in front of him.  Just like I always do.  He disgusted me.
     I opened the secret door to my private arsenal.  I grabbed my favorite shotgun.  I call her "The Lawyerkiller."  I smiled as I held it in my cold, dead hands.  Remembering the time I used it on attorney Harry Whittington just for looking at me cross-eyed.
     "Don't worry, I'm still your friend," he told me.
     "You'd better be," I told him.
     Down the hall I heard an explosion.  It broke me out of my reverie.  There was gun fire.  And then more gun fire.  My loyal Secret Service Agents were being killed. 
     Nobody kills Dick Cheney's Secret Service Agents.  Well, the terrorist scum had their fun...
     Now it was my turn to play.
(Want More?  Then go buy the book, you bastard!  --DC)
Fifty Shades of Funny

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