Joe. (notaninja) wrote in awful_fanfics,

The Democrats are closing the Senate!!!!!The Reichstag is burning!AAAAAAARGH!

A red checkered tablecloth, poker chips, a bowl of potato chips and sodas. It would have been your average Tuesday night in the U.S. of A. had the two players not been the President, George W. Bush, and his closest and most trusted friend Karl Rove. George W. Bush has just dropped his hand, and a triumphant Karl Rove is collecting the chips, and enjoying life's rewards, while Bush has his hands folded dramatically, maybe a little putdown. "Three of a kind," Rove chuckled, "What did you have?" he asks of George as he picked up the cards from the table, "Mr. President, you had a full house!"

"Yes," George replied with a twinkle of Christian mischief, "I let you have it, because everyone knows you can't beat a Texan at Texas Hold 'Em." They both laughed and George went for Turd Blossom's fridge in the next room. "Hey Karl," he peeks from around the corner, "Is it okay if I bum one of your Orange Crushes?"

The reply and the wave of the hand was anything but disapproving, and Dubya soon returned, popping the tab of the can with a light fizz. "Anyhow you said you wanted to talk politics, so let's talk politics. You called me over for a reason, just like the American people called me to be President for a reason," Bush demurred as he sipped at the bright soda before setting it on the table. Karl, for his part, stopped smiling from where he was sitting and his face took on a very serious aspect.

"So what are we going to do about Scooter, then Mr. President?" He spoke out, was silent, then eased back into his chair as the apprehension sank in. Dubya didn't sit down or else he would have gotten up, he was not pleased but he didn't noticably lose his cool. "Karl," he began, walking over to touch the collar of his colleague of freedom. "You have to let him go," now his voice began to waiver in recumbent frustration, "I know he was one of those orphans that Cheney raised, but, still, he's no longer even human." #43 stepped away, turning away to face the balcony and a dazzling city of thousands of terrorless Americans outside. "He was beginning to crack. He was going to the other side." Rove blurted out something loudly in response but Bush willingly ignored him, adding, "He mentioned names, the CIA, pretty soon he would have mentioned The Chamber. We all saw it."

The CIA was only the beginning of what he knew, what he had doubtlessly been reminded of every nightmare. Hidden, eternally guarded many floors under the CIA in a sealed vault was the truth about Iraq. Unspeakable abberations of the noblest vanguard of science that no civilized world needed to ever know, yet preserved in vitro, like smallpox a generation ago, in the desperate lingering thread of hope they all agreed someday man's worst intentions might prove indirectly his best.

Rove was silent, his head was heavy, when Bush turned around. They both were still for some time. At some point, they wordlessly played a few more hands of poker like old soldiers. Atleast they were until Harriet Miers came in, frantic, her mouth pursed and her fists curled like little knots. Both men got up as her sobbing brought her to their attention.

"MR. PRESIDENT! MR. PRESIDENT! It's THEM! They have it! Oh god, please hold me, Mr. President."

"There there, Harriet Miers," George Bush said to her as he held her comfortingly in an attempt to soothe her, "Someday people will begin to understand your subtle ways."

"Something must have startled her," Rove murmured thoughtfully as he got out of his seat to flick the switch to his small countertop television. He wanted to see if the Daily Show was on yet. "What channel's Comedy Central again?" he thought to himself.

All three of them recoiled in disbelief as the image on Fox News flickered to life. The image it projected was the silver spined dome of the Arch-Democrat antagonizer, Harry Reid. Harry Reid, the antithesis of great men, preening a fake leather legal pad clutched tight in his webby paws next to his firm-pressed suit like some kind of fag Hitler. He gesticulated and sneered, confident for once he held both sides of America in his strengthening grasp, "The Democrats have closed up your Senate, Mr. President, and for a price." He paused, doubtless his unfortunate presence was making the cameraman swoon from the odour of lanolin. "The American people," (knowing that using his own term to extort him would incense Dubya even further!) he guffawingly adjusted his glasses like some villainous auditor who'd finally caught someone's tax code violation, "want to know the whole story about the intelligence and the Iraq War!"

"Blessed Almighty!" George Bush cried, "we must stop these madmen at all costs!"
Meanwhile, unaware and under a Missle silo in Wyoming, Dick Cheney clutched at his heart.
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