Huddled in a dark corner of the Fox News editiorial offices, the podgy hulk of Roger Ailes listens for a knock, a phone call, an email, that will not come. Amidst empty boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts, he watches furtively throught the pixelated blackness, as muted television monitors behind him broadcast any news unrelated to the impending transfer of power within the American executive branch. Worse yet, his crack team of well-scrubbed, pure -bred, blond haired, blue eyed stringers has not yet turned up a story to scandalize the incoming president. The tension rises propotionatley to his ever expanding girth and soaring blood pressure. He feels an icy, tingling grip course over the left side of his body. Worse yet, what paeans does the Minimus of modern news organization have left to trumpet? After five years of ill-conceived foreign and economic policy - the historical points of pride of the Republican party, he has admitted to himself that he ain't got much. He cries out to his secretary to get him another two dozen, one glazed, one assorted, and to make sure there are at least four raspberry filled. "Ten more days, then I can start my diet," muses the former Nixon apparatchik.
"I'm safe for fifty years. I can start eating butter again. There was me and then there was the rest of them. I outlasted them all. Fleischer, Card, Rumsfeld, Gonzales, pussies. Tony Snow took the coward's way out, but not me. Damn shame I didn't have the chance to topple a country with nice beaches and girls that run around topless and install myself as supreme leader for eternity. Oh yeah, Lynn's still around. But was it all worth it? I could be the first public servant after leaving office to be fragged by his Secret Service detail. Nonsense. I'll never die," The Vice-President makes no effort to disguise his ubiquitous, mocking sneer. Decorated with the stuffed remnants of animal carcasses, honorary university degrees, a shotgun rack, and an oil painting of a muscular gladiator killing a lion, the walls of this secret chamber convey a theme of ritualised death and homo-eroticism. Cheney takes a shotgun down from the wall and polishes it as a tour group viewing the Executive Mansion wonders about the soft, disturbing, orgasmic moans, almost the sounds of arctic birds mating, leak from the crevices in the paint.
She crosses her legs high, almost seriously considers the offer, blushes to herself at her own immodesty. Sure, the letter, written on Playboy company stationery, arrived by special FedEx delivery, stressed the pictorial would be artistic, tasteful, all the usual promises. Even for a minute, she ponders the $20 million. Her fingers twirl the ends of her bobbed, blond highlights. Yet, this shameless, ancient proposition of sex for money leaves her feeling less filthy than having to defend the actions and motivations of a man her intellectual inferior. "I sure know how to pick 'em," she thinks, suppresses an outward smile. Absentmindedly, girlish, she starts playing with her necklace. It rides up the nape of her neck, and she places the unbroken chain into her mouth. She glances out her office window, the upper corners of the oane glass glazed by winter frost. Dana Perino spies her faint, transluscent reflection, "Saying no to this should have been easier." She has no idea what 'this' could be except that it was not left far behind.
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