Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Diary of a Mad Ex Vice-President

Aw, shit, this ain't gonna work, damn it. I got too much gel in the toe and not enough catalyst to set the fucker off.

He struggles with the shoe, looking down past the luggage claim to the two security officers stationed by the counter. He thinks about them for a second, and decides that they are mall cops.

Fuck 'em. They couldn't stop a fly trying to crawl inside their butts.

He nearly breaks the lace of the squared off black boot. Sweat is present on his hands, and his glasses are slipping down his face.

If the shoe doesn't do it then I'll just have to blow up my undies.

He smirks and snarks and grunts and wheezes. He grabs his crotch to make sure the bomb is still there. He grabs his dick by accident, and this makes him laugh.

I'll show these butt fuckers what a bomber tastes like. They'll never know what hit 'em...until I hit 'em, and then what the fuck do I care? I will be the God Annihilate. Shit, this fucking...

"Mr. Vice President, are you okay?" asks the lead security agent. "Are you sure you want to fly on a commercial flight?"

Yeah I'm sure, you pansy-ass duck warbler. Just get me there on time--I'm ready to go!

Beads of sweat were running down his immense forehead. His neck ached, and his hands were trembling. This was going to be his big finale, and the rush of it thrilled him.

Ole Dick Cheney is gonna give 'em something to remember, by god. Something to remember for a long, long time...

He woke with a jolt, and turned his head away from the light that was pouring in through the window next to his seat. He reflexively reached down to his shoe, and then to his crotch. He chuckled--the spirits had prevailed. He hadn't missed Christmas after all. Below him the city of Chicago seemed to reach up and embrace him, and as the plane began its approach he made as if to shake some imaginary hand.

I'll show those two-bit windy city fuckers how its done. This ain't some Nigerian tinhorn you're dealing with, no sir. No fucking sir.

Dick Cheney looked out his window as the air bus shuddered slightly in its descent. He smiled, patted his dick, lit his shoe and detonated his boxer bomb.

Tell me to shut up, will they. Ha! H-!!!

Thousand of tiny pieces of Dick Cheney fell over Chicago like confetti on New Year's Eve. It was an ordnance parade that fell from the sky, all smoke and shrapnel and rendered flesh. He was Dick Fucking Cheney, by god, and this was his last goddamn hurrah.

Or maybe I dreamed it.


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