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From: Christine W Indigo <christineindigo@juno.com>
Subject: {ASSM} US Presidential Election 2000: That's The Ticket! Part 3 (MM, hum, scfi, caution, slash)
Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 04:11:01 -0500
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That's the Ticket! Part 3: The Plot gets a little runny... (MM, hum,
scfi, caution, slash)
by Mary (viedma9@yahoo.com)
DISCLAIMERS AND DISTRIBUTION RIGHTS: This is a work of political satire,
and as such, is protected by the US Bill of Rights. It is not intended
to portray any of the actual activities of the real people in this story.
It should not be taken as a factual portrayal of the public figures
within, their beliefs, private lives, or sexual proclivities. You may
repost this to any free newsgroup/forum/whatever, as long as the author's
names and this disclaimer remains intact. However, any archiving (except
for the ASSM archive) may only be done with permission from the authors.
SLASH IS: MM/FF romances and erotica, mostly written by and for
heterosexual and bisexual women. Most, but not all of it is fanfiction.
MARY'S NOTES:
Wow, the insidious things that begin at the most harmless of suggestions.
:]
And since i'm actually using my real name writing this insanity, PLEASE
let me disclaim the hell out of this. This is a work of fiction, none of
the people herein would ever act this way in a million years. Well,
except for...nope, i can't say. like i said, i ain't using an alias. :]
Btw, some of you guys might recognize some of the imagery from one of my
favorite books, "A Wrinkle in Time" by Madeline L'Engle. If you haven't
read it, what kind of sick childhood did you have, anyway? :]
Thank you, Vali- you're amazing. I hope you don't hate me for this...
******** Al was still thrown from what had happened inside the Oval
Office. Sure, he was going to ride Bill for all the free lame duck miles
he could possibly get out of this white-haired, never-ending sexual
harassment lawsuit and then scrape him off his shiny black double knotted
shoes, but as he left the Oval Office, eyes burning with shame, the
enormity of what just happened seemed to make every step heavier than the
last.
'I can't believe it- I give that man the best eight years of my life,' Al
thought. He walked quickly past secret service agents wearing knee pads
and secretaries with smeared lipstick. Outside the Lincoln Bedroom, the
ambassador to China was limbering up like he was getting ready to run a
marathon. The sight enflamed Al afresh and he quickened his step,
determined not to lose control in front of these lower eschelon ankle
grabbers.
Heading downstairs, Al ran into a group of schoolkids taking a tour of
the White House, forcing him to spend precious moments keeping up the
staid, mild-mannered exterior while smiling and waving for the brats. He
was looking desperately for a way out of the milieu, because on the
inside his guts were churning and his mind was replaying the conversation
and his subsequent shame on an endless feedback loop, transforming his
inner thoughts into deafening white noise.
'Why was it that one only thought of the best fuck you lines after the
moment to say them had come and gone,' Al thought. Now he was imagining
stomping back up into the Oval Office, kicking the ratfuck dog of his,
and jumping into his face, shaking his finger at that smug greasy visage
and unloading every the most hurtful things imaginable.
"Oh yeah, Billy-boy? Well, I faked every orgasm, so take that, you
trailer-trash hick!"
'Ok, so it wasn't a particularly good comeback, but it would give him the
satisfaction of getting in the last word. Man, but McCain would end up
paying for this later,' Al thought. John thought the tattoo on his ass
had smarted. That up in the air junior birdman wouldn't have an unmarked
bit of flesh on him when he got through with him.
Finally one of the secret service (more like escort service, Al thought
with bitter humor) people decided to stop propping up the White House
walls with their gym-rat behinds and helped rescue Al from the throng.
After several assurances that he didn't need to be followed out on the
street, Al reached Pennsylvania Avenue and found some blessed peace and
quiet. At last Al could let his guard down and he took several deep
breaths to erase the burn from his body.
But when the breath started to hitch in his chest and the sidewalk
started to blur into invisibility, Al knew he needed to sit down before
he stumbled and fell into some embarrassing press attention. Sinking
gratefully onto the nearest park bench, occupied by some tall nondescript
man made shimmery through his tears, Al realized that the media might
even work well for him for a change. 'Man of the people, overcome by joy
at stomping Bradley and virtually securing the Democratic nomination,
Vice President Al Gore quietly savors some quiet time amidst the backdrop
of his possible future residence and yadda fucking yadda...'
The blur beside him cleared up and Al wanted to be swallowed up by the
earth when he recognized who was sharing the bench beside him. The shame
and humiliation gave way to rage in a blind attempt to save face.
"So, Bradley," he almost snarled. "We meet again. Loser."
******
Dubya drove home from the meeting with his henchmen, a little unsettled
by the entire visit. Granted, what Pat Robertson had to show him this
afternoon had been revolting. He knew that there was a lot more to Al
'varnished with Lemon Pledge' Gore than met the eye, but he truly had no
idea that ritual marking was amongst the Vice President's kinks. And the
videotapes, oh dear lord, he never knew that crunchy peanut butter could
be put to such nefarious purposes. He tried in vain to plant other,
happier thoughts into his brain: summers at Kennebunkport with Daddy and
the rest of the family, refusing eleventh-hour pardons from Death Row,
spankings from Ralph Reed, but nothing seemed to work.
Even more bizarre was Pat's refusal to leak these to the press.
"No, George, something like this could very well backfire," Pat said,
smoke rolling out of his- what was that orifice? Dubya thought it was his
mouth, but was afraid to think what else it might be. "We need to...
exercise caution with these. To use them at the most crucial and damaging
moment." Pat's eyes took on a cold, yellowish cast when he saw a rat
scurrying across the floorboards. With pupils narrowing into diamond
slits, Pat's forked tongue shot out and grabbed the unfortunate creature
and brought it shrieking to his double rows of broken teeth. As much as
it disgusted his cronies, Pat refused to wear his dentures and the
colored contacts, preferring to let his true self shine through when out
of the public eye. Dubya tried not to listen to the sounds Pat was making
as the televangelist messily devoured his afternoon snack.
"No, I believe that we need to consult a higher power on this matter,"
Pat grunted, emitting a loud belch through the entrails.
"Daddy?"
"You fool!" Pat hissed, focusing his eyes squarely on Dubya's
unremarkable chest. George felt a rising tick of panic when he felt his
body grow uncomfortably warm. "No, I said we need to confer with a
superior intellect."
"You mean The Oracle, sir?" Dubya wanted to sob with relief when Pat's
glittering orbs looked pleased and the burning sensation in his chest
subsided.
"This election is crucial to our reign of darkness, boy. We need you to
be the puppet so we can unleash our dark minions. And you'd better
succeed, or I shall be..most displeased." Pat burnt an ant off Dubya's
desk, partly to show him that he meant business, but mostly out of sheer
boredom. "You have your mission, underling. You are dismissed."
If Dubya had had a tail, he would've tucked it between his legs as he
tried his level best not to run like hell out of the office, Pat's
cackling echoing after him.
'Subborder whores in Mexico, cheating on my taxes, golf, sitting in the
Oval Office swivel chair as a lad and making vroom vroom noises'- blast
and tarnation, but none of the positive thoughts guaranteed to drive the
bad things away seemed to work this afternoon. He was feeling positively
spotty today, and his meeting with The Oracle this afternoon would make
it no better.
Dubya drove through the high-security compound that housed The Oracle,
winding his black Jaguar through the labyrinthine passages before parking
in the handicapped parking space in front of two thick steel doors. The
doors screeched on their hinges and echoed down a hall that was so long
the end of the passage seemed to come into a point in the distance.
Dubya's hard-soled shoes make crisp sounds that skittered and bounced off
the white walls. Twice he whirled around, believing someone was behind
him, but the passage was empty. 'Shouldn't have rented 'The Sixth Sense'
last night,' Dubya thought uneasily.
At last he reached the end of the corridor, held his palm over the
scanner, and entered a cavernous room. From the vaulted ceiling a single
beam of light shone upon a raised dais in the center. On the dais,
encased in glass, a grayish-white blob quivered in a gelatinous
suspending solution. Dubya approached the hideous mass of brain tissue
and bent on one knee.
"Mr. Reagan, sir-"
Dubya felt a tickle between his eyes. The brain was initiating a probe
with its subject. Crikey, but he hated this part of the process.
"-my advisors and myself have a matter which requires your expertise and
advice. You see, we have-"
"I already know of which you speak of, child," Reagan's brain intoned.
Gone was the unsteady tremor of its carrier's vocal chords. What replaced
it was a cross between a tape being played in slow motion and fingernails
scraped across a blackboard, and it never failed to make Dubya's balls
want to crawl right up into his body and lodge themselves somewhere in
his stomach.
The brain continued. "As we speak, your challenger and
his..companion..are joining forces. I have a plan to destroy them and to
raise our forces back to the highest office in the land. Come closer,
boy," Reagan's brain purred, "we have much to discuss."
Dubya went down on both knees, crawled toward the dais, and prostrated
himself before the monstrous mass of tissue.
"As you wish, My Lord and Master," Dubya said, trying in vain to keep the
shake out of his voice. The next time he felt tempted to join an
organization like the Skull and Bones Society, he'll read the fine print
first.
'Loser,' Al thought smugly. That was good, it established the pecking
order around here, let Billy-boy know who was boss around here. Then he
realized that he used 'Billy' and 'boss' in the same thought and
despaired afresh.
"Al, what on earth's wrong?"
"None of your fucking business," Al snapped. Bill recoiled from the sting
but put up a brave front, determined, no matter what, to seek out the
hurt inside the man he loved. And hopefully, to soothe the pain and kiss
the sad look off his beloved's face.
"I don't understand, Al. You shouldn't be sad. You've got everything in
the world that you want. America loves you, and you're well on your way
to victory." Bill swallowed his own pain of defeat and put an encouraging
tone in his voice for the man he loved. "I just know you'll win, Al.
You're the better man. I've never known better. And I... I care for you,
Al." Bill threw caution to the wind and raised a hand to caress Al's
tear-stained cheek. "Very deeply. I love you, Al."
Al looked at him like Bill had sprouted an extra head while he was
speaking. 'What on earth was Bill talking about?' Al thought with
bewilderment. And yet, when Bill touched his cheek, he felt a warmth
inside his body that had nothing to do with the day. 'It's tough being a
grade-A asshole out of the public eye,' Al sighed. Maybe he'd put off the
punishment session with McCain a little longer. This encounter could
prove to be just the thing he needed to erase that doughy leader of the
free world out of his mind forever.
"I have a place nearby," Al said.
Bill could hardly believe his luck. If he'd known this was all it would
take to win his love over he would have done it ages ago. However, a
sliver of good sense prevailed.
"Um, isn't the Vice President's house a little- public?" Bill said. "I
have a hotel room in Crystal City that's not far from here if you'd
like," he said, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.
"Lead on, Bill," Al stood and turned to his defeated rival and stuck out
his hand to him. A tremor of hope and desire coursed through Bill's body
as he took Al's hand and held it for longer than was necessary. Bill
looked up into the cobalt blue sky and sighed with happiness. 'Warren was
right,' he thought dreamily. 'Telling him how I felt was the right thing
to do.'
And with Bill's thoughts toward the future and Al's toward immediate
gratification, the two men walked towards Bill's rental car, oblivious to
the dark clouds that had just begun to gather over their heads.
To be continued?
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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