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                           Pedophiles For Alito

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   The echo of the slammed car-door slapped back from the invisible
   exterior of empty warehouse walls, then vision faded to white as
   the dense clammy mist closed around his muffled footsteps. First
   crunching over gravel, then slippery on the oily fish-stained
   wood grain of the pier-slats.

   He could sense the unseen buildings looming ominously on all
   sides, concealed by the thick, humid cottony shrouds. The deep
   lustful tone of a distant foghorn sounded long and clear over the
   sloshing of waves feebly lapping the pilings below him, then
   vanished into the faint persistent clanging of a buoy-bell.

   Beneath the requisite trenchcoat, a hot trickle of sweat worked
   its way down from his armpit. Eventually, the promised brick-red
   door appeared in the still solitude, weathered and faded. Paint
   flakes curled from the doorjamb.

   Glancing around once more to be sure he hadn't been followed, he
   pounded the faded portal impatiently with the heel of his hand.
   The only observer was a dolorous pelican perched on a pier-post.

   At first, nothing. Then, a faint noise from within. Heartbeats
   drummed frantic tattoos in his ears.

   Eye-level, a small rectangular slit slid open to reveal two
   dark-circled bloodshot orbs, backlit by harsh sickly-yellow
   light. "Whaddya want?" a demanded a gritty voice.

   "S-s-strip-search," he stammered, nervously spitting out the
   password.

   The slit slammed shut once more. Finally, after what seemed an
   eternity, the doorway sighed open to permit his passage.

   Soon he found himself standing in the back of a smoke-filled
   room, surrounded by solemn hushed murmuring. Above the lit podium
   at the center hung a sign:

                         PEDOPHILES FOR ALITO

   At last, a dark polished-wood gavel silenced the chatter, and a
   hefty, dark-suited speaker in sunglasses with slicked-back hair
   assumed the podium, and the oily, softspoken voice began to
   caress the crowd, frequently pausing for effect.

   "Gentlemen, we now have a supreme-court candidate, who truly
   understands our needs. One whom we can count on, to
   institutionalize, the fondling of ten-year-old girls. Life is
   good!"

   Amid the murmurs of approval, he began to feel more at ease. Yes,
   life was good!

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