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That's the Ticket! (MM, hum, celeb, caution, slash)
by Vali (loki@netnitco.net) and 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.
Chapter 1
*********
Bill Bradley, erstwhile contender for the Democratic presidential
nomination, stood alone and disconsolate in the empty auditorium where he
had announced his withdrawal from the race. The red-white-and-blue
bunting was faded and wilting, the balloons were deflated, the audience
had deserted him and his basset-hound features were even more hangdog
than usual.
He'd known all along he wouldn't be able to pull it off, of course...it
would have been nice to get one of those quirky little New England
states, the ones that delighted in giving the finger to the party
establishment (which one had the socialist governor, was it Maine or New
Hampshire? He could never remember...). But the writing had been on the
wall ever since that fateful debate--ever since Al Gore, his blueblooded
stiffnecked nemesis, had challenged him on his health care plan and he
didn't fight back.
Bradley sighed, running a hand through his thinning thatch of
salt-and-pepper hair. Why hadn't he defended himself? He had the plans,
the charts, the stats to prove that he was right, that Al was full of it.
So why hadn't he defended himself? Goddamned fair-haired-boy,
favorite-son Al...everybody's pick, this election's prom king, the
popular kid (dammit, that basketball career should've counted for a lot
more), the smug, self-assured handpicked winner, always walking around in
that insouciant, completely confident manner, his body lithe and athletic
even in midlife, thick dark hair framing his wonderfully boyish, handsome
features that--
No. Bradley shook his head forcefully, dispelling those thoughts back to
the lower surfaces of his mind. Don't go there. Not tonight. Especially
not tonight.
He sighed and reached toward his feet, picking up the prop he had
brought to this final campaign event: a basketball, now half-deflated and
looking rather forlorn. A little joke, really; nothing more. But it
suited his mood tonight perfectly. He tossed the thing up and caught it a
few times, then regretfully put it aside and headed for the door.
Already, the reporters were asking why he'd only said he supported Al.
Why he hadn't used that magic word: endorsement. Endorse Al. No. He
wanted to talk about Al Gore, and think about Al Gore, as little as
humanly possible. Any other path was terribly dangerous.
How could he do it? How could he go on like this, first locked in
competition, then serving as sidelines cheerleader to Al Gore, his
unfairly favored rival, his tormentor, his persecutor...
Al Gore. How could he continue to stay silent in the presence of the
only man he'd ever truly loved?
***
Loved? Is that the right word for what he was feeling right now?
When he first met Al on the campaign trail he was immediately drawn to
the statueque vice-president. So confident of his position in life, so
totally unafraid to step back and let another man take charge. And then
had the good sense to remain perfectly silent while this self-said man
was going around sticking his foot and tailor-made cigars in his mouth.
So smart, Al was. Bill always admired him when back in his New Jersey
senator days.
Al was so sure of himself, so damn confident, it drove him crazy. But
there was that undeniable attraction even then. He felt so deeply for him
that he swore that he would never take the low road and attack him on the
issues. Issues, haha. Yeah, I've got issues, but abortion and raising the
minimum wage weren't the ones I had in mind, Bill thought with a
frustrated sigh.
Then there was that point in the campaign were Bill said to hell with it,
the gauntlet must be thrown down. He had to see what lay underneath that
implacable demeanor. He wanted to get under his skin, to see Albert get
angry with him, to totally lose it in a blaze of red-faced furious lust
for..
Whoa. Bill shook his head in vain to clear the jumble of thoughts. Of him
laying on his stomach in some random hotel room, pillow under his hips,
feeling Al's fingers inside him, opening him up, preparing him for the
most mind-blowing fuck of his entire life.
Well, maybe the second most. Super Tuesday won the Olympic gold when it
came to world class reaming, Bill thought. His ass still hurt. Hell, Joe
Schmoe in cousin-dating country won as many primaries as did, he thought,
shifting in his seat to try to get a little more comfort. The
Preparation-H hadn't worked its magic tonight.
No, what Bill needed was something to take his mind off the incessant
nagging that he'd pledged his support to this beautiful man. He'd exposed
himself to the entire country and he didn't care what anyone thought of
him anymore. He was Al's forever and ever, amen.
Bill climbed into bed and lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Finally
he sighed and gave in to the guilty pleasure of it all. Rolling over and
reaching under the bed, Bill's fingers fumbled around until he found what
he was searching for. He pulled up his treasure and held it in trembling
hands, his fingertips lightly caressing the embossed cover of "Earth in
the Balance".
Such a wonderful man, Bill thought. Such intelligence and compassion
coupled with the fierce courage of his convictions. Definitely a
one-handed read.
Bill turned to his favorite chapter in the book and got comfortable. His
right hand slipped underneath the tight elastic of his fruit o' the
looms, hand crafted by the good American factories that moved overseas
and forced little old ladies in the South Pacific to work 18 hour days
for pennies on the dollar, and slipped into a red-hazed fog of want and
unrelieved desire.
"Save the Earth, Bill."
"Submit to my superior campaign finesse, Bill."
"Fuck me harder, Bill. Harder...faster...yeah, that's it, oh god, right
there, oh yeah, do it again, make me beg for it like a cheap slut, Bill!
YES!!!"
Bill came down from the heights and wiped his hand clean on page 23. Time
to buy another book soon, he realized. In the post orgasmic calm, he knew
what he had to do. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his
cell phone.
"Al Gore here."
"Hi, Al. It's Bill." An uncomfortable pause.
"Is everything all right, Bill?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I was just checking up on you, making sure that there
aren't any hard feelings between the two of us." Bill took a deep breath.
"And that if you ever need anything, anything at all, that I'll be here
for you. You've got my support."
You've got me, period.
"Hey, Bill, it's all right. We're partners now. And together, I know
we'll beat Bush in the fall."
There was a small giggle on Bill's end of the line.
"What is it?"
"Um, nothing, Al, never mind. And one more thing. I really l-" Bill's
voice faltered. "I really loved having you as a presidential nominee
rival. You're the best."
"Why thanks, Bill, you're a fine man yourself."
Bill's breath caught in his throat. At last, some small validation of his
existence.
"I won't keep you up, Al, I just wanted to say hi."
"Well, feel free to call anytime, Bill." The call ended with a soft
click.
Bill looked at the phone for a moment and placed it on the table and
snuggled deep in the blankets, restful slumber within his grasp once
again.
***
Al hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. Whatthefuckever, Al thought.
Fucking loser, just wants to get with the winner, and we all know who's
got the biggest Democratic alpha male dick around here now, yes sir. Al
turned back to his task at hand.
"Hey honey, who was that?" the white haired man asked. He was older than
Al, but somewhat oddly alluring with a tight compact frame of an
ex-military man, one of the few that actually kept in shape after he left
the service. He lay on the rumpled white sheets, fists gripped tightly in
the sheets, waiting for the next application of ink and searing heat to
be applied to his bottom. The tattoo on the left cheek of his ass read
"Property of Al Gore, future President of the United States of America".
They'd started it on Tuesday and still hadn't finished it. It was
starting to spread onto the right cheek and halfway down one thigh. Holed
up in Arizona consulting with advisors my a--
"Ow! That hurt!" John wailed.
"Relax, hon, I'm almost done," Al said, blowing on the cherry red ember
at the end of the stick supplied with the Tom Fontana E-Z prison tattoo
kit.
Al massaged the insides of John's thighs and sat back to admire his
handiwork, at the way he plan was unfolding so fucking perfectly.
Oh, yeah, Al thought. They're all my bitches now.
Chapter 2
********
"I know I shouldn't be here," Bradley ventured awkwardly, "but..."
The other man waved a casual hand at him. "I understand, Bill. Really I
do. Fresh maple syrup?"
Without waiting for an answer, former New Hampshire senator turned
acid-penned memoirist Warren Rudman picked up the pitcher and poured his
guest a small shot glass of the sweet stuff. Fresh off the trees in
beautiful neighboring Vermont, flown in every morning...his only vice,
that and increasingly Byzantine schemes to cut the fiendish national
deficit. Sipping from his own glass, he patiently waited for Bradley to
finish his train of thought.
The other man rubbed his forehead fretfully, then finally shook his head.
"I...I love him, Warren," he said, in as close to an actual emotional
outburst as he could ever possibly manage. "I really do. What the hell am
I gonna do?"
Rudman considered this thoughtfully. In his many years on the Hill, his
own long and blissfully happy love-match had as good as drafted him into
the position of agony uncle, doing his level best to advise and
conciliate during the regular outbursts of secret passion, bitter
breakups and very public schemes of vengeance that engulfed his fellow
politicos. It was being dragged into the middle of that whole Newt
Gingrich-Jim Wright debacle that had finally done him in (my God, maybe
it was just New England prudery but if he'd been Jim, discovering what
that specially modified showerhead was really used for would've been
more than enough, never mind that whole misadventure with the duck and
the choir organist).
Bill, though--Bill had always been such a closed book. So quiet. So
circumspect...hell, so wooden. Who'd ever have dreamed, staring at those
immobile aging features, that the guy would have been capable of such
obvious and utterly hopeless passion?
"I'm here for ya, Bill," he finally offered. "Really."
"What am I gonna do? "
Warren set his syrup glass down with a thud. "You know what you gotta
do, Bill," he replied firmly. "You gonna just sit there and pine away
like some schoolgirl? You gotta tell him. Okay? I mean, look at me. Do
you think I'd have the love I have now if I hadn't mustered my courage
and spoken up? And I was head over heels for a Supreme Court justice, for
God's sake, not just some crummy presidential candidate--"
"But I can't," Bill protested, idly tossing crumpled balls of paper into
a nearby wastebasket (two points, four points--foul). "I just can't."
"You have to, Bill." Warren gulped down the rest of his Vermont-fresh
syrup, jabbing a finger at the air between him and Bradley. "Just tell
him. Okay? Tell him that you're never gonna leave him. Tell him that
you're always gonna love him. Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him
right now."
There was a long silence. Finally, Bill nodded and rose from his chair.
"I'm sorry to bother you--"
"It's no bother, Bill. Hey, listen, I've got a fantastic new plan to
lower the adjusted interest rate on the third-quarter federal deficit by
two-point-six percent, if you wanna hang around and look at the papers I
can--"
"No!" Bradley said hastily. "I mean, uh...I've got things to...do. Wrap
up, you know."
"Understood," said the other man, unruffled. "Tell Ernestine I said
hello."
"I will," Bradley said. "And you tell David the same."
***
In a palatial estate located somewhere near the sewage-choked Rio Grande,
George "Dubya" Bush sat huddled with his advisors, frowning as he read
through a memo. Long minutes passed.
"Okay," he finally said, squinting at the paper. "So what this means is,
because I got more primary votes than McCain...I'm more popular than he
is, and so I won that Caucasian thingy--"
"Caucus, sir," a campaign worker interjected. "Not Caucasian."
"Whatever," said Dubya impatiently. "I'm on top, right?"
"Uh, right."
"YEEEEEE- HAH! " Dubya screeched, leaping from his chair and giving the
room a few triumphant rock-'n'-roll pelvic thrusts. "This is better than
when we done executed that seventy-six-year-old great-grandma who turned
out to be innocent after all, WHEEEEEEE-HOOO!!!" Swiveling his hips madly
for several more seconds--causing the entire room to collectively avert
their eyes--he finally sat back down again. "So I'm president now,
right?" he demanded.
"No, sir, that's not until November. But don't worry. All you need to do
is stick to your message--lower taxes, better schools, some of my best
friends are Catholics and kill the queers. It's a done deal."
Dubya nodded, a smirk of pure satisfaction engulfing his entire face.
"But we're not gonna actually kill the queers, right?" he demanded. "I
mean, I gotta keep floggin' that compassionate conservative thing--"
"You say whatever I want you to say, boy," said a new voice from the
corner of the room. "And you do whatever I want you to do--you got it?"
"Yessir, Mr. Robertson," Dubya said hastily, wincing a little as the
smell of sulphur hit his nostrils. "Whatever you say. Consider your clean
upstanding Christian ass kissed again--hell, I don't mind! I can't stand
them there homey-sensuals, no sirree bob! I tell ya--"
"Sir?" the campaign worker intervened. "The cameras aren't on. You don't
have to act down-home right now."
Dubya looked around him, and realized that in fact there were no lenses
in his face. "Oh, well then," he murmured, sipping his Courvoisier, "what
ho, old chum. Tosh and bother. So what about that old rotter, Al Gore?
Not a Skull and Bones man, I don't know why he's leading in the
polls--"
"The Jewish media is warping the minds of the unsuspecting public," Pat
Robertson shrugged. "The Anti-Christ is seeping from their miserable
unsaved pores--hey, have you seen my copy of the Handmaid's Tale?"
"We're Xeroxing it for the national convention," said the campaign
worker. "Lotta good stuff in there for the platform. Don't worry about
the media, Mr. Bush. Or about Al Gore. We've got...some very important
information about him."
The campaign worker stared out the window, watching the procession of
child migrant workers trooping exhaustedly toward the nearby lettuce
fields; the sight never failed to fill any of the gathered men with a
deep, profound joy. "Information," he repeated.
***
Al was feeling good, he was feeling on top of the world. He had said
world by a string and the Democratic nomination by the balls, and that
little session with Mr. War Hero had been damned refreshing...he was
halfway to an actual facial expression as he approached the Oval Office,
rapping his knuckles on the heavy oaken door. "Come in," drawled a
familiar voice inside.
Al strolled through the door, giving his boss a little two-fingered
salute. Bill sat behind his enormous desk, finishing the third of his
three morning Big Macs; he nodded briskly at his vice president. "You
wanted to see me, sir?" Gore queried.
Clinton nodded, wiping the ketchup from his mouth as the intern crouching
between his knees made a hasty exit from the room. "There's something
very important I need to discuss with you," he said when the door had
closed. "It's...well, it's not really about your campaign, but..."
Gore folded his hands in his lap, waiting for the prize that was sure to
come his way. He'd whipped Mr. Rhodes Scholar Basketball's sorry ass in
eighteen out of eighteen states, surely...he frowned a little as his
boss hesitated, shook his head and began rubbing fretfully at the back of
his neck.
"Cramp?" Al rose from his chair, heading toward his boss with a wicked
little smile. "You know I know just how to work those kinks out, baby--"
Clinton held up a hand. "Al? No--not today. It's...you need to sit down
to hear this." Al took his seat again, now truly puzzled. Bill let out a
Big Mac belch, then folded his hands in front of him.
"Okay, it's like this," the president said. "Al...we're through."
For a moment, Al wasn't sure he'd heard this correctly. "What did you
say?"
"You heard me, Al. You and I...we just can't see each other anymore.
Okay? The Lincoln Bedroom's off-limits now. Sorry."
It took a few moments for comprehension to hit. "It's her, isn't it?"
Gore finally snarled. "It's that bitch Hillary, she--"
"Oh, for God's sake, Al," Bill said, eyes rolling. "Now you're startin'
to sound like Trent Lott or something--trust me, she's way too busy with
Monica and Tipper to worry about what I do in my spare time. I'm tellin'
you this because it's my decision. You and I...the magic's gone, Al. I
mean, I'll support your campaign and all that, but I think from now on we
should just be friends."
"Friends." Al pressed his hands to his temples for a second. "But why? "
he finally demanded.
Bill shrugged. "Well, hell, Al, what can I say? You just don't race my
motor anymore. Sad but true--"
"But you said you loved me!" Al demanded, his voice rising like a
distressed child's. "You said we were soul mates, you--you promised! "
"Yeah, I did--to get you into bed with me." Another shrug. "Ain't like
I've never done that before, Al--I mean, you had fair warning. Besides,
we've got an old saying in the backwoods--you can hump a three-legged
heifer, but that don't mean you gotta buy it grits and hominy the next
mornin'. We're through. That's it. I mean...I hope you understand, Al,
it's nothing personal."
Al's head was spinning. He was not hearing what he just-- "I gotta go,"
Gore said, rising unsteadily from his chair.
"I understand," said Bill. "Hey, Al?"
Gore was already at the Oval Office door. "Yeah?" he said weakly.
"If it's any consolation to you, nobody else's tongue has ever given
Little Billy the workout you have. I mean, you could give fuckin'
lessons in--"
"Mr. President, I really have to go now." Gore was out the door, almost
running down the White House hallway.
***
Bradley sat on a park bench in front of the White House (wasn't any law
saying he couldn't look at it, okay, it was still a free country),
contemplating what Warren Rudman had said. Tell him. Just tell him...but
how? When? And should he call, or send a card, or...? He shook his head
a little. It was all so confusing! Dating Ernestine hadn't been half so
difficult, if only because of her insistence on speaking in her native
tongue at all times...all he'd ever been able to figure out was "ja,"
"nein" "Luftwaffe" and "Colonel Klink." He sighed, staring at the
presidential mansion.
There was a sudden flurry of movement next to him; distracted as he was,
Bradley didn't turn his head. Someone almost threw themselves onto the
bench beside him, the harsh sighing and snuffling of their breath
indicating some sort of deep distress. Showing a not entirely artful
compassion, Bradley turned toward his benchmate. Perhaps, after they'd
confided their troubles in him and been soothed by his wise, well-chosen
words, he could finally explain to them --just for his own sake--why his
health-care plan had been the best and...
Oh, God. Every muscle in his far-side-of-fifty body froze.
A man perhaps a few years younger than himself, clad in a black overcoat,
his thick dark hair framing insouciant and boyish features--well, they
might have been insouciant if not for the puffy redness of the eyes, the
sniffling of the nose. Studying Bradley's face, Al Gore hastily put away
the starched handkerchief with which he had been daubing his eyes. His
expression turned from a mope to a sneer.
"So, Bradley," he almost snarled. "We meet again. Loser. "
Chapter 3
**********
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?