Tuesday, February 14, 2006

The Lost Last Chapters of Dick Cheney 

Many years ago - thirty or twenty years ago (or maybe not that many. Probably not even close to that many) - Anyway, it was long before almost everyone in the blogoshere hated my guts. And back when some people (three or four or nine or ten or even as many a 25) actually were more or less fond of my guts. Sort of. For whatever that is worth. Anyway, I, "the farmer", began writing a book called the Last Chapters of Dick Cheney. It was something of a biographical fictional memoir science fiction project. If ya know what I mean. Unfortunately he, way back then, Dick Cheney that is, just wouldn't go away. So I never did get to finish the book. Aside from writing nothing but the last paragraphs to several final chapters. Which is good enough I guess. Or at least it's gonna to have to be since it's all I got at this point. Something I blame on a lot of people. Just so long as I can blame it on someone other than myself. But, some day, hopefully, I will finish the book. Whatever that means (something else I will blame on a lot of other people other than myself). And ultimately be rewarded with some kind of dental insurance policy for my effort. Which would be good. Because my tooth hurts.

Outtakes: Last paragraphs from from The Last Chapters of Dick Cheney. By "the farmer" (that would be me. See above.)

5 Bad endings to an awful lot of bad chapters.
Updated and revised on Feb 13, 2006.
- - - - -

1 - Lynne's breasts heaved as he whispered to her and ran his hands along the tight tawny spine. Did he like what he saw? Did he trust her advances? Was he aroused by the smooth firm steely rivets which secured the clip plate to the inside of her presentation notebook? She couldn't be sure, but she knew that what she felt was somehow different with this man.

She shifted in her chair and her nyloned thighs brushed lightly against each other beneath her tartan skirt sending an erotic charge through the white sunsplashed office. She glimpsed the stairs to the upper floors waiting for her beyond an open door. He understood her, and he knew that what she had sensed would change both their worlds forever. Soon they would be in bed together. Partners in a passionate encounter.

Not as lovers, but as stewards, of noble domestic arrangements. Seneschals of a furious culture war, waged for the hearts and minds of America's future generations.

For they both now understood, that left unchallenged, ruthless lesbian multicultural internationalists would soon control the world of professional dodgeball.

The End.
from: Last Tango on K-Street
- - - - -

2 - The squirming beast thrashed against its restraints as its heart was lifted with exacting precision from its own breast like a fluttering wet hatchling. The great pink slippery anesthetized mass lay silent and still under the white glare of the operating room lamps. The pulsating vascular member, once the god given gift to a single innocent creature, would soon become the sacrificial symbiont of a sneering servile self seeker. The surgeons carefully lowered the live pulsing organ of the primate into the groping hungry chest cavity of the Vice President of the United Sates. Air Force jets roared overhead and the shrieks of wild birds in the trees filled the shadows of a thousand hidden places as the once warm sentient black eyes of an innocent baboon closed for the last time against the fading light.

The End.
from: Heart of a Savage Nation
- - - - -

3 - Dick Cheney sat and observed the thing seated before the large table at the far end of the room. He noted its movements and the way its mouth moved in small jerks and quivers as it muttered quietly to itself the way an idiot might behave if left alone with a colorful puzzle. He noted the small confused blinking eyes that seemed to ask for help yet remain uninterested, and unaware, of what that help might be. He recalled the time he watched as the thing, startled by its own reflection in the polished tabletop, dicover itself for the first time in a mirror.

And he fondly remembered the excitment that everyone felt when the thing mugged and aped for the cameras and began responding easily to the simple commands of it's trainers. He knew then and there that he was a witness to history. That he was gazing upon the next Republican President of the United States.

The End.
from: Eyewitness to Histrionics
- - - - -

4 - Dick stood by the window and chuckled to himself as he looked out across the great lawn. He thought of crude oil production levels and hellish firestorms raging within sandstorms. He thought of vast regions of under-exploited wilderness and energy trading floors and the enchanting hypnotic siren song of unrestrained unilateral global corporate power.

He was at peace, and would prepare a forward looking statement in the morning.

The End.

from: The Forcasted Apocalypse; Bad News at the Midnight Hour
- - - - -

5 - Dick lingered in the tall grass as evening descended. Listening. Southwest of Baffin Bay a dry salt breeze grazed his temples like the warm breath of a Brownsville whore. The songs of a million insects filled his ears like the ariettas of invisible angels older than mortality itself. He watched Pamela's lithe Swedish ambassador body move slowly, lynxlike, searching, listening, through the thick underbrush before him. He remained still. The single muscle in his neck twitched. His lip convulsed into a churlish sneer. Had Whittington known of his... the brush exploded! A flush of wings! Whittington! Cheney swung about and the air erupted in fire and steel shot and the whirr of helicopter blades...

Somewhere in an undisclosed location Dick Cheney told a terrible story. The man sat close and listened to the muffled tale.

Fractured light leaked from a small cracked pane in a corner casement. A small child selling post card depictions of the Assumption watched from the shadows. Cheney became still again. Hushed. Listen to the insects. He looked down at the table where his hands rested and fingers tangled together like fat little maggots wrestling with each other. And he spoke:

I shot a man in Sarita just to watch him cry.

The End.
from: Little Sure Shot



Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin? ~ Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian

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