Valerie Plame? Would You Spy For This Man?
Bush hangs CIA-spook out to dry as he covers Rove's back
The spy who went out into the cold
George looked a sick man. He returned from the conference room down the corridor from the Oval Office.
"What'd they say?" asked live-in lover Big Dick Cheney.
"Osama says 'Fuck you' and Saddam just laughed."
The Pretzel of the United States slumped into his chair. His lower lip quivered.
"The bastard. After all I've done for him. We'll gas Baghdad. All he has to do is take credit for it. And he laughs. Is my Dad about?"
"Uh-uh. He's doing a Saudi overnighter. Something about the Prince not being happy with the Poles supplying the F-15s."
"Fuck. Dick, hold me. Please. This Wilson bastard will have my balls."
"Don't worry, Dubs. I'll look after them."
"I know. You're the best."
Cheney grew agitated. "Where's that bastard Rove?"
"He's over at the Open Source Politics site," answered the PreZnit. "They have him all over the front page. The little shit-weasels have been fingering him for months."
"Bastards. I tried doing that and he rejected me."
"What? Before or after 2000?"
"Before."
"Why'd he give his bloody phone number out?"
"He's like that. A shameless little whore."
"But to six stations and papers? They'll crucify us."
"They can't. I keep telling you, don't worry about it. I'm leaning on them."
"But we outed that bitch Valerie Plame. People say it was vindictive."
"They're saying a bit more than that. It's fucking treason."
Bush started to cry. "But after the 9-11 job and Afghanistan and all... everything was going so well. And then Wilson screws it all up with the Biafran scam. They can't blame us for it can they?"
"It was Niger. Nah. It's fixed. I've had Scott McClellan tell the press he's spoken to Rove and Karl doesn't know anything about it."
"D'ya think they'll swallow it?"
Cheney barked. "Hahahaha... Oh, shit, probably. They'll swallow anything. The fuckers have made us rich. They're just a bit pissed off. It's that little shit Clark I'm worried about. He's ranting about an independent commission."
Bush's head slumped to his desk. He blubbered, "But that's bad. That's like what we did to Clinton and that woman. Who'll ever trust me again?"
"I will, Dubs. Please, don't worry. I'll sort out Clark. He takes a flight tonight."
"But what about my re-election?"
"I've had Carlucci and Walden O'Dell of Diebold Inc. take care of that one."
"Why can't they touch us? Did we pass any laws?"
"Yeah. Uh, no. But we did get rid of the old Independent Counsel Law. That allowed for federal judges to appoint a panel. It wouldn't have looked good. But that's history."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we get to investigate ourselves if the going gets rough."
Bush looked up. A smile crossed his tear-stained face. "Investigate ourselves. Like we do. Rumpety-rumpety..."
A look of annoyance flashed across Cheney's face. "Yeah, rumpety-rumpety... Listen, I've got John onto it. He'll appoint a special counsel and this whole thing will soon be history. We'll do Syria. Or something. Look, is Laura still out of the country?"
Bush sat up straight. "John's the fixer? Oh Dick, you're magic. Yeah, Laura's history. For now anyway. Let's go upstairs."
Arm in arm, the two most powerful men in the world left the Oval Office.
An aide stopped them in the passage. "Mister President."
Clearly annoyed, Bush extracted his tongue from Cheney's ear. "What, Shitface?"
"There's a Mr. Mark Kleiman at the door. Says he's from some Open Sores outfit. I think he's collecting for the lepers. He wants to stir your brains a bit. It'd be good PR if you had a chat to him. Conservative compassion and all that. I asked him in."
Bush relaxed. "Okay, that sounds good. Dick, you go on ahead. I won't be long. We'll play Star Wars when I get back. The riding crop's in the cupboard. Now, where's this Kleiman sicko?"
