THE LATEST THRILLER
from noted N.Y. Times-reading author Joe Biden, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Also Agent of D.E.A., F.B.I., C.T.U., S.E.C., N.O.A.A., C.B.O., D.O.T., R.S.V.P. …and the Bureau of Weights and Measures.
It was a dark and stormy night. Except that it was sunny out. and clear. and about 2:30 in the afternoon. But other than that, it was a dark and stormy night.
The night smelled like danger. As it turns out, danger smells a lot like an old Amtrak seat cover. But I digress. I knew if I told her about my mission, I would have to kill her–or at a minimum, send her a strongly-worded letter. Hey–don’t kid yourself, pal; those things can hurt.
I hugged the compound wall as I made my way across the estate. Somewhere in there was “The Terrorist”, the organization’s shadowy Number Two man, a stone-cold killer known to shoot innocent men right in the face.
In hopes of blending in with the locals, I was in full Lawrence-of-Arabia attire. They weren’t going to make me in a million years…
“Hi, Joe! What are you doing in those sheets?” How many times had I asked Sen. Byrd that very same question?
Damn! There he was–“The Terrorist”, Dick Cheney! And he had penetrated my cover!
“Hey, Lynn; Joe Biden’s here! Bring us some of that special lemonade, would you, hon?” How many times had I heard Ted Kennedy ask that same question?
“Oh, hi, Joe,” said Mrs. Cheney. “What are you doing here? And why the burqua?” How many times had Larry Craig asked me that same question?
“So it’s going to be the old “Good Cop/Bad Cop”-routine,” I thought to myself, because it’s really hard to think to someone else. Beneath my robes, I reached into my pocket and felt the smooth, pearly handle of my Smith and Wesson .357 Derringer Thompson Sub-Machine Gun Walther Mitty Special. And then I remembered: I’d left my gun at home on the dresser.
I decided to play along and began chanting in Arabic: “Get out of Biden’s house! Get out of Biden’s house! Get out of…”
“Hah, that’s funny , Joe,” said Cheney “but the Inauguration isn’t for another month. Say, Joe, I’ve been wondering–you’ve pledged to be the most useless, uninvolved, non-productive vice-president in history; what are you going to do with all that spare time–besides your rich fantasy life, I mean?”
Cruel bastard. No wonder they called him “The Terrorist”.
“You need a hobby, Joe,” Cheney continued. “For instance, I make home movies. I’ve even got one of the entire Democrat leadership signing off on waterboarding and wiretapping. Would you like to see it, Joe?”
Suddenly, I felt myself getting red in the face and hot under the keffiyah. Mrs. Cheney must have put drugs in the lemonade! But there was no time to ask for seconds now. I made a break for it. Barely making it back to the safe house, I collapsed on the bed. The next thing I remember, a month had passed and I was standing there taking the oath of office.
I spied Terrorist in the crowd, his cruel eyes mocking me. He’d come to the event in a wheelchair, hoping that I would ask him to stand up. As I finished my remarks by Lord Kinnock, right then and there I made a solemn vow to myself: never again would I wear women’s clothing in public. on a weekday. in this country, anyway. And to write a screenplay for my new home movie.
Let’s see… “It was a dark and stormy night…”