"Oooh, scaaary, kids!"

"Oooh, scaaary, kids!"

And now, a tale for All Hallow’s Eve:

A solitary cloud scudded past the full moon shining on the Lincoln Memorial. In the quiet dark of the shadows in Georgetown, the susurration of the wind blowing fallen leaves across streets masked the sounds of hungry werewolves prowling for unwitting victims. Over by Dupont Circle, thirsty vampires awoke for their nightly feedings on the locals scurrying from tavern to tavern.

But none of these monsters posed a greater danger to the world than the one that even the vile lesser fiends feared more than any silver cross or wooden stake, the one who, after months spent hiding in a coffin lined with Spanish moss, submerged in the shallows of the Chesapeake Bay, emerged from his dank and fetid lair to rain down terror on the people once more.

Dick Cheney crept back into Washington, D.C. to feast upon a dozen still-beating hearts, drain a maternity ward’s worth of infants of their pure life essence, and to serve as high priest for the enemies of  reality, humanity, and basic logic at a hellborn ritual in his honor.

His followers, at least those who had survived the dreadful Battle with the Secret Muslim League of Voters and Monster Slayers nearly a year earlier, had waited patiently, oh so very patiently, for the eventual return of their lord, and he did not disappoint them. Baring his bloodied canines and waving a ragged, cloven hoof in anger, he lashed out against the usurpers who had denied him eternal life and unceasing war. Working his disciples into a giddy, venomous frenzy, he decried the League’s self-righteous refusal to find joy in killing, and dismissed their leaders as weak and God-fearing.

“MUSHROOM CLOUDS!” he bellowed, as several female acolytes swooned and fell forward into their plates of fluffy kitten-stuffed tripe.

“EMBOLDENED TERRRRRRISTS!” he thundered, nearly drowned out by the shrieks of the men addicted to the graphic pornography of war and death.

“WE CAN NO LONGER TORTURE!” he roared, as the dais spontaneously burst into flames.

The time came for dessert.

“AMUSE ME!” Cheney demanded. His former minion, Scooter Libby, dragged out an elderly man who wore a sign that read “John McCain-Republican Moderate” around his neck. In his right hand, he clutched a small, American flag.

The flag provided no defense against Cheney’s idolaters, who, upon Cheney’s command, fell upon the man, savaging him in their lust for blood.

The party froze suddenly as a faint light from the East imperceptibly brightened the fading night sky. Mopping the blood from their mouths and their Brooks Brothers suits and dousing the fire on the dais, the participants, trance-like, filed slowly out of the hall, as Cheney disappeared into the lingering darkness, a trail of blood, bodies, and failure strewn in his wake.

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