I had to work late last night. Consequently, it was well after ten when I finally made it down to the deserted parking garage in the basement of the building where my downtown office here in Washington is located.
“Collins!” I heard a harsh voice whisper as I approached my car.
Now, as regular readers of this Web log know, I’m a reasonably religious person, raised an Italian Catholic, who attends Mass considerably more often than Easter, Advent, Palm Sunday and Christmas. But I’m also a product of a rational, scientific age, and not the least bit superstitious. Nevertheless, I could have sworn that what I heard was the voice of Satan Himself. How surprised could I have been, then, when I turned and saw that it was Dick Cheney instead?
“Mr. Cheney,” I gasped. “What in the world are you doing here in my parking garage at this hour?”
“Waiting to talk with you,” he grinned, manically.
“But I hardly ever work this late,” I pointed out. “How could someone of your stature possibly find time to wait in a parking garage for me from five o’clock until now?”
“I didn’t,” Cheney chuckled as he stepped out from the shadows. “I’ve only been waiting about five minutes.”
“But how did you know,” I asked, amazed, “that I would leave my office at precisely eleven minutes past ten o’clock?”
“I have people,” Cheney slyly allowed, “who take care of things like that for me.”
A realization hit me just at that moment. I reached for my Blackberry.
“Don’t bother calling Cerise,” Cheney admonished. “I’ll tell you what she will say. She’ll say that she has no idea what you’re talking about, she never called you at six minutes past ten and sweet-talked you into knocking off work and driving over to her place. And you can verify that yourself with her – in person – after we’ve had our consultation.”
With that, Cheney withdrew a large Manila envelope from within his trench coat and handed it to me with a mischievous wink. “No need to tell the IRS about this,” he snickered, “unless you’re so [expletive] patriotic, you can’t help yourself.” I took the envelope, opened it, and peered inside. It was stuffed with nonsequentially numbered, previously circulated, unmarked twenty-dollar bills. “But isn’t someone as powerful and influential as yourself,” I pried, “supposed to be somewhere else between ten and eleven on a Friday night – addressing a secretive cabal of defense contractors, attending a night conference with the Bilderberg Group, watching nubile belly dancers cavort at the Saudi Compound while dining on Houbara bustard, sacrificing virgin working-class boys to Moloch in the basement of the Skull and Bones Society – something like that?”
Cheney stepped closer. Did I detect the scent of sulfur, or was it merely my imagination? “Napoleon had doubles. Stalin had doubles. Saddam Hussein had doubles…”
“And you have them, too?” I replied, astonished.
“Was Air America in the heroin business?” Cheney shot back, obviously quite entertained by my reaction.
“The Hill Tribes of Northern Thailand Program,” I murmured. “The Military Assistance Institute, a Central Intelligence Agency front company, trained the pilots and crews, starting in the mid 1960’s.”
“Correct,” Cheney smugly affirmed.
“Okay,” I allowed, “so Dick Cheney has doubles, and you’re trying to get me to believe that one of them is filling in for you at your expected engagement right now while you, the real Dick Cheney, cleverly arranged to lure me out of my office with a woman who can perfectly imitate my girlfriend Cerise’s voice…”
“Actually,” Cheney interjected with a supercilious tone, “it wasn’t a woman. But a very talented vocal imitator, to be sure.”
“A house of mirrors,” I whispered. “A world where nothing is as it seems to be.”
“It’s a scary place,” Cheney appeared to admit, “but somebody has to live there, protecting the American people, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “But how do I know that you’re not a Dick Cheney double?”
At that, Cheney laughed quietly and began unbuttoning his trench coat. “I thought you’d never ask,” he chortled with an odd air of satisfaction. In a moment, his tie was flung over his shoulder, and his hands were pulling his pure polyester white dress shirt to the left and right, revealing a network of hideous, raised pink scars. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he cynically remarked, “you think it could be silicone makeup. Go ahead,” he encouraged, “touch them. Satisfy yourself that they are the real results of the best quadruple bypass heart surgery, coronary artery stent procedures and balloon angioplasty operations the US taxpayers’ money can buy!”
I did, noting that not only were the scars obviously genuine, but also that Cheney’s body is as cold as a cadaver. His eyebrows shot up in frank amusement as my expression changed to one of abject horror while my hair stood on end.
“Oh, yeah,” Cheney smirked. “That, too. Beta blockers by the hand-full. Lynne says it saves her a bundle on bedroom air conditioning in the summer; but in the winter, she insists on wrapping me in electric blankets for thirty minutes before she gets in the sack.”
“I’m convinced,” I shuddered. “What can I do for you, Mister former Vice-President, Secretary of Defense, House Minority Whip and all-round conservative Republican demi-god?”
“Well,” he began, “first of all, you can tell me how much you enjoyed all those visits you made to Dick Cheney’s Undisclosed Location back during the last Bush Administration.”
“Oh, definitely,” I confessed, “those were some unforgettable times!”
“You can say that again,” he joshed with a demonic flair. “I know I’m not about to forget the HUD Booty Call Pole Dancers any time soon. I mean, yeah, Viagra works pretty good, even on me, but Lynne’s getting damn saggy these days, especially in the… important places. Nothing like having a little something to think about during the festivities, if you know what I mean.”
“The HUD Booty Call Pole Dancers were one of my favorite acts,” I assured him, and without having to prevaricate, either. “Those were the days, for sure.”
“We noticed that you didn’t attend the farewell party, however,” Cheney pointedly observed.
“Unfortunately,” I acknowledged, “I had… other commitments…”
“With the incoming Obama Administration,” Cheney interrupted. “Which,” he pressed on, holding his hands up as if to halt oncoming traffic, “I totally understand. Out with old, in with the new… I know you consultants have to constantly keep looking to the future. No hard feelings. Obviously;” he said, dropping his hands and gesturing around at the parking garage with a worldly shrug, “or I wouldn’t be here. So – I need your advice about those [expletive] [expletive] Democrat [expletive] [expletive] in Congress who are trying to [expletive] crucify me on the steps of the Capitol while [expletive] me in the [expletive] in front of the whole [expletive] world on the [expletive] liberal media!”
“That’s mighty strong language for a Methodist,” I noted.
“You think so?” Cheney sneered. “Then you ought to hear what the conservative Republican Baptists call [expletive] traitors like Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid. Look, that [expletive] [expletive] Pelosi is letting the House Intelligence Committee investigate me! Me! I mean, really, what the [expletive] did I do?”
“Well, they say it’s because you’re suspected of improperly preventing the CIA from informing Congress about its covert program to assassinate the leaders of various terrorist groups such as Al Qaeda, but I’m sure,” I lied, ”that it’s all some kind of mistake, just like that business with Scooter Libby back in 2006.”
“Of course it is,” Cheney nodded. “When was the last time the [expletive] Democrats did anything right?”
“And you’re concerned,” I speculated, “the investigation will force the CIA to reveal information about its assassination program, and that, in turn, will give aid and comfort to America’s most dangerous enemies.”
“Exactly,” Cheney sighed. “Those [expletive] who keep trying to imply that I want to quash the whole thing to avoid being prosecuted for violating US law myself, those [expletive] [expletive] [expletive] [expletive], I could just…” he held his hands out in front of himself, grasping an imaginary foe by the neck, “just… crush… their… [expletive] [expletive] [expletive] windpipes…” Cheney’s face grew redder and redder as he spoke – its veins popping out, one by one, like tiny IED’s going off all over a bright crimson map of Baghdad. “… like [expletive] soda straws, those God damned [expletive] traitors!”
“I can definitely appreciate,” I creatively prevaricated, “how such shameless, disloyal perfidy could severely upset a highly principled, morally upright guardian of American freedom, such as yourself.”
“[Expletive] right, it does,” he growled, slowly releasing his grip on his imaginary detractor as he relaxed and his color returned, more or less, to normal. “The [expletive] nerve of that [expletive] Reyes, with all his ‘The committee must be kept fully and currently informed of significant intelligence activities as required by law’ [expletive]. And that [expletive] Schakowsky, that [expletive] stupid Polack [expletive]…”
“Actually,” I helpfully interjected, “her mother was Jewish, so that means, technically, she’s a [expletive], not a Polack.”
“[Expletive], Polack, whatever,” Cheney fumed. “We don’t allow any of that [expletive] in Wyoming! Hang ‘em from the nearest cottonwood as soon as you catch ‘em, that’s what we do! Besides where the [expletive] does any Democrat from [expletive] Chicago, for Christ’s sake, get off criticizing me for allegedly violating some chicken [expletive] intelligence regulations? Breaking the law is a [expletive] way of life in Chicago!”
“It’s true,” I agreed. “Most folks in the United States would be shocked at the cavalier attitude Chicagoans have toward things like construction graft, city hall corruption, municipal voter fraud and getting parking tickets fixed. But on the other hand, isn’t it possible that the average American might, in fact, have reversed priorities with respect to your assessment? Might they not, perchance, believe that a sitting vice-president conceiving of, instituting and running an illegal assassination program at the Central Intelligence Agency, and then, subsequently, pressuring members of the United States Executive Branch to mislead Congress about it to be worse than Rod Blagojevich slipping a few Democratic ward heelers some walking around money to scare up votes on Election Day?”
“Well,” Cheney muttered, “if they do, then all I can say is I feel pretty damn sorry for them, because they don’t know what it means to be a real American.”
“And what,” I prodded, “if the majority of Americans, say, something like sixty-three percent, for instance, felt that what you do wrong is more important than the fact Illinois Democratic politics isn’t always entirely honest? Because that,” I dryly informed him, “according to the Gallup Poll, is the percentage of Americans, as of March, 2009, who disapprove of you.”
“Disapprove of me?” Cheney’s complexion went from the flushed pink afterglow of his previous fit of temper to a bright purple in less time than it takes for a million dollar campaign contribution to change a US senator’s mind. “Those [expletive] ingrates! Who the [expletive] do they think ran the [expletive] United States of [expletive] America for the last eight [expletive] years? That babbling, idiotic, simian Alfred E. Newman look-alike they put in the [expletive] White House?”
“Given the current state of affairs, sir,” I suggested, “particularly the bloody military imbroglios in which the Administration you proclaim to have led – albeit, to be sure, as the hidden power behind the throne, as it were – pushed an unwitting nation, and, I might add, the worst and decidedly most expensive economic crash since 1929, perhaps it is fury, rather than ingratitude, which influences the public’s widely held opinion of you. Also, as this matter plays out,” I beseeched him, “no matter how angry the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune render you, please promise me you won’t ask that question in public, no matter what. Because if you say that in public, afterward you will have to apologize to apes, Alfred E. Newman, persons with speech impediments and individuals with mentally challenged cognitive states for comparing them to George W. Bush.”
“Oh, it’s gotten that bad, has it,” Cheney scowled, glancing down at the floor for an instant, “now that the Democrats have managed to take over after decades of their shameless pandering and lies?”
“With all due respect, sir,” I parried, “it’s glaringly evident to all but those completely blinded by antiquated, lunatic or, now, alas, demonstrably bankrupt ideologies that it has been the sorry outcomes of Republican pandering and lies which, just like in 1932, swept the Democrats into a position of absolute power. And that’s a position from which, as your presence here tonight proves, the Democrats intend to ensure history has all the facts necessary to place the blame for America’s disgusting predicament squarely where they, at least, believe it rightfully belongs.”
“But the terrorist leadership assassination program,” Cheney vigorously protested, “was never even operational! All anybody at the CIA ever did about it was talk! Talk, talk, talk, that’s all – just talk!”
“I don’t know if that’s going to fly,” I warned. “After all, the Department of Justice has no problem swooping down with SWAT teams on groups who just talk about killing people.”
“That’s different!” Cheney frowned at me, clearly not too pleased. “What you’re describing is conspiracy – against US citizens, officials, or interests! A bunch of guys sitting around a table at an office in Langley brainstorming ways to kill Osama bin Laden is one thing, and a bunch of guys sitting around a table in an abandoned laundromat in Jacksonville, Florida with an undercover FBI agent discussing how to blow up the Sears Tower is entirely another!”
“Brainstorming ways to kill Osama, yes,” I granted. “But there’s no guarantee that some… ‘talk’… as you put it, by ‘a bunch of guys in Langley’ concerning the assassination of somebody else – Kim Jong Il, for instance, wouldn’t come up. I mean, it’s all Osama bin Laden can do to keep hidden in his cave and make the occasional video tape to inspire his demented followers. But if those CIA guys we’re discussing went to TGI Friday’s for lunch and had a couple of drinks with their slider platters and curly fries, then came back to that office in Langley and started talking about taking out Hugo Chavez…”
“He’s a [expletive] Commie, too, just like that Kim bastard! What, are you saying both of them wouldn’t deserve it?” Cheney demanded indignantly. “And Chavez, he’s right in our own back yard, to boot! With oil, no less! Come on, let’s be reasonable here! What’s a little hypothetical analysis when Uncle Sam is up against something like that?”
“They didn’t,” I discretely followed up, “by any chance also discuss a hit on Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, did they?”
“Not a hit, exactly,” Cheney averred, shaking his head, “more like, you know, something that would look like an accident.”
“Really?” I responded in a curious tone. “How about Hamas?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Hezbollah?”
“Of course, but look,” Cheney objected, “it’s not like we spent a whole lot of time on them, okay? Once in a while, like around Hanukkah or Rosh Hoshanna or one of those other stupid [expletive] holidays, George would send over some Mossad guys and we’d shoot the [expletive] with them about killing that Imad Fayez Mughniyah [expletive] or that [expletive] Sheik Nizar Rayan, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Actually,” I pointed out, “they’ve both been killed.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Cheney admitted, “but not because of anything I did! Or, you know, anything that Jake, Sam, Bob, Dave, John, Chip, Pete, Mort, Wayne or Steve did, either!”
“You were all just yakking, huh?”
“Exactly,” Cheney assured me. “We all got together and discussed how best to take out this or that pain in the [expletive], but, hell, we might as well have been doing it during half time at a Redskins game.”
“Except,” I tactfully mentioned, “that I’m sure neither you or those other fellows charge time to the federal government to have half-time conversations while attending football games.”
“We’re all on salary,” Cheney replied with a grand sweep of his arms. “The [expletive] hours don’t count. What matters is that we get the [expletive] job done.”
“But your defense,” I noted, “is that, despite the fact you guys burned quite a few hours over at CIA headquarters in those meetings, Congress shouldn’t bother investigating you because you failed to accomplish anything at all.”
“That’s just semantics!” Cheney shouted, “and I’m not here to discuss semantics! Obama sure as hell isn’t going to pardon me, like George did that [expletive] Scooter Libby! What can I do to avoid getting sent to [expletive] jail?”
“Well, I’m not a lawyer,” I cautioned, “but I’d say your biggest problem will be what it always is in Washington – the cover-up. So the first option you should consider is simply telling Congress the truth.”
“Not very manly,” Cheney sniffed. “Not the truly conservative thing, either. Certainly not very Republican. What else?”
“Use, ah, internal Washington channels to convince key committee members not to call you as a witness. Then you won’t even have an opportunity to commit perjury.”
“Okay,” Cheney repeated, “use internal channels. I could offer people favorable treatment in my memoirs, for example.”
“Sure,” I encouraged, “or simply blackmail them if you have the necessary… goodies.”
“Yeah, that might be worth pursuing,” Cheney mused.
“But, of course,” I advised, “if you can’t bring yourself to tell Congress the truth, can’t soft-soap the investigators off your back or blackmail them into submission, I’d say you should explore the possibilities of your… ah, medical circumstances.”
“You mean,” Cheney asked with a sneaky grimace, “if they try to drag me down to Capitol Hill and make me spill the beans on this CIA assassination project, I should just fall down and fake a heart attack?”
“’Fake?’” I declared in a tone of mock outrage and disbelief. “You – Richard Cheney – fake a heart attack? Oh, come on, sir! What could Congress do – subpoena your cardiologist and demand that he violate doctor-patient confidentiality in front of God Almighty, the American Eagle and CSPAN? ‘Fake’ a heart attack! Really now, how the hell could anyone in Congress possibly tell?”
“Maybe,” Cheney mulled, “it would be good to have something to trigger the symptoms, just in case. Got any good ideas?”
Taking a note pad from my briefcase, I carefully wrote out a response in my most legible handwriting, then slipped it into one of my office letterhead envelopes, carefully sealing the back before handing it to Cheney.
“Now don’t,” I cautioned, “under any circumstances, open this and read it, unless and until you want to induce a heart attack.”
“Gotcha,” Cheney snapped with an evil wink and a sinister smile, turning and disappearing into the shadows.
I know, Dear Reader, I know – what was in that envelope? Well, since I’m sure Dick Cheney isn’t even aware that I have a blog, I’ll tell you – it says this:
Imagine your daughter in bed with Michelle Obama and Sonia
Sotomayor.
Hell, I figure that would give most healthy Republican conservatives a heart attack. So I sure hope he never has to open that damned envelope!