... and W. Laughed

t was a cold day in Texas. Dubya stared out the window of the governor's mansion contemplating his succesful coup. He didn't particularly care that it looked bad that he had captured the presidency as the choice of less than one out of four Americans, let alone the ridiculous idea that he wasn't president just because he didn't get the most votes. Power was what this was all about, not fairness, right or wrong, ethics or any of that lame liberal claptrap that he had to at least give public lip service to during the campaign. Cheney and his dad's old buddies from the CIA had simply made sure he would win, no matter what the vote.

The aftermath was what he worried about. Would there be a public backlash or even a revolution that he would have to have the military put down? It seemed unlikely, with Gore's agreement to respect the secret consensus that really ruled the country. Sure, there were all those lower-level Democrats that bleated about majority rule, or even more disingenously, democracy.

He spit on the floor and snorted another line. The very thought of that word made his patrician stomach roil. They were all silly to think who got the most votes really should decide anything. This was capitalism, a meritocracy of greed, and the voice of anyone who didn't go with the corporate program would be drowned out be the slick media that was in his pocket.

He had one worry that sat in the back of his mind, like that little rock of coke that was burning in the back of his nasal cavity right now. What if those pesky Newspoets managed to bring their dangerous brand of satire and disrespect for traditional values to the masses of ordinary Americans? They were more dangerous with words than the average guerilla was with an AK.

He knew there was a back-up plan to simply surround Urbana and burn it down, after shutting off their server. It would be a massive sacrifice of intellectual capital that might put the US behind the technological eight-ball for years if he had to do it. He also knew that he wouldn't even flinch from doing so, if need be, to save his presidency. He'd killed plenty of folks in his time. What would another 30,000 or so matter?

Just then, Powell burst through the door without knocking. Dubya made a mess as he dumped the mirror in his center drawer so that his hired hand wouldn't see him "relaxing."

"Great news, Junior! The NSA says that the Newspoets seem to be fighting amonst themselves. We didn't even have to have the CIA drug and brainwash any of them, like in that one contigency plan that didn't sound very workable!"

Dubya gave out a little giggle, as the coke juice drained down his throat from his nasal cavity. He thought to himself how dumb that plan would have been. He knew that those damn Newspoets could hold their drugs even better than he, not to mention their apparently strong commitment to democracy with economic justice. That plan never would have worked.

"Good, rrrreal good..." he croaked out through his rapidly numbing lips. This was just what he'd hoped for. The Newspoets were the only real threat to his assumption of the throne, er, the presidency. He would get to the imposition of a Bush dynasty, even including the 'little brown one', soon enough, now that the real enemy was self-destructing in internal dissent...