Ben Peek (benpeek) wrote,
Ben Peek

How to Brutally Murder George W. Bush.

It was Tuesday, and the American President was standing at his bedroom window. Hair uncombed, eyes squinting into the midday sun, hand scratching his unshaved chin, Presidential pajamas wrinkled, and unclipped toenails running through the carpet... George W. Bush wasn't quite sure what to do. Tuesday. Almost the middle of the week. Yet outside were giant, brown biscuit and heavily salted legs that stretched twenty, maybe thirty feet into the air before connecting to a thick biscuit base.

"Lemme ask," drawled George W. as the bedroom door opened. "Just tell me straight that you're seeing this."

"Sir?" said the aide's faint voice. The door closed. "I'm not quite sure, sir, but you--"

"You're seeing those things out there, right?


"Yeah." George W. paused, lent against the glass, and began to count. "It's like giant things, yeah? Huge fucking... well, giant salty snacks. I mean, you're seeing the giant salty snacks, yeah?"

"...Absolutely, Sir," replied the aide. "But you have a phone call, Sir."

George W. picked up the white phone, but paused. There was something about the aide. Something that wasn't quite right. A texture to his skin. It was hard to describe. It was smooth, yeah, sure, and the aide was hairless, and there was something that made George W. Bush want to lean forward and lick him, to run his tongue up along his neck, to dip in between those hard lips... but more than that, there was something about the colour that didn't strike him as right. Brown. Dark, dark brown. A colour that had always left him uncomfortable. A colour that he instinctively made him want to pull out his home made lethal injection kit. That colour.


But he wanted to nibble. To taste. To lick. To crack open a beer and sit back with it on his lap, to work his lips across it, to have his hands feel across ever inch, and work down to the hard, hard centre--

The pain in his chest was secondary. The phone fell to the ground with a dull thud. The Presidential pajamas soiled. George W. looked dimly at the stick like fist protruding through his chest. It was so brown. God he hated that colour. Hated it so much.

"They should've made... made white ones," he murmured faintly, his legs failing.

"Indeed," replied the aide, his fist still lodged in his chest. It was all that held the body upright. That useless, ugly little meat body that had been nothing but a menace to his people. "But the flavour is all off."

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