by Thomas Hampton

In a clearing in the center of a vast cornfield in Iowa, wearing black robes with deep hoods, the real powers behind the Republican Party gathered together in a circle around a black altar, awaiting the appearance of their leader. Though they were meeting in the middle of a moonless night, no light was needed — a gift from their evil overlord, for long ago having embraced the darkness.

Soon, he could be heard approaching. Not by his footsteps, but by the sound of corn plants withering and falling to the ground around him, his path one of death and decay. Heads were bowed, silence rang, and the circle parted to allow him through to stand behind the altar.

As one voice, the acolytes spoke softly: “Hail Darth Cheney.”

“Who do I have to shoot in the face to get this asshole taken care of?”

Casting back his hood, Darth Cheney turned his cold, dead gaze upon the skull that rested on the altar. Reverently, his pale hands grasped the skull, and as he held it aloft, a dim red glow emitted from its empty eye sockets. Still gazing at the skull, he uttered “Hail Reagan!” in an almost reptilian rasp. The congregation echoed him, and he set the skull back upon the altar. He then bowed his head.

“Fucking Donald Trump,” he said softly. He looked at his 13 acolytes. “Donald. Fucking. Trump.”

His voice rose in volume and pitch. “Who do I have to shoot in the face to get this asshole taken care of?”

The acolytes flinched, the anger rolling off of their dark lord a palpable thing. Silence ruled them for a moment, and then one stepped forward. “My lord, I believe I might have a solution.”

“Speak, Norquist.”

Grover Norquist cleared his throat and cast back his hood. “My gimp could be of use. His campaign is folly, but I might be able to salvage some future for him if I get him to fall on his sword now. He would attack The Donald, in an effort to snap the sheep out of the bewitching spell that he has cast upon them, so other disciples might have a chance.”

“Fucking Jindal,” Darth Cheney said exasperatedly, barely able to keep his eyes from rolling. “Go on.”

“Uh, well, he would, um … say mean but true, um, things about Donald Trump. And how much he sucks. And is a butthead.” Beads of sweat formed on Norquist’s brow. He was clearly winging it now.

Darth Cheney stared at Norquist. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Norquist shuffled his feet and looked down at the ground. “Yes, Darth Cheney.”

He couldn’t stop the eye roll or the heavy sigh this time. “Call him forth.”

Norquist whistled and clapped his hand on his hip a few times. There came a rustling from a dozen feet or so back from the clearing, then a hunched figure, clad head to toe in a black vinyl gimp suit, complete with a zipper over his mouth, came running like Gollum to his master’s side. Nuzzling Norquist’s thigh, the gimp dropped into a squat and stared up at his master, eagerly awaiting his instructions.

“I will call him stupid and foolish and mean and selfish and all the words that you want me to! Anything to please the masters!”

“Good, Bobby.” Norquist patted his gimp’s masked head. He reached down a little further and opened the zipper over his gimp’s mouth. “Bobby … speak.”

“I will call him stupid and foolish and mean and selfish and all the words that you want me to! Anything to please the masters!” He spoke in an eager rush, and his tongue lolled out to the side when he finished. He was excited to the point of panting.

Darth Cheney, missing the good ol’ days, took a second to get over his revulsion. “You realize he will probably sue the hell out of you. And that this will likely torpedo the tiny little chance you may have had at being president.”

Bobby, still panting, licked Norquist’s hand. “Anything to please the masters!”

“Fine, just, ugh.” His revulsion finally peaked. “Grover, get that little freak out of here. Creepy-eyed…eww.” Darth Cheney shuddered and couldn’t suppress making an “ick” face. “Rupert, make sure he gets his airtime. Write some buzzwords for him to repeat. This meeting is adjourned. Hail Reagan!”

“Hail Reagan!” they chorused.