Wednesday, March 7, 2007

The Devil's Undoing

Somewhere in abyssal blackness, a sinuous beast flops in a depthless subterranean pool. Limestone-softened waters enfold its serpentine coils as they writhe in contentment. Baleful slit-eyes glare like foglamps into the gloom. The creature glides through its tarn and lumbers up onto the rock bank.

A man strides forth out of the darkness, his fly unzipped. In his arms is a squalling infant, which he tosses into the air. The cave denizen flicks out a razor talon and spears it deftly, popping the morsel into its gaping maw with a slurping sound. It tosses its head from side to side in relish and makes a chortling sound.

"Thankssssssss, Billlll," it says.

"No problem, baby. There's a lot more where that came from. Just remember that I have exclusive access to the Lincoln bedroom, with lotsa video cameras, when ya win the eternal matriarchy--I mean, presidency. And in turn, I'll keep 'em comin' fresh and fiesty, just like ya love 'em."

The creature eyes a forlorn skeleton lying on the bank. "Billll, hand me one of Rick Lazzzzzzzio's bonessss, pleasssssse. Preferably a rib. There'sssss a bit of newborn ssssstuck in my teeth."

"Sure thing, honey." The man grants the request and watches the behemoth sink back into the waters, tail swishing, lost in pondering machinations intelligible only to those of frigid blood and impenetrable scales.

He ascends out of the grotto and into blinding light of day. He pulls a crumpled, deteriorating parchment out of his pocket and unrolls it. The meaning of the words written thereon baffles him to no end. Though he's unsure why, he knows that it is the bane of the lurker in the earth, its veritable nemesis. So on rare occasions when the clouds of hedonism break in his mind, he recalls it and draws it close unto himself, realizing it is the beast's one Achilles' Heel. Like Medusa's gaze, the very sight of it is death for the monster. So he keeps it, philosophizing that it is better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.

He sets off in search of one particularly delectable former intern, but gives the script heading a final glance before driving away:

WE THE PEOPLE, it begins.

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