Rove's Game (Featuring the Return of Karl Rove's Ex-Leather Slave):
"What is he up to?" Karl Rove's ex-leather slave said aloud to the television yesterday. Karl Rove's ex-leather slave lives in a studio apartment in Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, a long walk to Independence Hall. When he was Karl Rove's leather slave, the former boy wonder kept him in tied down in the basement of the White House, bent over Teddy Roosevelt's rough-riding pommel horse and just behind a wooden box holding Martin Van Buren's bottle of Cherokee tears. For nearly six years, Karl Rove's leather slave had his ass regularly reamed by Rove and whatever guests Rove wanted to bring down the stairs to fuck his well-lubricated anus. Finally escaping in November 2006, Karl Rove's ex-leather slave lives in mortal fear that Rove will find him and drag him back to his previous life, moving from city to city to try to avoid being discovered. Karl Rove may be a flabby man who wears latex underwear, but he does not like to be spurned.
Watching Fox "news" yesterday, Karl Rove's ex-leather slave saw his ex-master insist that Democrats wanted to vote on the Iraq war authorization before the 2002 midterms as much as the President wanted the power, an allegation Rove had previously made on the Charlie Rose Show. It was an odd thing to say, thought the ex-leather slave, considering that the President would drunkenly rage against the gods to Rove, to Condi, to whomever would listen, that he was being dicked by Daschle.
Then Karl Rove's ex-leather slave opened his Financial Times, a favorite of leather slaves and their masters, and saw his former tormentor's pudgy face staring back at him from the editorial page. The piece was titled "Memo to Obama: Win Iowa or Lose the Race," and it purports to give Democratic candidate Barack Obama advice on how to defeat Hillary Clinton. It's sort of a companion to his Newsweek article on how Republicans can beat Clinton. Among Rove's dingleberries of wisdom is this one: "Striking a pose of being high-minded and too pure will not work. Americans want to see you scrapping and fighting for the job, not in a mean or ugly way but in a forceful and straightforward way." He may be right, thought the ex-leather slave, feeling a familiar sting of small tears in his butt pucker. But that doesn't mean there's not some other game afoot here.
It's obvious, the ex-leather slave said, and he felt a tear well up in the corner of his eye as he remembered the creative ways Rove would fuck him, all the implements and farm tools, selling him for an afternoon with Larry Craig or Mark Foley. Pushing that out of his head, the ex-leather slave wondered who had to call to warn them all, all the candidates, all the members of the media, hell, all of America, that Karl Rove is the junior prince of lies. And what does a demon want more than anything else but mischief and anarchy and chaos?
Yes, he thought, he's still got Matt Drudge's phone number from back in the day. Matt surely owes him a favor after all the times that pasty twink would fist him while weeping. He could call up Drudge, tell him the truth: "Rove is playing everyone. He wants Obama to go after Clinton because he knows that Clinton's gonna be the nominee. And he wants Clinton to limp into the general having been hobbled by her rivals so that all the Republican will have to do is walk into her stall and pump three bullets into her lamed body to do her in." Rove is good. It's why he was such an intimidating master, why the ex-leather slave still cringes when he hears the snap of a whip or the shuffle of thighs in vinyl pants.
Karl Rove's ex-leather slave is about to pick up the phone when it hits him. Drudge will tell, that fucker. Drudge will text Rove as soon as he has info. And then Karl Rove will appear again, smiling that monster smile, arms open, ready to hold his leather slave while slowly dragging his fingers along the ex-leather's back until he penetrated the ex-leather slave's asshole, telling the ex-leather slave, "I'm gonna tattoo my name on your face so that every time you look in the mirror, you know who owns you."
The ex-leather slave walks away from the phone and sits back down in front of the television. A&E has a Dirty Jobs marathon going.