Arlen Specter, Tuesday Morning, First Light:
Arlen Specter woke up Tuesday morning early with his right cheek stuck to the rug in his Senate office. After he got his bearings and saw where he was, he remembered that the glue was actually Mitch McConnell's jizz. He still had the taste of the Minority Leader's bourbon-infused cock in his mouth. Peeling his face off the rug, Specter saw that his pants were around his ankles. Goddamnit, he can't believe he allowed Jim DeMint to fuck him again. He looked around his trashed office: the cum-stained TV where Michael Steele had jacked off to watching himself on CNN, the award he had just received for getting more funding to the National Institutes of Health - now shit-smeared from John Cornyn using it on his own ass.
How many mornings had started like this since 2004? How many times had he sat with Olympia Snowe over coffee, holding her hand as she wept about how she couldn't get the smell of James Inhofe's sweaty taint off her upper lip? Too many to count, god, too many to count. John McCain told him to keep the door barricaded, that some evenings they'll give up and go away. But even that didn't work all the time, so why ruin the molding.
He yanked up his baggy slacks and went over to his desk. He looked over the polls again. 20 points. No one makes up 20 points. In a fucking primary. He thought about the last time, 2004, about how the Club for Growth called for his "scalp," how the right-to-life fuckheads actually protested his rallies, how he couldn't get the endorsements of old friends because they loved the ideology more than the party, how he begged and scraped and compromised so many fucking things, how he's in the process of doing it again. Oh, my party, he thought, oh, my sweet party, how you have strayed.
He headed into the bathroom to wash the crusted semen off his face. He was so tired of blowing McConnell. He had given too much of his life, his nearly cancer-shortened life, to his nation to dare to be judged by people who would toss teabags into rivers, who think that gay marriage is the gateway to the apocalypse. Everything that was once great to him about being a Republican had been degraded and defiled.
He looked in the mirror. There, he saw on his forehead, written in marker by Charles Grassley's demented hand, the phrase "Fuck My Face." He scrubbed himself clean, thinking as he raked the washcloth harder and harder on himself, "Fuck them. Fuck. Them." And then, as he dried, "I can be a man again, goddamnit."
He walked out and picked up the phone.