Karl Rove's Ex-Leather Slave Watches the Herman Cain Scandal Unfold:
He stares at his cell phone, wondering if he should call Anderson Cooper. He had just watched the press conference featuring Sharon Bialek, the fourth woman now to say that Herman Cain sexually harassed her. He had read and seen Cain's vociferous denials. They don't matter, he thinks, goddamn, they don't matter. This stinks of him, he thinks. And if anyone knows the smell of Karl Rove, it's the Republican operative's ex-leather slave.

Karl Rove kept his leather slave in the basement of the White House when Rove worked for then-President George W. Bush. The leather slave was chained there, between Teddy Roosevelt's rhino horn dildo collection and William Henry Harrison's sputum trough. Rove would use and abuse the leather slave, having rough - no, violent - sex with him whenever the mood struck, sex that often involved various implements and tools and, well, rhino horns being shoved into the leather slave's ass, that involved razors and blood-lapping, that involved shit and piss and vomit, whatever nightmare scenario Rove wanted to enact. The leather slave escaped in 2006, and he has lived a quiet, nearly invisible life ever since, trying to keep Rove from finding him and imprisoning him again.

Many things have happened that have tempted the ex-leather slave to urge action against Rove by the media, things that have had the stench of Rove on them, like his attempt to fan racial fires back in 2008 by trying to make it seem as if he backed Obama over Clinton. The birth certificate thing was too obvious, too broad a joke to come from Rove, the ex-leather slave knows. But this Herman Cain thing. That's got Rove written all over it. The bonus is that it's true. Not that it would matter at this point.

Look at how masterful it is: Cain was emerging as the spoiler to Rove's chosen candidate, Mitt Romney. Rove knew Rick Perry would implode. But Cain was a surprise. And so he leaked the info on the sexual harassment case settlements to his people at Politico. Of course, they bit. Of course, Cain would fuck up the entire defense because, shit, he was guilty. What's there to defend? Of course, of course, of course. That's why Rove is the gallbladder of the American body politic, the flesh sac where the bile of our national discourse is concentrated into a poison that can dissolve other cells.

The ex-leather slave rents a small apartment in Williamsburg, Virginia, and he makes his living now as a colonial reenactor, telling people all about the joys of being a blacksmith. Leather tanner was too obvious. He loves being in disguise. He loves being part of the way in which people perceive the history of the nation. He loves always having a weapon in his hands in case Rove shows up to claim him.

He pulls his hand away from the phone. The verdict in the Michael Jackson doctor case has come in. There will be nothing else to talk about. He cannot chase the real Rove out of the shadows. The thought of his ex-master makes the ex-leather slave feel the thrusts and hear the grunts. He wants to scream out to Cooper, to anyone, "He has never gone away. He has just slunk into the dark depths of SuperPACs and money-laundering campaign operations. You can't escape him. You may hate Cain, but it's just the start. It's just the start."

He starts to sweat. Maybe, if he calls, Rove will find him. He can't risk it. He turns back to the TV. Ahh, the sweet bliss of the media engorging on the buffet of a celebrity death trial.