Karl Rove's Former Leather Slave Comments on His Ex-Master:
"Weren't they supposed to be the smart guys?" the Rude Pundit asked the thin man across from him as they sat in a Chelsea bar, looking out as the melting snow dribbled down the piles of wood and drywall. Surely, Obama's margin of victory would have been larger here if the wreckage of Sandy hadn't replaced voting as a priority for many people. "All these rich fucks, aren't they supposed to always be right? Haven't we been told that they are wise and that we should implicitly trust them just because they are rich and successful? The 'job-creators' or some such bullshit." The Rude Pundit is not ashamed to say that he made air quotes with his fingers.
The thin man nodded, and the Rude Pundit continued, "So are they gonna get off easy? Are they just gonna go on, doing whatever they do, oil, media, whatever, and we're gonna buy their shit and they're gonna get richer and fuck it all 'cause it's just money? Is nobody going to pay for how wrong the smart guys were? For how much they wasted on this fuckery of an election?"
"Karl will pay," the thin man said, wincing, getting a tic for a moment in memory. "Yeah, he will." He was talking about President George W. Bush's former political guru, the savage id of the right who now runs a money-gobbling organization trying to get rid of all vestiges of liberalism in America. It had failed and failed mightily on Tuesday.
Half a dozen years ago, the thin man was Karl Rove's leather slave, held captive in the cluttered basement of the White House, chained to the radiator between the cabinet holding Martin Van Buren's bottles of Cherokee tears and Gerald Ford's trunk of Whip Inflation Now shirts and Khmer Rouge soldiers' fingers. Over the course of most of the Bush administration, Rove had roughly fucked the leather slave in every orifice and with every implement at his disposal - golf club, Kalashnikov rifle, John Kerry for President sign post. He had loaned out the leather slave to wealthy donors, an extra bonus beyond the "Pioneer" level. Other staffers had enjoyed debasing the leather slave, and he had learned to live smelling of shit and semen and urine and blood, some of it even his own, until, finally, in 2006, he escaped and had been hiding from Rove ever since. It's just been recently that he has felt free enough to appear in public, believing that, perhaps, Rove will never have him back.
The thin man ordered another drink. Straight whiskey, which the Rude Pundit joined him in downing. "You see Karl on Fox on election night?" he asked. The Rude Pundit nodded with a smirk on his face. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Me more than most," the Rude Pundit scoffed.
He leaned in. "I masturbated while Karl was losing his mind over Ohio," he said and then smiled. "I saw him on fire there, burning, burning, writhing and yelping, rolling on the ground, until he collapsed into ashes, and I just jacked it. It felt so good." He paused and got wistful, staring into the amber liquor. "You don't wanna know what he would have done to me Tuesday if he still had me. I don't know if I could have survived it. The razors..."
"You don't--"
"It's okay." He slugged back what was left and ordered another. We drank on, the Rude Pundit and the thin man, shooting whiskey and sharing glee over Rove's desperate attempts to justify his existence and his failures, over his absurd, pathetic spin that Obama "suppressed the vote" by saying mean things about Romney and his supporters, coming up with ways that Rove would have to pay back the hundreds of millions of donated dollars - the phrase "Sheldon Adelson's dick lamprey" was used by one of us, and laughing at how degraded Rove must have felt over being called out by Megyn Kelly on the air, repeatedly. "And Bill Hemmer!" the thin man said. "That guy's so dumb, you could put a dunce cap on him and he'd thank you for making his head bigger."
The drinks done, the night now the beginning of the new day, the Rude Pundit bid farewell to the thin man, who said he had to be going to his digs in Long Island City. After "Good night," after walking a step or two, the thin man turned back. "There's one thing I know," he said. "Karl's not going away. I feel him, always. He's with us until the dirty end. Be careful. Optimism dies quickly when it meets reality. It can be fucked out of you even faster."
And we parted.
