(With apologies to JB, C, and probably Bill Hicks.)
It begins in an undisclosed location, one that doesn't show up on any satellites, Google Earth, or Yahoo Maps. It is likely in the woods outside of Delaware or Maryland - but it could be anywhere; Gitmo, a posh Georgetown split-level...next door to you and yours. When the dog barks and barks and won't shut up? Could be the Cheneys next door. Vice-President "Blue-Veined" Dick Cheney gets out of the completely automated limo-like conveyance he now uses after killing several human drivers for their humors and fluids, and remotely sends it on its way. Checking the surrounding area through his thick spectacles, he places his palm against what would to the untrained eye appear to be undifferentiated wall, but is in fact the most secure intrusion deterrent system in the world. After his finger is pricked and the black ichor within tested and found to be a DNA match to file, he is allowed inside.
The furnishings are fairly innocuous, just some parlor furniture, tables and chairs - old books on the shelf, unread. Always unread. Dick puts his keys and briefcase on the writing table, and follows a trail of heat-blackened rose petals to a door. Twisting the small brass knob engraved with the face of Allen Dulles, he steps into a brushed chrome security elevator. It immediately descends to sub-basement level 23, where the Cheneys have plans this night to get it on.
Lynne meets him at the door to their love nest, clad in a patent leather stars-and-stripes corset and fishnet stockings. Her gleaming golden chastity belt matches the glint in Dick's eyes, and he loosens his tie, teasing her with the key. He will unlock her, but not yet. First, the lights go down and the red candles flare as the first swellings of the Carmina Burana are heard. Lynne licks her lips and shivers as her Dick grins crookedly, grunting a little. It's a love grunt. She's into him, and says, "Put me on the wheel, powerhouse." He straps her lovingly to the Wheel of Pain, spinning it like an acolyte of Bob Barker. Curtains part, and six Girl Scouts, ages 5 to 17, are revealed behind four inch thick glass. As their innocence is driven from them by the sight, it is harvested in huge, lime-green containers, to be consumed later by the Vice-President.
As Lynne spins, writhing and moaning, and the music dips and soars, Dick disrobes, shedding his power suit like a snake outgrowing an immature skin. His sex organ is like a six-headed robotic hydra, and it unfurls from it's wrapped position around his waist, snapping the six heads apart with a metallic high C note. Overfiend-style, it rises up, appearing to sniff and sample the air, almost sentient. Creating its own speed lines, it whizzes across the room, where it whips aside yet another curtain to reveal a bound and gagged enemy combatant, tied to a chair. A pile of thousand dollar bills is lit, and a lock of Ron Reagan's hair is added to the fire. The phallus tortures the enemy combatant as Lynne's moans synchronize with Dick's pacemaker rhythm, and they achieve orgasm simultaneously. The earth cracks underfoot, dying a little.
And they never touch each other. Not since 1968. Too big a possibility of making more lesbians. Wouldn't be prudent.