Althouse: "Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom..."

October 14, 2005

"Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom..."

Is this the beginning of some pulp novel? No, it's just another nonstory about the Plame investigation. The White House is "jittery." Check. There is "a mood of intense uncertainty." Noted.

IN THE COMMENTS: It's a dark and stormy night in there: a real Bulwer-Lytton contest!

40 comments:

P_J said...: OMG! This is so bad, it's like the Bulwer-Lytton contest. Let's play!

Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, starting another day in which he would be dealing with a troubled Supreme Court nomination, posthurricane reconstruction and all the other issues that come across the desk of President Bush's most influential aide.

But Mr. Rove's first challenge on Wednesday morning came before he cleared his driveway.

There was a beautiful woman in the front seat of the Jag. Trouble was, this one was dead.; 10/14/05, 1:21 PM
Freeman Hunt said...: The road was cold and hard. Cold like the impersonal logic behind the eyes of Chief Justice Roberts. Hard like the hearts of Karl's conservative supporters. Worse yet, the road was black. Rove hated black.; 10/14/05, 1:31 PM
JBlog said...: Me, me!

He drank the coffee. It was good. He drank some more.

Then, he reached for his luger.; 10/14/05, 1:53 PM
John N. said...: "Damn that Judith Miller," he thought. "I knew she'd sing like a canary after spending some time in the Alexandria jail." Hasn't she ever heard of omerta, the code of silence? Cheney knew how to keep his mouth shut. It's too bad G. Gordon Liddy didn't work in the White House. There was a man who could keep his mouth shut. Vince Foster, too.

The rain started pounding on the Jag like the heartbeats of a million voters.; 10/14/05, 2:20 PM
Steve Lewis said...: "The rain started pounding on the Jag like the heartbeats of a million voters."

a million *disenfranchised* voters?; 10/14/05, 2:59 PM
Eric said...: Outside, somewhere, a dog was barking. Or maybe it was Helen Thomas coughing. Either way, McClellan didn't look forward to dealing with that pack of hounds they called the White House Press Corps. And why was the s silent anyway?; 10/14/05, 3:03 PM
Tim said...: Pastor Jeff: "There was a beautiful woman in the front seat of the Jag. Trouble was, this one was dead."

ROAR!!!!; 10/14/05, 3:11 PM
john(classic) said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom when a groan of tortured metal, not unlike the gasped anguish of a tortured prisoner at Abu Ghraib, or the expressed misery of a democrat watching another election fall to the sinister armies of friendly cardigan wearing neighborhood republican activists, brought a twisted smile to his face but this was different, this was personal, and not the smile he used when wielding the vast political power at his disposal, for it was his child's tricycle that had been left on the drive.

(But nothing will ever come close to "The night was cold, dark, and wet, like the nose of a Labrador retriever in good health."; 10/14/05, 3:13 PM
Clyde said...: As the telephone poles reeled monotonously past the driver's side window, Rove ruminated on the calendar, wondering if it had indeed already been seven years since he'd pricked his finger and signed the deal with the mysterious stranger who called himself "Old Scratch"; alas that Daniel Webster was long a-mouldering in his grave, leaving only John Roberts lawyer enough to argue his case before the infernal court.

-- From "The Devil and John Roberts" (With apologies to Stephen Vincent Benet); 10/14/05, 3:21 PM
Charlie Eklund said...: "Bloggers," hissed Rove darkly. "Bloggers. First they're dissing Harriet, my Harriet, and now they fancy they can get inside my head, read my thoughts."

He looked into his rear view mirror and laughed. "If they think they know what I'm thinking, they've got another thing coming. Ha. Hey...is that a Dunkin' Donuts?"; 10/14/05, 3:21 PM
Lewis Wetzel said...: That is the way things are for the Bush White House these days. The routines are the same. But everything, in the glare of the final stages of a criminal investigation that has reached to the highest levels of power in Washington, is different.
Dogs have five legs and walk backwards. The sun rises in the west. Bacon is kosher, and, most different of all, Karl 'Lady Killer' Rove has a full head of long, golden curls.; 10/14/05, 3:50 PM
Bob Ellison said...: But Mr. Rove's first challenge on Wednesday morning came before he cleared his driveway: how to make a safe left turn into the sometimes busy predawn traffic on his street.

He cleared that challenge, but immediately faced another: the traffic light at the end of his street turned first yellow, and then, ominously, red, as he approached it. Again, he met the challenge (electing to stop, this time), but these were just the opening challenges in a seemingly never-ending series of challenging in Rove's challenging day.

That's the way it is these days during the predawn gloom in the cars of the people who serve in the Bush White House.; 10/14/05, 4:22 PM
I'm Full of Soup said...: But the man at the wheel was not Karl Rove. It was his body double, Fred, whose mother always said he would never amount to much. And she was right...All those donuts Fred loved to eat and the unnaturally large forehead caused by the case of frontal hydrocephalous when he was only nine years old.....

And where was the real Rove? Fred didn't know but in his bones, Fred knew jail could be in Fred's future and he wondered if Delay could get him a big fat pay increase.; 10/14/05, 4:54 PM
Harkonnendog said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage, reveling in the roadster's roar. Rove identified with the Jaguar, for like that animal, Rove was a king of the shadow beasts, able to disentigrate into the foliage, whether it be the green leaves and thorny stems of an African jungle or the red tape and tangled alliances of a beauracracy. But the liberals had laid a labryrinth before him, a series of fires meant to drive him into the hunter's hungry maw.

Plame lay at the trap's center, like the tongue-bait of certain carnivorous tropical reef fish that lure the prey by making them think they are predator. Rove revved, and rued the day he'd lunged, like a Jaguar, only to discover he was a fish fresh from the frying pan, midway to the fire.

Alas! How could he subvert the laws of physics and reverse momentum before the incisors decapitated his chest?; 10/14/05, 5:02 PM
Pat Patterson said...: Karl turned sadly from his Blackberry to gaze at the remains of another cold picked over lunch. It was, he mused to himself, the best of times, it was the wurst of times....; 10/14/05, 5:20 PM
JBlog said...: I wonder if the Times and Stevenson know how badly they're being made fun of at this moment.

Not insulted. Not ridiculed. Not maligned or smeared.

Made fun of, in the most classic, juvenile sense possible.

And so deservedly so.; 10/14/05, 5:30 PM
Ann Althouse said...: JBlog: I think they know.

I love the comments here! This is great. We got an Instapundit link for this, so there are lots of readers. Keep writing that bad writing!; 10/14/05, 5:34 PM
SippicanCottage said...: This comment has been removed by the author.; 10/14/05, 5:50 PM
sonicfrog said...: His senses were heighted in anticipation of todays grilling by the able prosecutor. As he drove he could feel every bump or imperfection in the road, as if he were hung over. He imagined every rock or twig that the size 225/55ZR16 Pirelli tires ran over were the fingers of some snot nosed reporter who had ever asked a stupid question like "how do you feel now that your house has been destoyed by the tornado?". Today was going to be tough. Thoughts of testifying again made his heart and spirits drop like a garbage bag full of lentle soup from a ten story window. "God, this is depressing" he thought as traveled invariably toward his destination, the court room.; 10/14/05, 6:34 PM
Robin Goodfellow said...: It was gloomy. Predawn gloomy... Too predawn gloomy. As Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, he decided he liked the gloom, even if there was too much of it. He was reminded of the bittersweet days from childhood when, on a crisp fall predawn morning, his father would nose the family's 1947 Cadillac, bought on a whim several years before Karl was born after a late night when his father had nearly depressingly lost half the mortgage payment playing cards with his coworkers but instead won an exciting fistful of mad money, and head off on the 3 hour drive, as the sky slowly slid from a dusky shade of mauve to an incandescent azure, to Karl's bording school, where he would remain -- friendless, alone, and filled with a growing sense of hopelessness -- for the rest of the school year.; 10/14/05, 6:49 PM
tarpon said...: It was a dark and stormy night . . . then Rove woke up.; 10/14/05, 7:01 PM
nu-monet said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom. His determined gaze, indifferent to the hordes of desperate journalists clawing at his car, leaving behind smears of doughnut grease and ample spittle on his expensive windows, betrayed a single-mindedness that little did they know, had been brought on by a phone call a few minutes before. A phone call from the President himself.

"Karl, I want you to listen very carefully to this message," he began. "The night is silent, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. You have miles to go before you sleep, Karl."

As the phone dropped from his nerveless hand without reply, Karl then pulled a large, locked, dusty steel box from a hidden compartment behind his credenza. A box he then loaded into his trunk without further thought. A box whose contents only now could be presented to the grand jury.; 10/14/05, 7:21 PM
nu-monet said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom. His determined gaze, indifferent to the hordes of desperate journalists clawing at his car, leaving behind smears of doughnut grease and ample spittle on his expensive windows, betrayed a single-mindedness that little did they know, had been brought on by a phone call a few minutes before. A phone call from the President himself.

"Karl, I want you to listen very carefully to this message," he began. "The night is silent, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. You have miles to go before you sleep, Karl."

As the phone dropped from his nerveless hand without reply, Karl then pulled a large, locked, dusty steel box from a hidden compartment behind his credenza. A box he then loaded into his trunk without further thought. A box whose contents only now could be presented to the grand jury.; 10/14/05, 7:22 PM
Sam said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, starting another day in which he would be dealing with issues that come across the desk of President Bush's most influencial aide, Harriet Miers.

Ah, Harriet. How that name rankled him. That temptress, who with her sweet tongue and rich, full head of hair, had stolen the heart of the President. Through his contempt, Karl almost respected her for it. Her guile reminded him of his own salad days, in which he successfully stole Florida and Ohio.

But, unlike politics, this was no mere game. Karl could see it in the cold, hard glint of her eyes as she buttered the President with compliments and parroted State of the Union applause lines to him as "advice." It was clear to Karl that Harriet would stop at nothing to lay claim to the title of the "President's Most Trusted Advisor."

He struggled with the injustice of it all. Who did she think she was? Was not he, Karl Rove, indisputibly the evil genius, the very man dubbed "Bush's Brain?"

His most precious memories of late nights spent with George--pranking interns and giggling until their bellies ached--were soured and somehow coarsened by the knowledge that his soul mate was now spending more and more time with her.

Harriet was now a threat that had to be eliminated. Finding another hit job too obvious for a man of his gifts, Karl had devised what he thought to be the perfect solution to terminate the threat. He would have her voluntarily banish herself from the Administration!

Karl couldn't help but grin smugly at his own genius.

But now his plan to have her named to the Supreme Court was in jeopardy. Influential conservatives were challenging the pick. How could this be? Perhaps the Secret Rovian Conspiracy Memo (which he distinctly remembered sending out last week) was too vague. Or maybe it got routed to spam. But whatever the case, this nomination had to go through. The consequences for failure would be disastrous.

He struggled to fight back the images, but his mind flickered through chilling scenes of George and Harriet jumping on the bed, laughing, and feeding each other whipped cream straight from the can.

It was too much to take. He stepped hard on the gas. It was almost airtime on the East Coast, and he had a call to Hugh Hewitt to make.; 10/14/05, 8:09 PM
Charles Giacometti said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, starting another day in which he would be dealing with a troubled Supreme Court nomination, posthurricane reconstruction and all the other issues that come across the desk of President Bush's most influential aide.

Rove leaned up on one cheek and farted. Smiling to himself, he inhaled deeply through his nose, enjoying the rich, nuanced aroma. "If I can pass something that good," he said out loud, "Harriet can certainly get through the Senate."; 10/14/05, 8:18 PM
Bill Faith said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, starting another day in which he would be dealing with a troubled Supreme Court nomination, posthurricane reconstruction and all the other issues that come across the desk of President Bush's most influential aide. Once clear of the mob in the driveway, he activated the DVD player. "Good morning Mr. Rove. This disk will self destruct in 30 seconds. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to persuade National Revue to endorse Harriet Miers."; 10/14/05, 9:52 PM
John N. said...: Rove approached the K Street parking garage and circled to the bottom level. The garage was self-serve, not one of those where the Salvadoran attendant takes your keys and parks for you. He would not let a mere parking attendant touch his Jag.

He saw the flash from the cigarette lighter first. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he coud just make out her silhouette.

"Nice to see you again, Valerie," he smirked.

"Don't use my name again," she hissed. "Just call me Deep Yellocake."; 10/14/05, 10:09 PM
gunny said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, acutely aware of the metaphors this scene would engender. He suppressed a shudder as he surveyed his misty environs, longing for the salad days of shadowy conspiracies and backroom deals while maintaining "plausible deniability".

What is the endgame?, he thought quietly in his own mind to himself.

A half-eaten Krispy Kreme cruller on the dash silently mocked him...; 10/14/05, 10:16 PM
Freeman Hunt said...: The Jag sliced through the fog like a length of piano wire through the throat of John Kerry's political career. But now that piano wire was caught on the trachea of that bitch Katrina. Karl slammed shut the Jag's air conditioning vents for reminding him of her.; 10/15/05, 12:05 AM
AST said...: Forget Bulwer-Lytton, these are worthy of Jayson Blair! Writing news that sounds like a short story is how you win Pulitzers, as long as you don't phoney it up too much.

"He muttered a curse as he thought how much time this g--d--- grand jury testimony was forcing him to take from resolving the Harriet Miers crisis. If he hadn't been so distracted, this never would have gotten beyond a POTUS daydream."; 10/15/05, 12:27 AM
rhhardin said...: I've saved odd AP ledes that strike me for some reason as the revenge of creative writing 101, eg.

TIFTON, Ga. -- Pedro Bemol stayed awake most of the night, swapping lookout shifts in the dark with the five other Mexican immigrants who share a ragged mobile home with no electricity and a front door that won't close because of a broken latch.

NEW ORLEANS -- A steady downpour fell on New Orleans as Hurricane Rita lashed the coast, turning dust to mud, forcing engineers to hurriedly shore up broken levees and interrupting the city's search for its dead.

KEY WEST, Fla. -- Thousands of residents fled the Florida Keys as Tropical Storm Rita barreled toward land, poised to grow into a hurricane with a potential 9-foot storm surge and sparking fears it could eventually ravage the hobbled Gulf Coast.

NEW ORLEANS -- Lt. William Besselman came back after a year in Iraq to find a mess in his home from Hurricane Katrina: ruined photographs of his children, an overturned china cabinet his wife had inherited, a couch sprouting mold.

D'IBERVILLE, Miss. -- In a sandy construction site on the outskirts of town, more than a dozen trucks wait their chance to unload tree limbs and feed a huge bonfire that will burn from dawn until dusk every day for months.

and that's just casual reading back thru September.

The Pathetic Fallacy is big at AP.; 10/15/05, 12:37 AM
David Neylon said...: It was a dark and stormy night. Karl eased his Jag onto the dark, wet streets. The tires hissing slightly like Ted Kennedy losing air like a child's ballon that would never float away like a piece of New Orleans waterfront property on the wrong side of the levee. He laughed silently to himself, never letting the laugh touch his eyes, as he realized at that moment how apropos his title of Court Magician was.

He turned into a restaurant.; 10/15/05, 12:42 AM
Hecla Ma said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom. He was restless this morning, inside him he could feel a bellow forming, like one of Susan Estrich's hair-raising soundbites, rising like hair. But whose hair? Not his, not his, he grimaced, his eyes hitting his rear view mirror. Damn! He hated when that happened. His eyeballs made a soft "thwock, thwock" as he pulled them from the mirror and stuck them back into his balding head.

Now he could see the car behind him, following closely as he turned the corner. Like Eeyore, he had picked up a tail and could not shake it. "Metaphors before my darting eyes," he thought. "I'm being tailed as I move to tell my tale. Well, it's not that easy, bub!"

Reaching into his glove compartment for half the half-eaten crueller he kept there for times such as this. He opened his window and dangled the confection enticingly.

"Come and get it, Matthews!" Rove thought with glee. "Just like mouths to a Plame..."; 10/15/05, 1:59 AM
gunny said...: Ann, you should make this a semi-regular feature. What a hoot!; 10/15/05, 2:24 AM
MnMnM said...: Dead perhaps. But not soon enough. Little did he know that the copy of of his Grand Jury testimony which she had stolen would be uploaded to her blog within the next hour based on the auto up-date feature she had enabled. To make matters worse, her weekly newletter to her fellow bloggers would include the following words as the headline story:

Grand Jury testimony of Karl Rove leaked by Rove-ing reporter (humor). Please keep my identity a secret. Double super Secret. I could call in and have my voice disguised and/or my face blocked out. Please send me an email if you plan to use this. Thanks.

Middle-aged, Middle-of-the-road, Mid-Westerner
MnMnM50@hotmail.com

Testimony of Karl Rove, the White House Deputy Chief of Staff (of the United States) [COSTUS]. How much will COSTUS cost us?

It is posted at: http://rovesayswholeakedfirst.blogspot.com/; 10/15/05, 8:25 AM
Stephen said...: Rove gazed into the rearview mirror, and a stranger’s eyes looked back at him, eyes that seemed to mock him with the bloodshot weariness brought on by too many vettings and too many demographic segmentations that reminded him of the centipedes that seemed to scream silently as Rove dissected them with relish (not the condiment but the emotion) in Miss Wilcox’s afternoon lab. Rove sighed and turned the ignition, the car’s giant engine springing to life which it did most of the time now that Ford---too bad it wasn’t Toyota, Rove mused---had bought Jaguar. Well, there was no buying my way out of this, thought Rove. When they hear what I have to say, when I tell them the truth, they’ll forget all about posse comitatus and stare decisis. More like veni, vidi, vici.; 10/15/05, 11:31 AM
john(classic) said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, troubled thoughts rising to his consciousness like carp coming to the surface of a dark pool to feed, disturbing the serenity with ripples. Miller's discovery of a second set of notes, Farrakhan's spaceship trip, the plastic turkey that turned out not to be plastic but just cold, the Convention Center deaths that weren't, the bulge under Bush's coat at the debate... the ripples intersected and formed patterns on the water, patterns that were not random, but had meaning to them.

"My God", he thought, "I know what frequency Kenneth was using!"; 10/15/05, 12:06 PM
vbspurs said...: Best thread on Althouse since the bra thread.

Cheers,
Victoria; 10/16/05, 12:39 AM
vbspurs said...: The Rovian Althouse Chronicles so far:

Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, starting another day in which he would be dealing with a troubled Supreme Court nomination, posthurricane reconstruction and all the other issues that come across the desk of President Bush's most influential aide.

But Mr. Rove's first challenge on Wednesday morning came before he cleared his driveway.

There was a beautiful woman in the front seat of the Jag. Trouble was, this one was dead.

The road was cold and hard. Cold like the impersonal logic behind the eyes of Chief Justice Roberts. Hard like the hearts of Karl's conservative supporters. Worse yet, the road was black. Rove hated black.

He drank the coffee. It was good. He drank some more.

Then, he reached for his luger.

"Damn that Judith Miller," he thought. "I knew she'd sing like a canary after spending some time in the Alexandria jail." Hasn't she ever heard of omerta, the code of silence? Cheney knew how to keep his mouth shut. It's too bad G. Gordon Liddy didn't work in the White House. There was a man who could keep his mouth shut. Vince Foster, too.

The rain started pounding on the Jag like the heartbeats of a (disenfranchised) million voters.

The cool mist of the morning passed over the hood of his car like Cool Whip over a Jello dish at a Methodist Ladies Wednesday Night dinner meeting. It briefly wrapped his car in a sheath of mystery, an enigma as puzzling as the current situation and the surprise eggroll on his lunch plate the day before.

Outside, somewhere, a dog was barking. Or maybe it was Helen Thomas coughing. Either way, McClellan didn't look forward to dealing with that pack of hounds they called the White House Press Corps. And why was the s silent anyway?

As Rove approached the witness stand, he suddenly thought of his house in Texas and couldn't remember whether he'd turned the iron off. Anxiety slowly nestled him in her unpleasant bosom.

As the telephone poles reeled monotonously past the driver's side window, Rove ruminated on the calendar, wondering if it had indeed already been seven years since he'd pricked his finger and signed the deal with the mysterious stranger who called himself "Old Scratch"; alas that Daniel Webster was long a-mouldering in his grave, leaving only John Roberts lawyer enough to argue his case before the infernal court.

"Bloggers," hissed Rove darkly. "Bloggers. First they're dissing Harriet, my Harriet, and now they fancy they can get inside my head, read my thoughts."

He looked into his rear view mirror and laughed. "If they think they know what I'm thinking, they've got another thing coming. Ha. Hey...is that a Dunkin' Donuts?"

But Mr. Rove's first challenge on Wednesday morning came before he cleared his driveway: He was aroused. And he didn't know why.

Not that this troubled him. He laughed inside his head, but the reporters only saw a Da Vinci smirk as he flashed his headlights into the cameras so they would not get a clear shot of the body.

Playing drop the body was his favorite hobby. As he drove slowly down the mist-shrouded pavement, he pondered the question of disposal, and by the time he approached the cold red stoplight at the end of the street, the smirk had returned. He knew who would be getting a Rove today. He didn’t have to hit the brakes as the light changed to a perfectly timed green, and he turned to the corpse as he slipped unperturbed through the intersection.

‘You’re going on a little trip to Crawford, sweetheart’, he said, his voice soft with sinister sweetness. 'It's time to remind Laura who's boss', he mouthed silently to her.

'The League of Portenders would approve', he thought.

Then, that unwelcome small voice returned.

Ah, Harriet. How that name rankled him. That temptress, who with her sweet tongue and rich, full head of hair, had stolen the heart of the President. Through his contempt, Karl almost respected her for it. Her guile reminded him of his own salad days, in which he successfully stole Florida and Ohio.

But, unlike politics, this was no mere game. Karl could see it in the cold, hard glint of her eyes as she buttered the President with compliments and parroted State of the Union applause lines to him as "advice." It was clear to Karl that Harriet would stop at nothing to lay claim to the title of the "President's Most Trusted Advisor."

He struggled with the injustice of it all. Who did she think she was? Was not he, Karl Rove, indisputibly the evil genius, the very man dubbed "Bush's Brain?"

His most precious memories of late nights spent with George--pranking interns and giggling until their bellies ached--were soured and somehow coarsened by the knowledge that his soul mate was now spending more and more time with her.

Harriet was now a threat that had to be eliminated. Finding another hit job too obvious for a man of his gifts, Karl had devised what he thought to be the perfect solution to terminate the threat. He would have her voluntarily banish herself from the Administration!

Karl couldn't help but grin smugly at his own genius.

But now his plan to have her named to the Supreme Court was in jeopardy. Influential conservatives were challenging the pick. How could this be? Perhaps the Secret Rovian Conspiracy Memo (which he distinctly remembered sending out last week) was too vague. Or maybe it got routed to spam. But whatever the case, this nomination had to go through. The consequences for failure would be disastrous.

He struggled to fight back the images, but his mind flickered through chilling scenes of George and Harriet jumping on the bed, laughing, and feeding each other whipped cream straight from the can.

It was too much to take. He stepped hard on the gas. It was almost airtime on the East Coast, and he had a call to Hugh Hewitt to make.

A dim orange glow was the only sign of trouble. Giving thanks for the sensory enhancement drugs, provided by the NIH, that he took religiously every morning - even before showering - he activated the Jag's saftey camera, enhanced by the CIA to provide an infrared view. Yes, there was someone across the street, lurking quietly in the gloom; only his cigarette had given him away.

Rove pressed "the button" - he loved that button - and waited. The gear installed by the NHSA cut off the gas and began intermittently attempting to restart the car (the base always fell for that one: Karl's expensive import breaking down; not like a good ol' American car) while, high overhead in the depths of space, Halliburton designed and built satelites spun into new orbits. "Target Acquired" appeared briefly on the small screen before being washed out in the blinding strobe of a lightening strike.

The Jag's engine roared to life like its namesake taking down prey.

It wasn't until he had reached the on-ramp that the FBI identified the watcher. Karl shrugged. Dan Rather had been useful, but there were plenty more where he came from.

Victoria's entry:

He leaned back, as he let his hand caress the fine sheepskin leather Ahmed Chalabi had sent him from Iraq.

He tried to survey the scene around him, having paused his chortling motor for a moment near the Potomac.

He got out of the Jag, and saw that his Secret Service agents (code name: "Michelangelo") were discreetly giving him a moment.

His PayLess shoes crunched underfoot, brushing aside the pebbles and the leaves so recently shorn in Autumn.

He sat down, wondering what to do with the body crumpled riding shotgun.

He got up again, and to his momentary amazement, he realised he was not 500 feet away from the bench where he had ordered Vince Foster to be killed, instructing them to planted a love letter from Hillary Clinton, which was secreted out of the White House by a trusted crony, a Democrat at the time.

Harriet had indeed served them well.

Cheers,
Victoria; 10/16/05, 12:59 AM
vbspurs said...: Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom. Both arms were gone, his legs as shredded as the cheese in a chive and gruyere souffle, but damn it, he still had his nose. He pushed harder, the soft fur of the big dead beast tickling his nostrils, and he thought, "You shouldn't have crossed me, cat."

Very Dr. Seuss! Despite that, I loved it.

Cheers,
Victoria; 10/16/05, 7:12 PM