Wednesday, September 22, 2004
What do you mean, Dad, Karl's saying, the suit won't work?
I always mean what I say, son, Satan says evenly, unlike that lying bastard whose fucking suit doesn't even work.
But come on, Rove insists, it's a fucking suit, a fucking costume for Сhrist's sakes. How can it not work?
It doesn't work, Karl, Satan says. Pure and simple. End of story. It doesn't work. It doesn't fucking work.
What do you mean, "end of story." That's it? No theocracy? No New World Order? End of that story?
That's exactly what it means, Karl, Satan says. Unless we can find the key.
The key? There's a key? What, like a wind-up kind of key? How come this is the first I'm hearing of this? I can't work like this, Dad. I need better intelligence than this.
It's not a wind-up suit, son, Satan explains patiently. It's a mystical suit. It is a suit of great power. The power won't work without the mystical key.
Mystical key, mystical key, Rove scoffs. Maybe we should look for it in a box of the Chimp's CoCo Puffs?
As far as I've been able to figure out, Satan says, the key is a prepuce.
A prepuce. A foreskin.
I'm serious, Karl.
Well, then--I don't know, get one of the guards at Abu Graibh to cut one off a prisoner. Or down at Gitmo. Those guys all have foreskins, I betcha.
Not just any foreskin, Karl, Satan says. The foreskin of the Christ.
The what, now?
The Holy Prepuce. That tiny flap of skin cut off the infant Yehoshua by the moyl eight days into the first Year Zero.
Oh, so we need a 2000-year-old foreskin. Sure. That shouldn't be too hard to find.
Don't give up so easily, son. Were you forgetting that our successful completion of the forbidden experiment inaugurated a new Year Zero?
Oh. Oh yeah. Damn, you're right. Oh, man. Thanks, Dad. I'll get right on that!
I know you will, son.