Tuesday, October 12, 2004
DeLay, a former exterminator, knew what he was dealing with as soon as he saw them. Liberal cockroaches. Fuckers. He’d dealt with them before. As soon as you think you have the nest wiped out, they come back again. Some of them were openly gay. He knew that. They knew how to read, and write, and reason. They published non-governmentally-approved things in their little non-mass-media outlets. They convinced other roaches, decent, god-fearing roaches, to join them with their promises of a liberal utopia. They gave powerful insects like him the hives.
But how had they gotten into his kitchen? He had people whose job it was to take care things like this.
He lifted his jackboot to stomp one of them.
And that was when it happened. They swarmed over him like a mass of moving leaves. When they were done, nothing was left inside of the old exterminator. He was just a sheet of skin covered with clothing. The liberal cockroaches climbed in through the mouth and ears, filling the sack of skin. Only someone looking very closely—which nobody did to DeLay—would be able to tell it wasn’t his original guts inside.
The roaches called the driver, and headed for the Capitol. They had an appointment with a guy calling himself Hermes.