Thursday, February 17, 2005


The Trio Gets the Treatment

“There’s nothing wrong with that p-policy,” Sanctiblogger stammered. “I bought it from Captain Leibniz. All on the up-and-up.”

“Bullshit! That policy is the oldest scam in the book. It fools all of the smarty-pants liberals,” a voice called from the door. (Which, being in the Ding an sich, wasn’t so much a door as a portal made of dead souls.)

Everyone turned to the voice. A gasp rose up from Chertoff and Gonzales.

“Negroponte!” they murmured.

It was indeed, him. Standing there with three slathering Dobermans on a leash. He wore a military cap covered in gold braid and colored ribbons. His chest was covered in a bright sash dotted with gleaming medals. In his other hand was a riding crop spiked with sharp studs.

Gonzales spoke. “I thought you were—“

Negroponte interrupted Gonzales with a resounding slap across the face with the crop. “You’re a pup. I’ve been in this business for years. Now, you—“ he motioned to Chertoff—“strip that cord from the table lamp. Leave the plug on the end. Now, follow me into this dressing room. It’s time we got the truth out of those two about their real reasons for this concert tour.”

Gonzales reeled back, choking and gagging from the impact.

“But, Sanctiblogger—“ Chertoff began, only to be cut off with another slap of the spiked crop, so hard he fell into Sanctiblogger’s lap, dribbling blood from his mouth.

“Now, punks!” Negroponte snarled.

The roadies tried to block the trio from entering the dressing room, but were quickly dispatched by blows to the head and the attack dogs.

Inside, Sanctiblogger saw, Jesus and Mohammed were tuning their guitars. With them was a man dressed in a white sequined suit, long sideburns and a pompadour, speaking in a slow drawl.

“Now y’all boys gotta remember that back at Graceland I… hey!” The man shouted as the sinister trio and the frothing, snarling dogs rushed in on them.

"That's who I heard in there," Sanctiblogger thought, took out the monadic insurance policy and studied it carefully as he prepared to slip out of the dressing room. Someone had to tell the authorities that Elvis, Jesus and Mohammed were about to get the “treatment.”

And he’d have made it, too, if he hadn’t slipped in a pile of bloody chunks that Gonzales had apparently puked up after being hit with the riding crop.

“Oh, hello, boys,” he said, bending over. “Whatever has become of you now?”

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