[Newspoetry] ...and Dubya laughed.

[Mike Lehman]

It was a cold day in Texas. Dubya stared out the window of the
governor's mansion contemplating his succesful coup. He didn't
particularly care that it looked bad that he had captured the presidency
as the choice of less than one out of four Americans, let alone the
ridiculous idea that he wasn't president just because he didn't get the
most votes. Power was what this was all about, not fairness, right or
wrong, ethics or any of that lame liberal claptrap that he had to at
least give public lip service to during the campaign. Cheney and his
dad's old buddies from the CIA had simply made sure he would win, no
matter what the vote.

The aftermath was what he worried about. Would there be a public
backlash or even a revolution that he would have to have the military
put down? It seemed unlikely, with Gore's agreement to respect the
secret consensus that really ruled the country. Sure, there were all
those lower-level Democrats that bleated about majority rule, or even
more disingenously, democracy.

He spit on the floor and snorted another line. The very thought of that
word made his patrician stomach roil. They were all silly to think who
got the most votes really should decide anything. This was capitalism, a
meritocracy of greed, and the voice of anyone who didn't go with the
corporate program would be drowned out be the slick media that was in
his pocket.

He had one worry that sat in the back of his mind, like that little rock
of coke that was burning in the back of his nasal cavity right now. What
if those pesky Newspoets managed to bring their dangerous brand of
satire and disrespect for traditional values to the masses of ordinary
Americans? They were more dangerous with words than the average guerilla
was with an AK.

He knew there was a back-up plan to simply surround Urbana and burn it
down, after shutting off their server. It would be a massive sacrifice
of intellectual capital that might put the US behind the technological
eight-ball for years if he had to do it. He also knew that he wouldn't
even flinch from doing so, if need be, to save his presidency. He'd
killed plenty of folks in his time. What would another 30,000 or so
matter?

Just then, Powell burst through the door without knocking. Dubya made a
mess as he dumped the mirror in his center drawer so that his hired hand
wouldn't see him "relaxing."

"Great news, Junior! The NSA says that the Newspoets seem to be fighting
amonst themselves. We didn't even have to have the CIA drug and
brainwash any of them, like in that one contigency plan that didn't
sound very workable!"

Dubya gave out a little giggle, as the coke juice drained down his
throat from his nasal cavity. He thought to himself how dumb that plan
would have been. He knew that those damn Newspoets could hold their
drugs even better than he, not to mention their apparently strong
commitment to democracy with economic justice. That plan  never would
have worked.

"Good, rrrreal good..." he croaked out through his rapidly numbing lips.
This was just what he'd hoped for. The Newspoets were the only real
threat to his assumption of the throne, er, the presidency. He would get
to the imposition of a Bush dynasty, even including the 'little brown
one', soon enough, now that the real enemy was self-destructing in
internal dissent...