hief Inspector George W. Bush had the suspects lined up against the far wall in the living room. The murders had begun last night, when all the guests had checked in to the stately mansion. Now there were at least two murders that had taken place, and everyone had the sneaking suspicion that there were more to come.

Not the first murder, but the first death came when Robert “Bob” Graham, a dock worker from Florida, slipped on some ice outside the front door and hit his head. He died shortly thereafter from blunt trauma. Graham never got inside the house, so it couldn’t have been a murder.

“Or could it?” thought Bush.

The next to die was Carol Moseley Braun, a motivational speaker from Illinois. We were all sad to see her go, but word around the campfire was that the fact she turned up dead (a knife in her back, her body slumped on the matriarch side of the dinner table and a note scrawled where she sat in her handwriting, claiming she left all her worldly possessions to one Howard Dean) was hardly surprising.

The next to go was Dick Gephardt, a union leader from Missouri. Gephardt went the way of Jimmy Hoffa. No body, no final message. Just a poof and a vanish.

Which brings us back to now. Chief Inspector Bush, with his sidekick, Lt. Inspector Richard Cheney, standing there with a gin and tonic in his left hand and outstretched index finger on the other. He hadn’t had a drink for years, and the smooth taste of the spirit seemed to sanctify his mood. It was time to grill the suspects.

He went first to John Edwards. “Where were you last night, Bubba?”

“Why, ah do declare, all of this excitement has put a numbah on mah constitution. Ah do hope everyone makes it through tha naight in one piece!” Edwards said as he fanned himself with lace.

Next up, Joe Lieberman. Lieberman didn’t look so great. He was sweating and his eyes shifted every which way all over the room. “I really c-c-couldn’t say…but I, I just have this feeling…this strange feeling…I think I’ll be next!”

Al Sharpton: “I don’t know much, but word on the street is that the Lord works in mysterious ways. So you’d best watch your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”
Dennis Kucinich: “I’m only thwee-and-a-half years old.

Huuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhu.”

Bush rolled his eyes. What a bunch of jokers. “I certainly have my work cut out for me,” he thought sarcastically.

Bush then walked to John Kerry. Bush was certainly nervous about him, as he was a Vietnam vet, while Bush ducked the draft. No doubt Kerry was pilotin’ Black Ops missions in the jungles of North Vietnam while Bush was suckin’ on his mama’s tit at Woodstock while AWOL in the National Guard. This guy was going to be trouble. Kerry seemed to be in mid-conversation and Bush struggled to keep up. “We shouldn’t Vietnam be opening firehouses in Baghdad and closing Vietnam them in Brooklyn. Our first defenders Vietnam should never come in last in the budget Vietnam. FireVietnamfighters are first up the stairs, and I believe they deserve to be first Vietnam in line when we decide our spending priorities. I was in Vietnam.”

“Whatever,” Bush thought. Boy, there were a lot of these suspects. Bush’s head was starting to hurt. Bush then turned to Wesley Clark, who apparently also had something to do with the military.

“Well, I just think…” Clark began, but he was interrupted by Howard Dean. With his face beat red, the “doctor” from Vermont lifted up his coat, revealing 29 sticks of dynamite duct-taped to a Mickey Mouse alarm clock. “GAAAAHHHHH!!!!! I can’t take this anymore! The pressure!!! It’s too much!!! If I’m going down, you’re all going with me! Yeaaahhhhh!!!!” And with that, he exploded.

The mansion was nothing more than stately rubble now. Coughing and shaking the dust from their suits, Bush and Cheney surveyed the damage done.

“What happened?” Bush said “Everything is gone! It looks like some kind of weapon massively destroyed this pl—…No! The dastard!” Bush then dropped to his knees and shook his fists to the sky. “Damn you, Saddam! DAMN YOOOOOUUUU!”

“Forget it, George,” said Cheney. “It’s Chinatown.”
jordan@red-mag.com