Rumsfeld didn’t know where Chomps got his copy of Living History by Hillary Clinton, but there appeared to be a couple drops of blood on it. Chomps, being the world’s angriest dog, could have easily shred the book to pieces in seconds, but instead he destroyed it slowly and methodically, seemingly enjoying the careful destruction of each and every page. Every once in a while Chomps looked up from the book to view the sidewalk that raced by and getting angry at whatever he saw, be it a man, a squirrel, or a mailbox, but then he would turn his attention back to the demolition of the book and down a bit. It looked as if he was saving the cover with the picture of Hillary for last.
“Doctor says I need to get more exercise to help control my rage,” Rumsfeld told Chomps as he drove his Buick through the streets of D.C. “So I was thinking, ‘What better way to get some exercise than vigilante justice?'” Rumsfeld petted Chomps on the head. “You up for killing some street punks?”
Chomps barked in approval. His happy expression was short lived, though, because he soon saw a trashcan that completely enraged him. “Erg-row!”
“Save it for the street punks, Chomps,” Rumsfeld told him, “We can take our anger out on inanimate objects any day.” Rumsfeld stopped his car and pulled over to the curb and started looking around. “Now all we need are some criminals. Wouldn’t think they’d be hard to find in D.C.”
“Nice car, old man,” said one carjacker, pointing a Glock at Rumsfeld.
“Here we go,” Rumsfeld smiled.
Chomps immediately leapt over and snatched the gun in his mouth. He crushed it with his mighty jaw and then swallowed the pieces.
“Now you did it!” Rumsfeld said angrily, “Chomps can’t properly digest composites, so he’s probably going to vomit all over the carpet when we get home.” Rumsfeld’s hand shot out and lifted the man up by the neck. “Rarr!”

“For the third night in a row, the Rumsfeld Strangler has struck, killing multiple criminals during in the D.C. inner-city,” Anchorwoman Jane Eyrehead announced, “We sent reporter Jack Assman to see if Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld had any reaction to this killer who has been using his name. Rumsfeld gave the cryptic response, ‘I’m the one who killed those people, you fking dipsht.’ Assman was later found dead, apparently ripped apart by an extremely angry dog.”
“He will be missed,” Anchorman Ron Goodhair commented.
“Not really, Ron,” Jane replied, “He was a bit of jerk.”
“That’s true. Anyway, these killing of criminals are threatening to bring law and order to a city where it’s unwanted. To address this issue, D.C. Mayor Xander Crackhead has called a press conference which we now go to live.”
“Citizens of D.C.,” Mayor Crackhead announced, “This city has long been a safe haven for criminals, a place where they could mug and kill without worry of injury. We’ve kept law-abiding citizens from owning handguns, carrying cudgels, and limited them to the most innocuous pepper sprays. We’ve even banned Nuke the Moon t-shirts since they might intimidate criminals. We’ve had a near perfect utopia for criminals, but now this ‘Rumsfeld Strangler’ has upset that. Criminals are fearing to mug people, thus unable to bring home the money they need to feed their drug habits. Well, I assure you this mayor won’t stand idly by while people strangle our treasured street punks. From now on, shoelaces and piano wires are banned from D.C. Plus, all citizens are required to wear mittens so they will be unable to use their hands for the purposes of strangling.”
“This is Killer Charlie from the muggers union,” spoke up one man, “Will these new laws affect the criminal community in any way.”
“No,” Mayor Crackhead answered firmly, “As always, criminals are not expected to follow any of these laws; only law-abiding citizens are expected to disarm. If any criminal finds himself being defended against by an otherwise law-abiding citizen, that criminal should immediately report such an incident to the police. The District of Columbia will not tolerate people defending themselves. The police have been instructed to crack down on law-abiding citizens carrying anything that could be used as a weapon. If any criminal is stopped by police, though, he should immediately identify himself as a law-breaker so that police know he is supposed to have weaponry and to leave him alone.”
“Will there be any extra effort to catch the Rumsfeld Strangler before he delivers street justice again?” a reporter asked.
“Yes there will be,” Mayor Crackhead asserted. “I’ll have my consultant, Drug Dealer Eddie, explain our strategy.” The mayor looked around. “Where is Drug Dealer Eddie?”
“He’s dead!” exclaimed one of the mayor’s aides.
Everyone rushed over to the body of Drug Dealer Eddie who lay still on the ground. On him was a business card with the words, “Strangled by your friendly neighborhood Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld.”

“The criminal community is my main constituency!” Mayor Crackhead exclaimed, “If I can’t keep them safe from justice, they’ll find an even more incompetent crack junkie to elect as mayor.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself; not everyone can be Marion Barry,” T-bone, Mayor Crackhead’s right hand man, assured him.
“We need to find this ‘Rumsfeld Strangler’ and stop him! Muggings is one of the foundations of our city’s economy; we can’t have this vigilante justice destroying that.”
“Maybe we could set a trap?” T-bone suggested.
“Yes, a trap,” Mayor Crackhead said, savoring the thought, “We will leave out some bait he can’t resist, and then he will be ours. Muh ha ha ha ha!”

Rumsfeld banged the teenager’s head into the lamppost one last time. “So has having your head repeatedly slammed into a metal lamppost taught you not to jaywalk anymore?” Rumsfeld asked.
“Yes, sir,” the kid said before running off.
“Where are all the real criminals?” Rumsfeld complained to Chomps, “We didn’t scare them all off, did we?”
“Grr-rah!” Chomps growled as he attacked a nearby building, ripping a brick out of its side.
“That building making you angry, boy?” Rumsfeld asked, going towards the front door for a look. Inside he spied two hippies.
“Let’s smoke pot and protest the war!” suggested one.
“Yeah, that’s a great idea!” said the other.
“I’m going to go in and strangle those two hippies,” Rumsfeld told Chomps who was continuing to attack the foundation of the building, “You stay here since I’m the one supposed to be getting the exercise.”
Rumsfeld approached the two hippies who stood at the center of a large room, his hands readying for a strangling, but as soon as he reached them, they both turned and produced shotguns. Rumsfeld then found himself completely surrounded by hoodlums and thugs, all pointing their guns at him.
“Well, I should have known,” laughed Mayor Xander Crackhead, “The Rumsfeld Strangler was Donald Rumsfeld himself all along. What made you think you could dispense justice in my city?”
“I have a doctor’s note saying I need exercise,” Rumsfeld answered, holding up a piece of paper. It was shot from his hand.
“You going to strangle us all, old man,” laughed one of the thugs.
“Only the lucky ones,” Rumsfeld answered, the rage boiling inside.
“And don’t expect your dog to help you,” Mayor Crackhead said with faux sympathy, “I have of my men putting that beast our of its misery right now.”
There was the sound of gunshot and a pain filled yelp. Rumsfeld looked in the direction of the sound with intense worry.
“Does Rumsfeld miss his little friend?” Mayor Crackhead asked in a mocking tone.
“No,” Rumsfeld answered. Suddenly the brick wall was knocked down, and there stood Chomps, a severed arm in his mouth which still clutched a Beretta. “It’s just nothing pisses Chomps off like getting shot in the head with a 9mm.”
“Stop them!” Mayor Xander yelled as he fled up some stairs.
Chomps immediately jumped at the nearest criminal and disappeared into a crimson mist. Rumsfeld used the distraction to spin around as he drew his twin .45’s, shooting a number of punks as he ran for the stairs.
“I’ll chase after Mayor Crackhead while you finish everyone off here,” Rumsfeld called to Chomps as he headed up the stairs. He soon made it to the roof where two thugs waited for him. He rolled from their shots and then returned fire, the .45 slugs knocking them both backwards off the building. Rumsfeld then glanced upward to see Mayor Crackhead escaping in a helicopter.
“We’ll meet again, Rumsfeld Strangler,” Mayor Crackhead called out.
“You can bet on it,” Rumsfeld swore as he reloaded his pistols.
Up behind him came Chomps, covered in blood. He started making some hacking noises as if he was choking on something.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Rumsfeld asked as he patted Chomps on the back.
Chomps coughed up a boot.
“That’s my dog,” Rumsfeld laughed as he petted Chomps on the head.
Chomps panted happily, but then he soon saw a star in the sky that made him angry for some reason, so he tried to jump up and bite it. Rumsfeld wasn’t sure which star it was that enraged Chomps so, but he vowed that one day future generations would destroy it.

“A dozen criminals were found dead in an abandoned building this morning,” anchorwoman Jane Eyrehead announced, “Apparently killed by the Rumsfeld Strangler. He left new signatures this time, including bloody paw prints and large bites in the walls.”
“That’s right,” anchorman Don Goodhair added, “And now police have updated the profile of the Rumsfeld Strangler to a Latino woman with the ability to turn into a werewolf.”
“A scary thought,” Jane said, “Anyway, stay tuned after the break for when are joined by famous internet personality Glenn Reynolds who will teach us how to turn a cute little puppy into a nutrtious energy drink…”