Part I
Part II

“Can I have my shoes back?” Scott asked.
“No,” Bush answered curtly, “All my staff is supposed to be able to walk barefoot through hell for me.”
“Dammit,” Scott mumbled, “Well, who’s going to be doing my job while we go down into hell?”
“I got a good replacement.”

“And who are you?” a reporter asked.
“This fancy dressed man gave me a dollar to sit up here and not give a straight answer to any questions,” said the transient, “I mean… uh… Let’s keep focused on the issues here.”

“And shouldn’t you be doing stuff about Iraq right now instead of traipsing into hell?” Scott questioned desperately.
“That’s in good hands.”

“Mmm… breakfast!” Buck the Marine shouted as he sat down.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Buck’s commanding officer.
“Eating breakfast, sir,” Buck answered, standing to attention.
“How many terrorists did you kill this morning?”
“Eight, sir.”
Buck’s commanding officer turned to an Army grunt. “Army grunt, how many terrorists did you kill yesterday.”
“Thirteen.”
He looked back to Buck. “I’ve been telling everybody that we Marines kill more terrorists before breakfast than the Army kills all day, and you’re telling me you’re going to sit down and eat when only eight are dead?”
“No, sir!” Buck shouted as he grabbed his rifles and ran off. “Man, those gravy covered tater-tots looked good,” he grumbled to himself.

“Ah, here we are,” Bush said as they came to the gates of hell. At the front was a sign. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Bush read aloud, “Well, they don’t say anything about firearms.” Bush patted the peacemaker at his side.
Bush marched into hell with Scott slowly following behind. Soon a man approached him. “Who is it?” Scott cried in fear.
“It’s just Virgil who wrote the Aeneid,” Bush answered.
“Don’t remind me of that,” Virgil said, “I told my servant to burn that thing if I didn’t return from my trip to finish it, and he disobeyed me. Now, thousands of years later, people are gawking at my poor plot pacing.”
“I’m sorry, Virgil,” Bush told him.
“Nothing to do about it now,” he sighed, “Anyway, in the first circle of hell…”
“We’re not here for the tour,” Bush interrupted, “I need to go talk to Satan.”
“You sure you don’t want to look around first?” Virgil asked, “You should see what we’re doing to Mohammad Atta. Oh…” He started laughing. “And then there is Uday and Qusay…”
“Maybe we’ll check it out if we have time later,” Bush told him, “Now… to Satan!”

“I want a signed contract before I agree to anything,” Condi said firmly.
“You see,” Satan explained, “Things are in flux right now and…”
“Condi, what are you doing here?” Bush shouted as he entered Satan’s office, “Are you making deals with the devil?”
“No,” Condi assured him and walked over to join him and Scott.
“What are you doing here?” Satan demanded.
“I want you to leave this presidential race,” Bush said, “I’ll even gamble my soul to get you out.”
Satan walked over to Bee. “What do you think?”
“A president’s soul would be good to have,” Bee said, “but there’s no guarantee he’ll win reelection. Then again, we’re having trouble getting traction in the polls.”
“I’m going for it,” Satan announced. He looked to president. “It’s a deal. We’ll have a competition. If you win, you’ll get a press release announcing I’m withdrawing from the race. If you lose… I get your soul!”
“All right then,” Bush said as he stood firmly, “So now do we have a fiddle competition?”
“No, that’s asinine,” Satan answered.
Bush sighed in relief. “Good. I don’t know how to play a fiddle.”
“How about a game of chess,” Satan suggested.
“I never understood that game. All the pieces move in funny directions and what not.”
“How about checkers?”
“That’s boring.”
“Backgammon?”
“Don’t understand that one either. How about Candyland?”
Satan grimaced. “I want a game of skill.”
“Poker, then.”
“I’m… getting over a gambling problem,” Satan said, “How about who can drink the other under the table?”
“No alcohol for me,” Bush answered, “How about an old fashioned shoot out?”
“I get squeamish around guns,” Satan replied.
“Uh… sumo wrestling.”
Satan rolled his eyes. “Like anyone is going to vote for either us after they see us in diapers.”
Bush narrowed his eyes. “I guess that leaves only one thing.”
Satan backed away. “It does indeed.”
“Leaves what?” Condi asked as Bush took off his suit jacket and gunbelt. A rotating ball of many small mirrors descended from the ceiling, and lights shined upon it, causing spectral images to dance upon the walls and floor.
“What’s happening?” Scott cried.
Bush took a deep breath in preparation. “A disco dance competition.”
The devil put on his dancing shoes
He was looking for Bush’s soul to steal
He was in a bind ’cause in the polls he was behind
And he was willing to make a deal.
When he came across this president
Ready for dancing and looking hot
And the devil jumped up on his mahogany desk
And said, “Boy, let me tell you what.
I guess you didn’t know it,
But I’m a disco dancer too,
And if you’d care to take a dare
I’ll make a bet with you.
Now you may fight a good war or two,
But give the devil his due;
I bet the office you hold against your soul
‘Cause I think I’m better than you.”
The president said “My name’s Dubya,
And I may be dumb as spit,
But I’ll take your bet, your gonna regret
‘Cause at dancing I’m fairly adequate.”
Dubya, ready up your courage,” Condi said,
“And prepare to disco hard,
‘Cause hell’s broke loose in the U.S.,
And the devil hasn’t even tried the race card.”
“And if you win,” Scott added,
“The devil won’t go after the office that you hold,
But if you lose, the devil gets your soul!”
“I understand that, dingus,” Bush grumbled.
The devil gave a mighty grin,
And he said “You in trouble, jack,”
And fire consumed the clothes he wore
Leaving him in a leisure suit of midnight black.
And the devil began to show his skills,
And quickly moved his feet.
The room turned into a disco inferno
As he danced in precision to an evil Bee Gees beat.
When the devil finished, Dubya said,
“Well you’re pretty good, old son,
But sit down in that chair right there
And let me show you how it’s done!”
“Chicken in the bread pan picking at dough!
Child can you do…”
“Quit babbling, Scott,” Bush yelled angrily.
Dubya began to dance
And slowly picked up the pace.
Soon he was in a total trance,
And all his moves shined with God’s grace.
All who saw him were awestruck,
And Dubya kept dancing right through hell’s flame.
Even the demons who watched were in amazement
For, in the end, Dubya put John Travolta to shame.
The devil bowed his head
Because he knew that he’d been beat,
And he laid that press release
On the marble flooring at Dubya’s feet.
Dubya said “Devil just come on back
If you ever want to try again.
I done told you once, you son of bitch,
Don’t mess with Texas!”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Condi said.
“Whatever,” Bush answered, “Now let’s go egg John Kerry’s house in celebration.”
“Which one?” Scott asked, “He has like twenty… or his wife does.”
“Whichever one is closest,” Bush said as they left hell.
“Damn him!” Satan screamed, “Damn him to here! He may have won this time, but in the end I shall triumph! All will…”
“Put a sock in it,” Bee said as she lit up a cigarette.
“There’s no smoking in here.”
“Nazi,” Bee grumbled as she walked out of the room.

“Bush is egging your house in Cape Cod, sir,” Kerry’s butler informed him.
“How can he do this to me!” Kerry shouted angrily as he shot to his feet, “I’ll show that stupid Texan! He may have gotten Satan out of the race, but he still has me to contend with and…” He then shrieked into the air, “I SERVED IN VIETNAM!”
“Anyway, it’s time for your manicure, sir.”
“Thanks, Jeeves.”

“So, this plan didn’t work,” Satan sighed as he took corn off the stalk and put in a basket, “There’s still plenty of evil for me to do in this world behind the scenes.”
“That’s how we’ve always done it before,” Bee answered, “It’s what we’re best at. Hmm… these tomatoes look ripe.”
“So do these cucumbers,” Satan said as he took more produce, “As I was saying, we’ll get those miserable humans yet. They will all bow down before my evil in the end. Muh ha ha ha!”
“You demons get away from my crops!” Rumsfeld shouted as he charged with pitchfork in hand, Chomps barking and leading the way.
“It’s old man Rumsfeld!” Bee screamed.
“Cheese it!” Satan yelled and ran off with his stolen vegetables.
Rumsfeld soon gave up his pursuit. “The man who sold me those pesticides told me they’d keep devils away,” he said to Chomps as he dropped his pitchfork, “Let’s go burn his house down.”
THE END