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"Fuck you, George, you halfwit. Keep up or get out of the game." He shrugs into a black silk kimono, collapses onto the sofa, trims and lights a cigar, then horks up a dog-choking rail of columbian from the ben shenkman oak coffee table. He is enjoying the look of abject, mortal terror spreading across the drug-blurred face of the spreadeagled girl over whom George is ben shenkman still crouched and into whom he's still persistently and clumsily trying to push his limp presidential weiner, as the puddle of blood spreads closer to her chin. "Shit, Dick. Now I'm all dis...distracted. This ain't no fun no more!" George's absurdly tiny member has shrivelled completely by now. "Mah gun's not workin'. Help me out here, son!" He pinches his nipples and looks up at Cheney, imploringly, beady eyes a-quiver. Cheney sighs, steps over the dead boy and begins, after a couple of pumps of his pudgy hips, to piss copiously over both the President and the semi-conscious girl.
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