Cheney was in his bunker again, not on vacation, but deep down in a secret command center somewhere, replete with flowing lava visible through glass columns running throughout. Dear God man, can’t you see? Dick Cheney IS the Sith Lord. Rasping, laughing, and always doing eeeevil. A couple weeks ago then, hunkered down in his bunker, presiding over the destruction of New Orleans.

Bush at his ranch: “When’s Unka Dick gonna call me? I’m not sure what to do with myself . . . this lady outside has set me on edge. I want to take an M16 out there and show her to her son.”

Condi was stretching out on the floor, flexing her Gongorian muscles. “Did you take your pills, George?” Sweetly, now criss-crossing her legs in front of him, panties back by the door where she had taken them off.

“Uh, heh-heh,” says George, coming closer. “Tower Leeza, this is Hot Rod 422, coming in for a landing . . . “

Condi took a quick sip of her drink before setting the glass down on the coffee table next to her. She came away with a blood mustache. “Hot Rod 422, you are cleared for a landing.”

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” Georgie said, excitedly, moving toward her.

Back to the bunker: Cheney is in his hoverchair, flying around before his giant panel of screens.

“’New Orleans dodged a bullet’!” he exclaimed wildly, reading from the headlines. “How dare they!”

His assnt Dodge stood by with the loyal assist: “How dare they, indeed, sir.”

“Initiate Plan 2B: blow flood walls.”

Two frogmen get their orders and tumble down into the water. Snipers stand guard above to make sure nobody sees. Sure, enough, here comes the soft underwater explosion.

Cheney screams at his live cams showing several parts in the city where people can be seeing roaming about the streets: “BETTER PUT YOUR HIGHWATERS ON NIGRAHS! BECAUSE IT’S ABOUT TO GET FUCKING BIBLICAL IN THERE!”

Cheney turns away and mops his forehead with a pair of Trent Lott’s dirty skivvies. “Operation New Halliburton, Cajun-style has begun.”

Dodge bows. When he doesn’t know what to say and the King is facing him, he bows.

Meanwhile, thousands of people along the gulf coast hunker down in their homes and hope it won’t be so bad. They pray. They drink. They worry. They drown.

Some axe through the ceiling to the roof. They are rescued by Coast Guard and set down on a piece of broken highway, where men jump off to their death and old people and babies die. They wait.

Nobody comes.

For days.

In another part of the city, a man begins to wade into the worst of it. He's a Doctor, and he's looking for his dog.