You yawn, rub your eyes, and officially wake up.
@go WAR ROOM
El Presidente: Either, my bloody ghost, you are with *me* or you are with the evil-doers. I have a plan, a very stiff plan.
Saint-Ange to Eugenie: Mah! Such are men, my sweet, total fucking retards! A mere glance at us, and their desire is sated; in the deathly aftermath they turn to disgust, and to contempt. War is no more than a brightful sign of their genetic impoverishment. I have oft heard of such plans, such visions, and I always knew that they did not see far enough. That what was demanded in way of a plan needed to go beyond tongue and teeth, and hunger and flesh, beyond bones and the very dust of bones, and the winds that come to blow the dust of bones away.
Saint-Ange, directing her comment to El Presidente: And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night and a strangely shining light that owed nothing to the light of day.
El Presidente, a tad petulantly: This is a fight for freedom, and I will make it a fight for justice too, dammit. The starving, the wretched, the dispossessed, the ignorant, those living in want and squalor from the deserts of Northern Africa to the slums of Gaza, from Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan to Tora Bora -- they too are part of my very principled stand. I am the Lamb, the Lamb with a Plan. And I defend the freedom of people everywhere to live and fuck their children free from fear.
Eugenie sniggers and sits astride Group_officer_Carlyle, a well-endowed side of beef, lifting her skirts with a flourish so all can enjoy the god-given infinite justice of her assets. She grinds herself on the young Carlyle's primed cock like a true Patriot.
Eugenie, to El Presidente, now frigging herself furiously, only breaking the rhythm to shove her slimy fingers down the officer's throat: O bondage, up yours, General! Holy wanking God! Drop the festy beards and the tablecloths and those infidels make an insane fuckfest, as you yourself know from personal experience with those saucy Saudi snags. You would have me deny forever their uncut germ-free adolescents just so you and your heavy medal boys can fatten your pockets some more? Just get over it!
Unbearably inflamed by the savvy slut's insolence, and the smell of her reeking cunt which is now filling the room, El Presidente reaches into his crisp fast-track free trade dacks and pulls out his proudly swollen stinger. A deep groan emits from his voicebox emulator, and he starts to tug on the beast as if he were an elite recruit again. Instantly his chapel oozes some infected pus, which is licked up ravenously by one of his JAG-faced Aides.
El Presidente, to no-one in particular: My mind is like a plastic bag.
Saint-Ange, to the ringlety doe-eyed ragamuffin obediently sucking on her shaggy piss flaps: Ask me once again who I am bitch, so I have another chance to lie to you.
The pin-up poppet, not knowing how to respond, and anyway, she (conveniently, some would assert) never learnt international english at the detention centre, continues to suck Saint-Ange obsequiously. Saint-Ange, at some risk to her personal well-being given the close co-ordinates of teeth and cunt, viciously punches the little refo slag in the head a couple of times, sending her reeling into the corner to nurse a punctured eardrum.
Saint-Ange, to one of the generic Aides: Cretin! Instead of just standing there parading your limp meat, root me out a couple of those new stumpies. What they lack in limbs they must surely make up for in other ways.
The Aide tucks his humiliated manhood back into his pants and leaves the room.
Saint-Ange, returning her attention to Eugenie: Sweet lechery! Your thirst for able-bodied and well-oiled merchants of fuck is commendable, my little hell-cat, and I sense that your will know no bounds once it is properly stimulated by all possible means which we have at our disposal. However, our contrary Presidente is of the old school, and likes to pretend that there is a significant ideological difference between *us* and those smeggy arabs. To my mind, the only difference is material, to wit, in the shape and length of the rogues' cocks, which, I regret to inform you dear Presidente, are more well-formed and compliant in every sense than their Christian counterparts.
Eugenie, excited by Saint-Ange's words, slides her squelching puss from JAG-boy's rock, and comes to sit next to her mentor, skirt still hitched up vagrantly around her shapely waist.
El Presidente to the women: We will use every necessary weapon of war to prove you wrong, Madam! Those oily A-habs are inferior to us in every way, and God is on our side.
Eugenie: Whatever, Lambo!
Saint-Ange, to Eugenie, as she beckons one of the bearded Aides to her: Interesting he should mention oil. He betrays himself with every word.
El Presidente, beats his fat with a vengeance, causing grotesque shudders of delerium to rack his body like a sizzling roast, and intones: I am a cliché.
Saint-Ange, to one of the Aides: You incompetent fool! Can't you see El Presidente's prick needs greasing up. Or do you like having your exquisite arse broken in the first few seconds, rude ignorant moron? Get down on your knees now and suck some of the spunk from his stupendous 1,005-mile pipeline, a man like our formidable leader needs his load lightened every hour. Don't expect one battle, but a lengthy campaign unlike any other we have ever seen. Let's begin! Do your patriotic act, and God will be on *your* side and up your stinking arse also, cleansing you with sanctified torrents of mercy.
Saint-Ange, whispering to Eugenie: Voluptuous creature, how
you ignite my famished filth hole by your provocative prepubescent peepshow!
See my pretty whoreling how splendidly simple it is to unite and strengthen
our position as omnipotent cunts by providing appropriate tools required to
intercept and obstruct Papa Bear's weapon of mass destruction.
Eugenie fucks herself vigorously with one of the Aide's batons, murmuring her agreement with Saint-Ange's view, which is being illustrated eloquently in front of her young eyes. Intoxicated by the thought of being brutally fucked up the arse by all the pretty horses, a thousand suicide bombers with nothing to live for except the promise of paradise, she screams in joy.
Eugenie: Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck it! Flames of fucking ice in worm hives…There, tis done….I hold back no longer, I'm coming like a geyser….I'm slaughtered!
Eugenie collapses on the ground, the protuding headbanging pole gripped as if by a vice. Saint-Ange flips the girl over, spreads her glorious arse cheeks and pumps her mercilessly with her frat-boy dickstick. El Presidente, sodomised and sodomising, explodes in massive squirts of friendly fire, as the Aides begin to prepare the War Room for the Summit on Somalia.