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Queen Jon and The Poker Game before/after Meanwhile, back in washington, Jon Ashcroft is confused. This is capital crime. Putting on a crown, and a sash adorned with human hearts, he is vaguely reminiscent of Lewis Carroll's infamous Queen of Hearts. "Immigrant! Off with his head!" He lost an election to a dead man. He is bitter and pissed off, unloved and unloveable. America is now the United States of No Fun. Being an pentecostal, he likes the snake juice, back in the pre-queen days of the unbeliever, he used to mainline snake venome outside the rattlesnake tossing tent at the local revival. He is the meanest of the mean. The meanest of the mean steadies his hand as he delicately slathers on some blood red lipstick. In the background, seen through the reflection of the mirror, a nineteen year old asian dominatrix in a black corset bounces up and down on a bed impatiently, twitching her cat-o-nine-tails whip and snapping it on her arm. Ashcroft smiles. It won't be long now. His cell phone rings. Its Bush the Junior, calling from his high stakes poker game at the ranch in Crawford. In the background comes the sound of slapping, and men screaming like women. "Jonny boy, I can't find those things I promised, and Tommy couldn't find those scalps like ah needed to stay in the game. Get your pathetic bible spanking sideshow ass out on the road and sell that Patriot Act. " Jon Ashcroft sagged, deflated. He looked once again like an old man. "Yes boss." he said.
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