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Where Next? before/after The place is a Texan bunkhouse. There are, of course, bunks made of lavish gold, as well as a chrome wood burning stove. An expensively trimmed and maintained hound dog lays in the midst, lazily scratching himself. "Dang, dog, don't you do that." Bush the Junior kicks at the hound absentmindedly. Vladymir Putin sits up into veiw. He's watched the "man of the people" drive him in a pickup truck for a blantant display of down home-ness, he listened to Junior's wife drone on about nothing and less. He's ready to make a move. His steely blue russian eyes glint in the flickering light of the bunkhouse. He tosses two afghani heads into the pot. "I will give youa mullah, osama, and a head to be named later for half of land." Bush sagely considers the offer, thinking how good a trophy these would be on his wall. He brushes his hands absentmindedly, trying to get the familial blood off his hands. It never comes off. And in times of earnest, he rubs them together, like a hog in a rut, he cannot get enough as he divvies up the world with his partner. "Well, Vladimyr?" Bush the Junior exhales, rubbing his hands together exitedly, "Where next?"
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