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Meanwhile, Back In Texas before/after It is George Walker Bush's texas ranch. Teams of security guards slouch about outside in the texas heat.� A tumbleweed lazily drifts by and smacks into black governmental SUV, setting off its car alarm.� The noise isn't noticed above the din inside the bunkhouse. George Walker Bush, wearing a purple suit with silver trim and a green laurel sits inside playing poker.� A red robe and gold laurel sit on a bunk nearby.� Arrayed around the green felt tipped table are several heads of state.� "Looks like you're down a few scalps, no?" Vladimyr Putin looks at Bush with the hint of a mocking smile in his ice blue eyes, blood seeping from his wrists, staining the table, "The pot looks a little low," The pot sits between the heads of state in a gruesome mixture of body parts, oil, gold, papers signed in blood, promisory notes and the odd territorial deed.� The stench is incredible. "Horseshit," Bush mutters to himself, "Tommy, c'mere."� Bush motions to one of the darkened corners of the bunkhouse, and General Tommy Franks shuffles up awkwadly, limping and with a hump, the zeal of bloodlust in his eye, fingers of all nationalities and sexes falling out of his pockets as he walks.� He leans into bush as fresh blood dribbles down his chin. "Tommy, I need scalps, and I need em' pretty badly.� Make no mistake, I want you to take care of this."� Bush says to his lackey. "Yeths boths," general tommy franks says, eyeing up bushes hand with his one good eye, his wandering eye staring up at the naked beams of the ceiling, distracting Putin as he follows it, allowing Bush to slip an ace into his hand.�� Franks limps out of the bunkhouse to the derisive laughter of the room. "Pootty, poot, putin,�what were you exactly saying?"� Bush stared at his russian counterpart. Jacques Cheriten coughs and vomits on his shoes, the stench had gotten to be overwhelming, matched only by his blind greed. "I raise the pot by five million repressed Iraqis souls, and 10,000 gassed Kurds!" he says maniacally.� He takes his belt off, ties up, and tried to mainline some sweet crude. "Shit, who gives a shit about that.� We want a shot of what yer' puttin' into yer' armmmm." Bush drawls, the blood on his hands staining the cards, making them slippery and hard to hold.� "What we need is a steady supply," The Saudi King Faud sits on a bunk nearby, blinging gold chains and a black silk turban, flips open a black breifcase with gold latches with a loud click, ready for business. "I'm tired of your fat Saudi ass, " Bush drawls, "I want my own supply," Jacques Cheirten lolls from his drugged slumber like a drunk being rolled, a woman being date raped on rohypnol, "Nuh-n-nuh-noooo," he trails off and is not heard, his jones is speaking for him again. "Goddamit, shut that lousy frog up.� Tryin' ta' think.� Tryin' to make a deal."� Bush says. He throws a few Chechen hearts, dripping with blood into the pot, and eyes Putin.�Putin arches an eyebrow as Bush chuckles and throws in a few Chechen skulls, the bones bleached white, the jaws missing. "Well, that's good George, yes,"� Putin says, eyeing the pot with a mix of avarice and lust, "But you will need those scalps to keep playing." "Ah, know," bush says, "Ah know, ah know.� Ah got time.� Ah got time."�
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