In the Halls of The Ant Queen

The whimpering and the scurrying of little and not-so-little feet alerted me to the possibility of a problem, and I got there as soon as I could. Not wanting to round the corner too quickly, I unslung my weapon and peered around, trying to suss out the situation. It was dark in there, with flickering shadows cast by the torchlight in the drafty corridor, and I had trouble making out the shapes that cavorted before me. But the terrified cries of "liberal media" and "legally elected" and "Newsweek" and "Bill Clinton's cock" left behind in the aura of fear that permeated this place made clear the identities of the escaping victims.

And that made it a good bet that The Ant Queen was back on Her High Horse.

I'd done battle with the Ancient Insect before, of course; in fact, for quite a time, back in the day, I was her prisoner, held in her sway by the inexorable grip of the Death Star and its promises of a steady stream of meals and the prospect of becoming A Cool Executive, with the flashy car and the flash roll and the flashy dames of convenience held in an anteroom at my beck and call. But one day I dreamed I was free, and three days later, in a paroxysm of violence and terror that separated the head from the thorax from the abdomen from the legs from the feelers of many a dark worker, I made like Disneyworld and made my dreams come true. No need for details, but suffice it to say that escape was more important than the uncertain prospect of taking The Old Bitch down for good. I made good that escape, and lay in wait to this day, shepherding resources for a final assault on Her and Her Socialist Klatch of Feminazi Amazon uber-Warrioresses.

Seeing no proximate threat, I edged around the corner and into the hallway, Old Reliable raised to my shoulder, sighting down the hall, ready to deal hot death to anything standing in my way. It was a shame that Bill Frist walked out of that side passage so quickly, but my reflexes are razor-honed and it's always my policy to shoot first and filibuster later. I'm sure it got me a job on McCain's staff later on, if I'm in that market.

But for now, I was still in Her hallways, intent on rescuing the persecuted. A shadow loomed, ready to devour me, and I popped off a three round burst into the amazon bitch's eyeballs, screaming "Anne Coulter looks hot in a black minidress!" She toppled over, still twitching as her Stalinist life-slime oozed from her chunky body, but my warcry had alerted her cronies, who leaped out from every part of their AIDS-quilting circle, screaming threats of retributive distributive justice against me. I had no time for their leftist drivel, and quickly laid down a pair of claymores, spurting sizzling blobs of death into two crowds of them, mowing down Katherine Graham, Hilary Clinton, Jenna Jameson, and dozens of lesser footsoldiers of The Ant Queen, all of whom died secretly loving it.

It was time to advance, and I did, this time choosing "Hanging for All Activist Judges" as my cry, and then I saw them, peeking out from alcoves and crevices in the walls; my brethren, the innocent oppressed victims of these Communist Harlots, cowering in fear against their depredations, wanting only to pray in schools, kill the Jew bastards, and send wogs out into the fields, where they belonged, to pick the crops that make Our Country Strong. "Get thee behind me!" I cried, "Live to fight another day, Repressed Christian Masses, that ye may spread the word and prosper to defeat thine enemas!" They looked at me, momentarily confused by the prospect of escape, then sped out the passage behind me, freed of their burden of intelligent debate with these totalitarian slatterns. But the last one out froze, quivering in his tattered shoes, pointing down the hallway.

It was Her. The Ant Queen, Socialist Maximus Her Own Self. Her giant pincers waved, and her horrible voice boomed down the passage, the sonic tremors making it hard to concentrate on ensuring the safety of my blooded lambs. "Facts!" she squawked, "Interrogative statements based on logical precepts!" The last lamb scurried down the hall behind me, abandoning me to my fate.

I stared Her down, steel in my eyes and my Rifle in my hand. "You make me sick," I sneered. "Keeping my people in the gulag for so long, berating them with your liberal distortions, you feminazi hag."

She clicked her pincers at me, afraid to advance; She knows a Real Man when She sees one. And yet, I knew that my Rifle wasn't powerful enough to take her down, and I certainly didn't want to dirty my Gun. And I didn't have time to off her with namecalling. It was time to skedaddle to fight another day. I popped off a flash-bang, the powder exploding in her face with a great noise as I sped down the hall in a rearward advance, leaping from the opening to her lair just as Greer Garson grabbed at my ankles. I dropped another flash-bang behind me and wriggled free, done with another day's labors, my innocent lambs still unwashed in their own Jesus-loving blood by these infidel She-Devils.

We'll be back.