The scene: An old man (white, a little stooped, looking dazed) gets up from his bed, unhooks his blood transfusion, and shuffles out the room (richly tapestried, geezers hundreds of years dead hanging on the walls, a moose head over the fireplace). The old man halts at the curving stairs, and looks up with a sudden gleam in his eyes. A faint flush of crimson creeps into his cheeks.

The old man coughs once, a raspy sound, then cries out:

"Here's Johnny! Come out here and take your medicine, you little shit."

Upstairs, in the bathroom, Joe the Plumber bumps his head on the washbasin and curses vehemently: motherfucker is what he says, and he goes on to say things much worse, all the while rubbing the little red holes all along his right arm.

Meanwhile, at the bottom of the stairs, John McCain is shaking a transparent bottle and laughs maniacally. Inside the bottle, bright blue capsules rattle against each other.

"Come to Johnny," he hollers, shakily, the echoes reverberating through the old house. Come to Johnny now and take your medicine."

Sitting on the toilet this time, shaking, Joe the Plumber weeps, and realizes with a shock he has wet his pants. A small yellow puddle is collecting itself around his bare feet.

McCain rattles the bottle again. "Come out, come out wherever you are" and then stops and turns around, a crooked smile highlighting the skin stretched tautly over his skull.

Sarah Palin rears onto her hind legs and lays her big paws on McCain's balding head, then proceeds to slobber the old man's face.

"What is it, Sarah?" McCain asks, frowning. "Is it -- no, is it -- no, not him again ..."

Sarah Palin shivers and puts her tail between her hind legs.

A few minutes later, the three are huddling close together in the cellar (Joe didn't like to choose instant death and so here he is). Cindy McCain stands near the door and strokes her shotgun. Only one security guy has made it down the cellar with them, but he's bleeding profusely through his Kevlar vest and lies there with his eyes staring at the single flickering lightbulb that's dangling from the wooden beams. Above, there's a terrible howling and racket going on.

Cindy stares hard at her husband, and says, "Why did you forget to fill up the helicopter? You blundering idiot. You no good for anything."

In response, John meekly raises the bottle Viagra, but Cindy gives him the finger.

There's a sudden scratching at the door, and then a muffled sound and Cindy slumping against the door, her bony hands still gripping the shotgun.

(Now it's up to your imagination to end the story yourself or, if you send 1 dollar to my bank account, you'll receive the riveting finale by private mail.)

And miss my favorite creative writing from the Dub-Squared?! Parish the thought, young squire...

You do realize that you're not in his target audience. I get the feeling most of the people on this forum either live with their parents, or don't have a job, or both, and would be doing much better with a handout from the Gov. Joe and myself on the other hand, who aspire to potentially one-day make more than 150,000 / year, don't want to be taxed into oblivion. I don't know about joe, but I'm pretty close myself. The government isn't here to be your mom and dad. Go make something of yourself instead of calling someone you never met a dumbass.