Freeper Dreams

King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.

As his trusted associates T-Von and Mook-Mook the Bushman pushed open the grand organic farm-grown cruelty-free redwood doors paid for by his 95% tax rate, he stepped into the antechamber of the gold-domed palace. Outside, ShariaVentalism reigned, but in here his word was law, and all his white teen sex slaves cowered before his glare more than even the hemp whips of their latte-drinking tweeded atheist masters.

He walked down the hallway toward his office and a prisoner in chains passed before him, lead by two turban-wearing Mexicans. He spotted the King and began shouting curses.

"You fucking fascist! I knew it! I knew it! I told them, but they wouldn't listen, that your health care platform was a slippery slope to all this! You won't get away with this! The will of the Free Market will not be denied!"
"Seelenceo een the prezence of the Keeng, preesoner!"

King Obama spotted a chance to improve his ill mood.

"Bring him here. Good. Give me his file." The king looked over the prisoner's dossier. A long list of crimes against the state, and a repeat offender.
"You'll never get away with this! Never!"
"Hush now, Mr. Jack. We have ways of dealing with unruly sorts such as yourself."
"Praise be to Allah, seenyor."
"Peh! I spit at your torture! The Free Market gives me strength!"
"Oh, no, not anything as gauche as that."

The King grabbed a syringe from the outstretched hand of one of his nearby breakdancing bodyguards, and plunged it into the man's helpless neck.

"Now you are immune to rubella."

Kyle's lingering, echoing screams of tormented horror brought a slight smile like a crack in Obama's stony brown face as he walked into his lavish velvet-lined office and shut the door behind him. He motioned for his bodyguards to leave the room, and he addressed the giant screens hanging over his desk.

"Screen one on. Connect to Emperor bin Laden of Eurabia. Screen two: Hugo Chavez of the U.S.S.A.R.. Screen three: The High Elder of Zion."

The three figures appeared live via satelite.

"Gentlemen," began Obama darkly, "it's time to have...a conversation."