After the Inauguration (standard:humor, 2083 words)
Author: hvysmker	Added: Jan 27 2009	Views/Reads: 3153/2003	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Oscar Rat and his buddies, Georgie and Dickie, head for a bar.

Jeeze, I force one eye open, like prying the top off a beer bottle with
my teeth.  It don't wanna open.  That must have been some night, I 
think. 

Turning my muzzle to the right I see a human hand, clasped in a fist, a
shotgun shell between the fingers.  I recognize it as my pal, Dickie's. 
 Yeah, I remember, he was showing me and Georgie how to speedload his 
sawed-off office gun.  He took it with him when he left the White 
House. 

After the inauguration,  which I attended wrapped in a hanky in Dickie's
coat pocket as protection from the cold, the three of us took off for a 
cheap hotel. 

We planned on a monumental drunk.  Georgie told his Secret Service
guards some bullcrap about needing to check one of his desk drawers and 
we snuck out one of the secret entrances from the Oval Office.  It lead 
to Dickie's basement firing range, where the former head of vice picked 
up the sawed-off weapon.  Then, the two of them put scruffy overalls 
over their tuxedos and, carrying small tools, we grabbed a taxi and 
headed for town, where Dickie had his car hidden.  I don't know what 
they told their wives.  None of my business. 

My business was, though, helping them soak up booze.  And we certainly
did.  We took Dickie's car. It seems Georgie forgot how to drive one.  
He hadn't needed to do it since in his teens.  There were always 
flunkies around to do it for him. 

So, there we were, two unhappy humans and one rat, hitting the strip. 

"I haven't done this for a long time, Oscar.  Where's a good place?" 
Georgie asked, checking traffic behind us.  Those Secret Service guys 
can be sneaky.  Almost as sneaky as my companions. 

"I know plenty of places for rodents, but I stay away from human bars,
guys," I tell them from my seat on the dashboard, one front paw 
clasping the ventilation slot under the windshield.  "When I'm drunk, 
it's too easy to get squashed.  I know one that's large enough, if you 
like squirrel hookers." 

"Na.  We prefer human girls, preferably with big hooters," Georgie said
from the back seat.  He'd been in the front for awhile but, since he 
was playing at being a jet pilot, Dickie had sent him to the back where 
he could whoop and wave his arms around without causing an accident. 

We wandered around Washington for awhile.  Georgie was afraid of the
black residents, so he insisted Dickie drive on only the busiest, 
widest, and best-lit streets.  That made Dickie mad, cause he had his 
shotgun and, without those nosy SS guys around, could finally use it.  
The former VP was itching to find a crime in progress, figuring he 
could blow some crooks away.  "I need something, anything, to help my 
image," he told us, "like being a crime-fighting super-hero." 

"Most Republicans think you are," I reminded him, peering out at lighted
buildings along the street.  "Hey! Pull over.  I see something you 
might like." 

With a squeal of brakes, Dickie jerked across two lanes of traffic, to
stop alongside a fire-hydrant. 

"How's that, Oscar?  Not bad after eight years of being chauffeured
around." 

I heard "swooosh, beep, beep, rooooorrr," from the backseat as Georgie
brought his imaginary jet fighter in for a landing.   Lately, since 
even his staff has been ignoringor spitting at him, he spends a lot of 
time in LaaLaa land.  Since his authority has been waining lately, even 
Condi won't let him pet her on the butt anymore. 

I jumped into the comfort of Dickie's pocket as he grabbed his trusty
blunderbuss and the two left the car. 

"Shouldn't you pull up a bit, away from the hydrant," I yelled to my
host.  "You'll get a ticket." 



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