Karl Rove's leather slave is worried about his master. Down in the basement of the White House, chained across an empty keg of Ulysses Grant's favorite ale, Karl Rove's leather slave sees Rove in the corner, coked out of his mind on a special kind of blow from Uruguay cut with the powdered bones of Sunni children, and Rove's nose is bleeding as he weeps and thrashes about, unable to get a hard-on to save his life, searching for his shining steel strap-on, the one he calls "Steely Ann," tossing aside Chester Arthur's hand-crank mutton chop trimmer and Ike's collection of Philippine shrunken heads, raging at the beams about his seething need to show his leather slave he means business.
Karl Rove's leather slave would like to offer Rove some whispered words of sympathy and comfort, but it's hard to talk, you know, with a ball gag leather-strapped into your mouth. And, of course, with his hands cuffed to the cement floor, he can't even gesture over to John Tyler's cabinet, a gift from Texas slave-owners, ironically enough. But no, no, instead, he must just watch Rove destroy the basement of America's house.
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