The Idyossey
Chapter 8: Aristea


The Bushiad
Chapter 1- The Rage of George
Chapter 2- Rattling of Sabres
Chapter 3- Entreaties Rejected
Chapter 4- Osama Speaks
Chapter 5- The Underworld
Chapter 6- Fatherly Advice
Chapter 7- The Gods of War
Chapter 8- Juggernaut
Chapter 9- The Prisoners
Chapter 10- Interrogation
Chapter 11- George Dreams
Chapter 12- In the Clouds
Chapter 13- D
Chapter 14- Secret Agent
Chapter 15- The Tyrant Flees
Chapter 16- Out of Order
Chapter 17- George Descends
Chapter 18- Master Kim
Chapter 19- Uncurious George
Chapter 20- Asana
Chapter 21- Doing the Patriot Act
Chapter 22- Immaculate Reception
Chapter 23- The Little Prince
Chapter 24- Mission Accomplished

The Idyossey
Chapter 1- Ichor of the Gods
Chapter 2- The Price of Peace
Chapter 3- Empyre
Chapter 4- Woeful Warrior
Chapter 5- Mitzvah
Chapter 6- News Analysis
Chapter 7- Strategic Planner
Chapter 8- Aristea
Chapter 9- Last Supper
Chapter 10- Skullduggery
Chapter 11: Family Reunion
Chapter 12- Black Goddess
Chapter 13- Saboteur
Chapter 14- Glossolalia
Chapter 15- Visitation
Chapter 16- Dead or Alive
Chapter 17- Across the Border
Chapter 18- The Unraveling
Chapter 19- Summer in the City
Chapter 20- Wolf and Jackal
Chapter 21- George Gloats
Chapter 22- Surreality
Chapter 23- Kidnapped
Chapter 24- Denouement

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May’s end brings George’s victory tour,
As Achilles, with dead Hector dragged behind,
Rode his battle chariot round the walls of Troy,
Triumph on display, thrusting his accomplishment
In King Priam’s face, so Resolute George
Circles Europe and the Middle East.

Though Hector’s not in tow, George is not alone,
Behind him lurks disappeared Saddam,
Vanquished from his throne, gone
But not forgotten. Resolute George
Means what he says, and spares no expense
To prove it to the world.

Though foreign travel’s not his style -
He’d rather be hanging out at home -
His triumph must be placed on display.
As with flattop carrier landings in Top Gun gear,
Or Mt. Rushmore photo ops,
Karl Rove crafts the multi-country tour.

First stop’s Poland, poster child of New Europe,
Held in the yoke of tyranny for decades,
The oppression disappeared with the Soviet collapse.
Poland struggles to rebuild, restructure, yet
Bounces between cozy Socialist comfort,
And the lure of capitalist cash.

Poland’s 200 troops are well invested,
And gain the favor of Prince George and his court.
As they taxi down the runway, George turns to Proud Powell.
“I guess this is not the place to tell a Polish joke,”
Mocks Simple George, his mood elevated, high.
Colin laughs, of course.

“I’ve always wondered something,” George asks,
“Do your people tell Polish jokes?” “Which people Sir?
Army or State Department?” “I mean the Black people Colin.
You do know you’re Black?” George laughs now,
Proud Powell keeps his cool. “Honestly, Mr. President,
I really don’t know.” But George won’t let it go.

“I’ll be they do, I’ll bet you know some goods ones,”
George taunts Colin, “C’mon, tell me your best Polish joke.”
Colin feels his face get hot, pulse increases.
Proud Powell gathers his senses, prepares
To speak his mind, finally tell George off.
His mouth opens.

“Never mind, Mr. Secretary of State.”
George is a practiced master of timing,
He’s pushed Powell right to the limit,
Sensed the perfect moment to back off.
Once again George feels in control, enjoys
Subjecting others to his will.

Prince George descending first as they deplane,
Proud Powell follows, with less pomp and ceremony.
Later, at a reception with dignitaries,
With his arm around the shoulders of a fat Pole,
George catches Proud Powell’s eye and winks,
Colin nods and George, grinning, winks again.

The next stop brings a trip to Auschwitz,
Now ruins, but ruins preserved to bear witness.
Accompanied by Sweet Laura, bearing one rose,
Simple George is overcome with emotion,
His discomfort in the crematorium is painfully apparent.
He hurriedly departs, and Laura sets the rose on rusted tracks.

“Evil has a face and name and so does its victims.”
Simple George speaks from the heart, no fumbles,
Here in this horrid place, with ghosts of murdered millions,
He has been touched for real, cocksure nature shaken.
But the media, manipulated too often, ignore the moment,
The authentic viewed as just another photo op.

On to Russia, Where Vlad awaits Prince George.
KGB graduate, expert at martial arts,
Vlad could snap George’s neck like a twig.
The two men meet in private, communicate fine;
Vlad speaks English, of course,
Prince George some himself,

“Vlad,” George grins, “It’s good to see ya.”
Grasps Putin’s hand in his, strong from squeezing tennis balls,
But Vlad is stronger, he bears down hard.
George knows he can’t win this war of grips,
Takes his other hand and puts it on Putin’s shoulder,
Pulls him close and hugs him.

Ear to ear, George whispers, “You old faggot.”
They pull apart, look each other in the eye, then laugh.
A joke they shared in Crawford
Now only needs the punch-line for effect.
Manhood reinforced, bonded by testosterone,
They walk side by side in the St. Petersburg spring.

In a simple ceremony, they sign a treaty,
Agree to reduce nuclear arsenals,
The number of warheads on each side;
But not destroy nuclear materials or weapons,
In case they need to rearm in the future.
Investments well protected, they shake.

“I need to talk to you about Chechnya,” says Vlad.
“I think Al Qaeda is among the rebels there.
I want some help to root them out once and for all.”
“Sounds good to me, what do you need?” asks George.
“Why don’t I have my people make a meeting with your people,”
Replies Vlad. “Let’s set it up,” says George, smiling.

Next stop: France, and the G-8 Summit.
He boards the plane, plops down next to Powell.
Colin has plans for France, he’s still angry.
That French fop Villepin, the Foreign Minister
Made the U.N. resolution a flop, he thinks,
France should pay a price for such behavior.

“Well, Colin, two down, four to go,” exclaims George,
Keeping count of stops on his victory tour.
“Yes sir, but this one will be fun,” he turns and smiles,
“Chirac will be the pompous aristocrat,
He’ll try to play you like a Texas rube.
Let’s make him look bad.”

“Now that’s my kind of Secretary of State!” says George,
“What do you have in mind?” Powell’s his playmate now,
Co-conspirator, prankster, fraternity chum.
“He has false teeth?” says Colin.
“I did not know that, and…?” replies The Prince.
“He’s vain and self-conscious about it. I have a plan.”

In Évian-les-Bains, just across the Swiss border,
The G-8 nations meet and confer.
Like inhabitants of Swift’s floating island, Laputa,
Who employed air-filled bladders and
Struck each other on the head before talking,
So the economic leaders of the world converse.

During a break, George and Jacques,
In their minds masters of the world,
Jointly meet the press to prove that
They are big boys, can behave in public,
And act like seasoned statesmen
According to the rules of diplomacy.

Politely, they take questions from the press.
Chirac says he feels no “discomfort” with Prince George,
Though in reality he’s been constipated for two days,
Suffers gas pain while he sits, let’s loose foul silent wind.
George agrees, says he is pleased to meet.
As they shake hands goodbye, the plan kicks in.

Standing close, nose to nose in height,
Hands clasp, sticky with sweat. Chirac, in English
Says to George, “The alliance is still strong.”
“So it is Jacques,” he responds, staring at Chirac’s teeth.
Chirac, self-conscious, closes his mouth;
Vous avez merde entre les dents,” says George, quietly.

Jacques looks confused, but his translators have left.
“Pardon me, George, what did you say?” he asks.
“Excuse my French, Jacques, it’s never been good.”
“Is it something about my teeth?” Chirac asks.
“Not really about your false teeth, Jacques.
I said you have some shit stuck between your teeth.”

“Some food? Spinach from lunch perhaps?”
Chirac’s concerned, photographers are near.
He would be undignified with spinach between his teeth.
“Let me put it simply,” whispers George. “I am saying:
You eat shit, you pompous asshole, see ya' round.”
Waves to the press and swaggers away.

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The Bushiad and The Idyossey - Copyright 2004 by Victor Littlebear - All rights reserved