Saint Peter was just hanging out, leaning up against the Pearly Gates chi-chatting with Satan about events in the middle east down on Earth, one of the provincial neutral grounds where mystical creatures go to vacation. "Say, Red Eyes, have you been down to the beach lately?"

The Horn-laden Red Dude responded, "Which beach?" He was playing dumb, but that came as no surprise, after all he was the Devil and he could hardly carry on a conversation without shading the truth here and there, lie, in other words.

Pete said, "The middle-east, you Dingleberry!"

"It's kind of hot down there."

"After all of the effort we went through to make you this great big beach with all that sand, you think it's too hot?" Pete was exasperated.

Horn-man shrugged, "You went and put that slippery black stuff there then the word is you talked to one of the fellows there and told him to start shooting across the sand." He nods knowingly. "I have good intelligence in that beach area.." He nods some more.

"Intelligence," Pete said, smirking as the word rolled off his tongue, "When was the last time you had an extended thought, huh? About the time you ran those Christians in circles at the forum in Rome, right?"

The forked-tongue Red Fellow said, "Speaking of intelligence, look who you have running that ping-pong ball match on the beach down there."

Pete frowned, Rumsfeld was gone, he had seen to that because Rummy wouldn't sit down or kneel and nobody prays standing up - no prayer, no job. It wasn't Cheney, not after trying to knock off a lawyer, one of the Mystical Being's main ways of mixing things up.

Devil-Dude broke into his thoughts, "I told you we have good intelligence down there but you didn't listen. You just had to make a cutesy remark feeding the tigers, those poor cuddly animals with claws and all."

Pete was frowning, "Who do you mean?"

Horny-Devil folded his arms and pretended to look away. "I'm not telling!"

Pete stamped one foot, "Aw, come on, tell me."

Quickly, almost in a flash, Forked Tongue spit out the name, "George W. Bush." He whipped his tail once, "So, there!"

Just then, a thundering voice from the swirling white mist rumbled towards the pearly gates, who mentions the name of George W. Bush?" Devil-Dude vanished in a flash leaving only St. Pete to respond. "Hey, wasn't me?" He shrugged.

"Get in here," the voice rumbled.

"I'll lock things up for now," Pete said.

"Better not do that, when word gets down there those TV Evangelists go crazy for bucks and broads, and activity in airport men's rooms picks up. Leave it open. Put a clerical person there until you get back, Monica will do."

Pete does his duty and then goes inside. Just where inside is, he does not know -- all that fog and all. He just walks until something happens. It's usually the voice that commands him to stop but he is left wondering if heaven is flat or round, and if the Mystical Being Who has Never Been Seen had a sore throat from all that shouting and he couldn't shout, would he walk off the edge of heaven and fall - to where? A thought jumped up, they could use a few scientists up here. Need answers. Darwin is here but some of the Angels thumped on him, right-wing angels, the worst.

The Voice rumbled, "Who mentions the name George W. Shrub?"

"Bush," Pete corrects.

"Bush mentioned Shrub?"

"No, Bush is Shrub."

"What's this, an alias?"

"No, it's George Bush."

"Can't be, he's an old guy getting ready to come up here. We have a pretend airplane for him, one that he can keep crashing and escaping from."

"George W. Bush," Pete sighs.

"What happened to Shrub?"

"That's what you burnt up when you were talking with Moses."

"I burnt George W. Shrub, huh? Funny, I don't remember that."

"Satan said you talked with George W. Bush, told him to start shooting over some black stuff on the beach. He got it from down there on the beach, some Israelis' would be my guess," Pete explained.

"I don't talk much these days. Let me see now, I'll have a look in my rolodex."

Pete could hear the shuffling of heavenly paper. It sounded like any other paper actually. He waited, what else was there to do?
Voice rumbling, "What was it I was supposed to have said?"

"Start shooting over some black stuff on the beach," Pete repeated.

"Hmmmm, I don't seem to have that in the file."

"Anything you have sounds like that?"

"I told someone down there to "Oil the machinery of Government and start shooting for blacks who can teach.""

Pete is scratching his chin, "Do you think Cheney might have answered GWB's telephone when you called him?"