She’d killed him. She’d killed Mitt. She’d stuck her blade between his ribs, counting down from the top to mark where his heart was. (In this story, Mitt Romney had a heart.) And now everyone was going fucking nuts. Twitchy was mouthing off to Big Bill. Chris Wallace was struggling to find the gonads to challenge Pegs for control of the gang. (Nobody cared what Brooksy said, he was a no-account loser who wasn’t really even in the gang. Sometimes they used him to messenger stuff, when there weren’t any grade school kids handy.) “She ain’t no big thing. She ain’t so tough.” Chris Wallace was screwing up his courage. The gang needed a new fucking leader, one who wasn’t constantly murdering them, like she’d done with Bushy, and Mac, and whoever it was who came before that. It seemed like she murdered everyone in some weird communion with Ronnie. Always Fucking Ronnie. It never stopped.
“Peggy Noonan has ratfucked George W. Bush, ratfucked Mitt Romney, wasn’t crazy about McCain. Her gangleader bona fides I’m not sure I take too seriously,” Chris Wallace told himself. “[Gangsters] like Peggy Noonan, sometimes they’re New York City’s idea of gangsters.”
Fuck. Chris Wallace wasn’t going to be able to go through with it. She was the meanest bitch this side of the narcos. He heard a noise behind him. Fuck, he hadn’t said that to himself? He’d said it to FUCKING POLITICO???
Like an alley cat, she was on him. All nails and hissing and biting at his face with razor teeth (like the kind in vaginas). Chris Wallace fell to the ground, struggling to keep her off him … and then he awoke. He knew better than to rumble with Peggy Noonan in waking life. He turned on the teevee to cheer himself up. He watched some idiots try to roast marshmallows with their fucking hands. It was a rerun from like three years before. He didn’t care. He had a good laugh, then went and got sushi, and didn’t pay.