(A reporter and her cameraman are on stage, the Chorus is off to the side talking amongst themselves. The Second Messenger is standing with the reporter, being interviewed.)
REPORTER: I am standing here with breaking news for you, I have an eye witness to the President�s trip into the mountains, and he�s here to tell us just what happened. Sir, will you please begin. (Chorus has begun to look interested in what�s going on.)
SECOND MESSENGER: Oh, this is a sad day. We thought America was blessed, but now I grieve for it.
CHORUS: (Runs over to ask him) What is it? What�s the news?
SECOND MESSENGER: President George W. Bush is dead.
CHORUS: Her plan worked!
SECOND MESSENGER: What are you saying? How can you women be happy after such a disaster? Our president is dead!
CHORUS: We�re practically foreigners in this land for the respect and attention we get. Our good news is your bad.
REPORTER: (Glaring at the women who interrupted her exclusive interview) Please continue sir, and tell us what happened.
SECOND MESSENGER: I accompanied Mr. Bush and the haughty woman on their hike up to the mountain. We walked quietly without talking so that we would not alert the strange women. We spotted them, down in a ravine, near a stream and some shade trees. They were singing and relaxing, and just lazing about. Mr. Bush could not see them all though, and he suggested climbing a tree to see better. The stranger, though she was thin, hoisted the President high into the upper branches from her own strength, it was unbelievable. As soon as he got up there though, I heard the stranger shout down to the women �Come and get him girls! Up in this tree� Those deluded women, when they heard these words their eyes lit up with fires and they saw his masculine features and his robes and they thought he was an Arab. He certainly wasn�t pretty enough to be a woman, and not in his outfit. They pictured him as a terrorist and a threat to their country. They froze in their tracks, staring up toward his tree and then suddenly they all ran forward in dizzying numbers toward the tree. They threw stones and branches like javelins into the tree to knock out our president, seen as a terrorist. He was too high for their throws, and I thought this might save him. It didn�t though, I watched the women gather around the base of the tree and with one mighty heave the women pulled it from the ground. George W. came tumbling down and he knew he was really done for. His mother was the first to swoop in. He pulled off his wig in hopes that she would be able to see him, and said �Mother! It�s me, W! Don�t you recognize me? Pity me, mom. I�m sorry I persecuted you, forgive me and don�t kill me for it.� Her face was twisted and her eyes gleamed, her ears were deaf to his cries, she perceived the words only as Arabic and could not understand him. She reached out and grabbed his arm; she must�ve been aided by some powerful drug because it seemed to take no effort when she ripped his arm from its body. The rest of the women descended on him, tearing off parts, none of them could see the truth, none of them knew. W screamed until he lost his breath. He was in pieces across the ground. That stranger, she stood by watching, and smoking calmly. When she saw that I was staring at her she smiled and said �Sometimes that�s the way it goes in corporate America.� I was appalled and looked away from her, but when I looked back to Barbara Bush I could scarcely keep from averting my eyes again. She was holding her son�s head in her hands. She mounted it on her hiking stick gleefully. �Thank you Virginia! You brought us victory over terror! We defeated this monster of a man!� This poor woman is coming down the mountain now, carrying her prize, I�m leaving before she gets here and disaster comes home.
CHORUS: The oppressor is gone! (cheering) That sneaky, stubborn, unjust man has been dispatched by Virginia and by our women, strong and proud! (more cheering)
REPORTER: This is indeed a tragic day, and yet some find a way to celebrate this tragedy. We go now, live, to where Barbara Bush is returning home, carrying the remains of our president.