Hot, throbbing election special: Palin/O'Donnell, Kerry/Brown, and Stewart/Cooper/Maddow
WHEN SARAH MET CHRISTINE
Two decades before they became Tea Party spokesmodels, Sarah Palin and Christine O'Donnell had a chance encounter, at a 1991 Republican fundraiser, that would change both their lives forever.
The wink. It was the last thing Christine remembered seeing before blacking out.
And now she had woken up half-naked on a stone slab, encircled by a ring of burning candles. Her clothes were gone; only a leather loincloth and a steaming pile of — could it be? — bloody intestines covered her. What happened?
The memory came back to her in a fog. Before she'd passed out, Christine had been swanning around the Cheesecake Factory, at a cocktail reception following a College Republicans pro-life rally. Across the room, she'd spotted a bouffanted beauty clad in a petal-pink Versace power suit. Christine couldn't help dropping her gaze to the swell of the lady's bosom, to read the nametag pinned there: "Sarah P."
Their eyes had locked; the one called Sarah flashed a barracuda grin. Hypnotically drawn to her, Christine walked over. She stammered: "Your skin. It's so . . . perfect. What's your secret?"
The restaurant must have been awfully noisy, because it almost sounded like Sarah had replied, "Oh, golly, I just bathe in the blood of unbaptized infants. Abortions — tsk — such a waste of babies." Christine nodded, transfixed.
Trailing a lacquered nail across Christine's hand, Sarah handed her a glass of something green. Christine sipped her drink. It tasted like Bartles & Jaymes, with a hint, underneath, of decay. And then Sarah had winked at her, and the world swam and went black.
Now Christine sat up. The stone slab beneath her seemed alive — pulsing.
She heard a low growl, and in the flickering candlelight, she glimpsed a shadowy figure in the doorway. Her brain first parsed it as a coal-black pit bull with lipstick-red jowls. But no. It was a woman — the woman. Sarah.
Sarah strode into the room, wearing nothing but a bikini made of skinned wolf heads (though she'd kept her updo and glasses). She carried a gingham-covered wicker basket. "Welcome to our midnight picnic. Sorry about the blood," Sarah chirped, hopping onto the gore-slick altar. "Moose entrails, doncha know — can't summon the dark lord without 'em!"
"How did I get here?" Christine asked woozily.
"I slipped you some of this," said Sarah. She pulled a tiny glass vial from her furry bra. "Love potion — knocks you out, then makes you want to rut like a bitch in heat. Oh, and it'll also turn you into a witch. Like me."
"Oh?" Christine asked, absently stroking one of the wolf heads. "What is being a witch like?"
"I've seen things you wouldn't believe," Sarah murmured into Christine's ear. "I've seen the worm god crush the holiest men in his terrible maw. I've seen the demon Pazuzu cripple entire nations with plague and famine. I've seen Russia, from my house."
Sarah whipped the cloth off the picnic basket, revealing a pile of foot-long black dildos inscribed with hideous runes. Christine ached with a carnal longing she did not recognize — it terrified her. She could not control herself any longer. She heard herself moan, "Drill, baby, drill."
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
