It was a dark and stormy night. The peasants were in an ugly mood, armed with torches and pitchforks, they moved on the castle.
Inside, they’re measuring Director Muellar for his martyr suit. He is sobbing uncontrollably. The Leader moves forward and pats his shoulder in a comradely fashion.
“There there, Muley…”
“Don’t call me that! I hate it when you call me that!”
“…it’s all for the best. Gotta be somebody. Can’t be me, can’t be the Powellster…”
“Why not! Why not him!”
The Leader looks confused for a moment, then Dr. Rovenstien leans over and whispers in his ear.
"Well, he’s Secretary of State, Paul. "
“It’s because he’s black, isn’t it!? This is some kind of affirmative action thing…”
“Well, that’s part of it, sure. Gotta have one black on the cabinet, even if he is a bit wimpy about bombing stuff…”
“What about Condoleeza Rice? She’s almost as black as Whitney Houston, isn’t she?”
The Leader knots his brow in concentration, turns to the Dr. R.
“She is? When did that happen, Karl?”
“Born that way, sir. They all are.”
By this time, they have herded the Director to the balcony. They crowd spots him and howls for blood. “Blood!” they howl.
They move him closer to the edge, the Leader has wandered off to ask Laura if that’s right, that they’re born that way. Son of a gun, he whispers, shaking his head. Don’t that beat all.