His coffee has gotten cold at his desk. His issues of “Field and Stream” pile up, unread, next to the shriveling ear of a toddler that he forgot to put back in the fridge. Vice President Cheney breathes deeply and stretches his arms towards the ceiling.

His purple robe opens in the front. “I have to show you something,” he drones.

He walks towards a vibrating black pod that takes up most of his office and presses a few buttons. A crack appears in its gleaming chassis and smoke hisses from its jaws. Some moaning escapes—male, female, and the screeches of what sounds like animals being slaughtered. He takes two bottles from his robe pocket as the smoke billows around us. “One for the ticker and one for the missile,” he cackles, downing some pills without water. The machine’s mouth gapes open. His robe slips off and he steps inside. He’s immediately sprayed with some sort of pink lotion. There are more sounds—Nora Jones and machine-gun fire.

“Okay,” he waves me off, “I’m going for a ride.”

The pod’s roof settles back into its base, and a smiling aide escorts me out of the building.

Vice President Cheney has a cure from the fatigue of global hegemony and the back-stabbing world of Washington’s insider political game. In seclusion since accidentally shooting an elderly member of his hunting party in the face, he has found a new pastime: fucking himself.

“I think the idea came to him when he was touring the Katrina damage,” says Tim Russert, picking apart a chocolate chip muffin on the set of “Meet the Press.”

“Remember that? He was on the news and some guy runs up and yells ‘Go fuck yourself, Mr. Vice President.’ He had to act coy, but those eyes… You saw the wheels turning.” Russert adds, “When he offered me some perfume or something that he said would make me ‘fuck through a concrete wall,’ I knew something was starting.”

“That shit worked, by the way,” he laughs.

“Cheney was into any potion, special lube, curate, toy, method, apparatus, any fetish—he had to check it out,” says conservative columnist and former “Crossfire” anchor Bob Novak, from his Palm Springs home’s dungeon. “I know,” Novak grunts over the phone. “I was in a chat-room for MFP—Men Fucking Pandas. He was in there, which… I don’t know, is a pretty specialized turn-on. It takes years and years until kiddie porn gets boring—trust me. I guessed he was into something. He ran off the list of shit he had gone through. It was astounding. He had been through more in two months than I had in forty years. I guess this just shows his work ethic or something.”

Engineer Baxter Stockman, who designed the Cheney Pod, described the profound effort that went into the machine’s creation. “He wanted noise, visuals, sensation—your basic Brave-New-World-style ‘feely,’ with some serious robotic interaction. You ever see the Pearl Jam video for ‘Do the Evolution?’ That… And a lot more, actually.” Stockman, poring over blueprints, Material Safety Data sheets and piles of edited snuff-film and porno footage, explains that most of the machinery for Cheney’s sex-chamber was already in place to repair damage to his withered, racked body. “Like in Star Wars,” he says.

“The thing would stretch him into a straight position, massage his muscles, do diagnostics and repairs on his cybernetic parts, change his blood, clean him off, generate new skin on his metal exoskeleton and place him in an upright position,” Stockman says.

The difference now is that before restoring Cheney’s posture, the machine contorts him further, inserting his penis into his own anus repeatedly until the vice president ejaculates.

“It’s practically like throwing the thing in reverse,” Stockman continues. “We already had the scientists who designed the chamber under house-arrest, so we just brought them back in and told them to put a sound system in it, something flashy, to get that full sensory-emergence thing going on.”

The imprisoned scientists also worked on Cheney’s bionic spider-legs, a crown that could make Cheney think people out of existence and a special gun that may allow Cheney to kill God.

“When we were given the initial orders, we were all very curious as to why the vice president needed specific things programmed into the machine” says robotic automation expert Li Po Tan, huddling in his cell under the Capitol building. His broken English is compounded by his smashed front teeth. “The vice president requested we program holograms simulating him hitting infants with hammers. When the images were finally readied, he wanted the babies ‘browner,’ he said.”

“I just wanted to make arms!” he shrieks as a sprinkler is turned on above him.

Records indicate that money was diverted from the Iraq war and the Congressional Fund For Not Going to War With Iran to build the chamber, as well as divested funds from the AmeriCorps and UNICEF. Generous donations from corporations previously friendly to the Bush administration were also used.

A memo from Kellogg, Brown and Root’s Appease Cheney office states that “any effort made by the vice president to sate his previously-thought-insatiable lust for murder and rivers of swelling, pliable flesh will be addressed and supported. It’s a good cause that’s good for all of us.”

When I’m paged back to Cheney’s office, I’m brought in as the lights come up and the vice president is set into a standing position by a robotic arm, breathing heavily. His skin, a sickly tallow-color, is blindingly bright. His teeth hum and red crosshairs are fading from his pupils.

He nods at me “A little r and r will do you wonders,” he says, motioning towards the machine. “You want a spin?”

I remind him I’m not a cyborg.

“I used to shoot wild horses as a kid,” he sighs as his shades automatically open, revealing his reflection through the slats on the pitch-black window. “In the ‘80s, I hunted men for sport. Then golf, but I hated the walking. Selling arms to both sides in a war was delightful. You come so far and you really feel stuck at the top, you know?”

He notices his messy desk and a convincing blush color is funneled to his cheeks.

“I have to get back to work soon,” he nods, flipping the ear into a trash bin. “Kinda hard to say to yourself when you know you’ll never die.”