I Am Alive and You Are Dead: A Jurney into the Mind of Philip K. Dick

It was decorated in Cheney's western style in browns and tans, with leather furniture. There was no food (maybe some nuts stashed somewhere), but plenty of bottles of alcohol. I was swollen and bleeding vaginally, the bottom of my shirt was soaked in blood, and my belly hurt deep inside when my escort finally came for me early the next morning. Staying around Cheney while he slept was as deadly a mistake as removing his clothes or questioning him-it was forbidden. This time he broke his own rule, and did not even punish me for it when morning arrived. He had spent so many hours drinking alcohol and using his enormous penis as an assault weapon that he passed out shortly before my escort arrived. As I walked into the hall, I doubled over from pain. My escort turned to Cheney and remarked, "Christ, Cheney". Cheney lifted his head and proudly slurred, "Now you know why they call it 'Dick'". Back in Tennessee, my CIA-paid gynecologist, who knew I was under mind control, covered for my abusers as usual and wrote me a prescription for swelling and pain, I was still in pain and ill from my exposure to Dick Cheney and his high voltage torture and brutal sex when Houston drove me to Nashville's Stockyard Nightclub for my rendezvous with Prince Bandar Bin Sultan ...»