A panic in the control tower at Dulles. Every screen goes dark at once rendering the international hub of travel crippled, when suddenly they all return to power, one by one. Gone are the air traffic routing screens. Now, they only read two words, in a deep crimson text: YOU FORGOT.

VIRGINIANS! The ancient bones of the VIRGINIA HAMBEAST have been scryed, and the skies are BLOOD RED with the state bird, the HELLISH CARDINAL. Churches, schools, and catacombs have risen up, for today the citizenry of this CURSED STATE have been compelled to cast their FLESH-BALLOTS for a new GUBERNATORIAL WARLOCK. If you have the curse of OL' VIRGINNY flowing through your corrupted veins, go vote and stave off the BLOODCURSE once again!

Ancient Rea'gan, where the great slumbering Old One the Gipper lay in dreamless sleep, would not rise. The strange, non-Euclidean, almost Reaganomic geometry, was not destined to drive humankind mad above the dark waters of the south Californian coast. It was not to be.

The Loyal Man-servant Cantor meekly headed down to the Catacombs from orders on high from The Speaker, his task a simple, albeit dangerous one: to quickly feed and placate those in the dreaded Caucus. As he chummed the Minnesota Lake-Hag's tank, his lungs released a hollow wheeze - no, more deliberate, a sigh. His failed bid for the Speaker's Throne this January left his skin pallid and bones brittle, remnants of the hex placed on him. This was now his curse, instead of his shining moment.

The One Who Came Before turned his puffy red jowls towards the night sky, and in particular the pendulously hanging lunar orb, now waxing crescent. What was taken by The Handsome Man, hidden by The Usurper and sealed away by The Trickster would be his finally at the appearance of the next New Moon. In Forsyth, Georgia, the entire residency metamorphoses into rotten, putrid peanuts and peaches.

Even though he had chosen to meet with his Ecclesiastics in a clandestine location, the rain of intestines and frog skulls still followed The President. Neither the Desert Spectre of Nevada or the Bay-Oracle of San Fransisco could convince him to use their dark arts to help avert the Great Summoning. Instead, he calmly explained to them his plan, and in return, was rewarded with their aghast silence. The Bay-Oracle knew how this would all end, and her heart was filled with a deep pain that the frog skulls couldn't begin to rival.

There are rumors swirling in the dank Underhalls of Congress that The Senator was not prepared the cosmic forces he had aroused. His alabaster robe was now stained with the sluice of Lincoln's womb, and compared to the colorless adornments of The Speaker and The One Who Came Before, he appeared to be but a simple pretender to the lightless throne.

Malodorous vapors drift from the house of South Dakotan Abell McKinley, who has been regurgitating the skins of his fore-bearers for two days now. Any curiosity the 78-year old adoptee had held about his lineage had been cast aside to be replaced with confusion, fear, and madness. A few miles away, in the Black Hills, The Founders Sealed In Stone refuse to avert their destructive gaze from him.

Another group of elderly veterans, spurred on by Supplication Protesters, breach the barriers to the Vietnam War Memorial to pay their annual respects. The protesters' cheers quickly turned to horrified cries, however, as one-by-one each former solider was pulled into the reflective gabbro; grasping wildly for help, their anguished screams only silenced when they were overtaken by that death-cold stone. Representative Neugebauer, watching from afar, slides his forked tongue over quivering lips.

When 2:06A.M. hit, CNN went dark. The Great Abominations burst forth from the swollen, distended abdomens of Van Jones and S.E. Cupp - one an aberrant, wolf-headed beast whose feet were impossibly reversed, the other a loathsome, feathered serpent-god. In the Swamp-City, the silver haired man approaches The Speaker. "My children are here."

Snakes and eels slither and writhe their way into the nasal cavities of Van Jones, muddled and helpless on the floor, and S.E. Cupp, who was unaware of the Trojan Horse seated next to her. Their abdomens quickly begin to swell as their eyes fill with a deep black liquid. CNN cuts to Don Lemon as the lights flicker in the Crossfire studio, and the set begins to tremble.

Tonight on CNN's Crossfire, Van Jones accidentally trips over a loose thread hanging from the billowing jowls of Newt Gingrich, tangling himself up and exposing not the former House Speaker but instead a grotesque flesh-suit filled with hundreds of snakes and eels. Somewhere in the fetid Swamp-City Washington, a portly, silver-haired man runs his stubby fingers on an ivory cloak of another time. The figure, bathed in shadows, puts on the mantle.

There are reports of a group of veterans storming a national monument October 2, but many of them failed to mention the cloaked Representative with them, his teeth flashing a smile as sharp as the sacrificial dagger he carried.

All along the I-95 corridor in Virginia and Maryland, the sorrowful wails of The Furloughed can be heard. Washington's monstrous and confusing highway, the Beltway, has become a nightmarish carousel of endlessly circling cars, their passengers fearful, gaunt, and trapped. The Potomac Swamp-City lays claim to another structure as the Internal Revenue Service building sinks into the soft, rotten peat bog.

As if surrounded by a force field, The Speaker and his alabaster cloak remain unstained by the continuing ethereal rain of innards inside the Situation Room. After the President makes his case, the only thing to be heard were the soft, fleshy slaps for a full four minutes. Finally, The Speaker stood, turned his back, and responded. "No deal, Mister President. You will know despair. You will know sorrow. We have only just begun."

Street lamps flicker, and sidewalks buckle and curl as if impressed upon by a massive, unseen force. The direwolves have surrounded a family that foolishly assumed they could escape in their car, on these "roads." Good. It will be easier to move at night now.

Due to the Great Summoning, there was no government to write techno-military spy takeover thrillers about. Tom Clancy didn't see a reason for pressing on anymore. Without the venerable United States Government, who would neo-nazi arms dealers with a large stake in the Arabian opiate trade strike at now? His final note to the world, a 4 page long technical description of a pistol he had recently held, was dappled with teardrops. He had thought the familiar weight would bring him comfort, would stir within him the same feelings of joy, of near-arousal, of almost bodily nirvana. Tom Clancy had felt nothing. A deep, cold nothing.