An unwholesome horror filled our heroine with a foul and odious loathing. It was with questionable courage that she was able to make her way to the source of her puzzlement. As she turned the corner, there in the glow of a blazing bonfire stood about 30 people covered from head to toe in gowns of the finest latex.
Shirley hid herself behind a monumental obsidian bust of machiavelli. Her youthful eardrums twitched in disbelief. Could this be the same sweet Ronnie Reagan that had started every day of their film with a pitcher of ginger ale and cherry juice?
Poor virtuous Shirley nearly swooned as she heard her renowned father figure articulate: "Oh! Lord of darkness! Wondrous spirit of malevolence! We pray to you over the befouled and blood soaked corpses of new deal socialists and the decapitated heads of labor leaders. Tonight we slaughter the first born of the underclasses to consolidate our victory over the powers of the mindless masses. We join our gore soaked hands with the heroes of Bitburg as we bring our jack booted heels down upon the scrawny neck of the body politic".
Beads of cold sweat formed on Shirley's Temples as she recognized the twisted extolling faces. There was Father Charles E. Coughlin. How many nights had her dad kept her up too late when she was young to listen to his pro-fascist sermons? She remembered how handsome her pop looked in his Bund uniform.
