The Beautiful Art of Negon R. Bush

It was eleven o’clock at night; it had been a long day for President Negon Bush. Nevertheless, he was unable to relax and go to bed. When he saw that it was a relatively clear, windless, full-moon night outside he had immediately called a model to pose for him in his 2,000-square-foot art studio. Dozens of finished and half-finished canvases and sculptures were scattered all about the spacious room.
The moonlight flooded in through the transparent ceiling; it shone unobstructed through large gaps in the clouds, a rare phenomenon given the global climate.
The president was painting a large picture of a female nude with broad, hasty strokes. Like Adolf Hitler, he liked to paint very much; also like Hitler, most considered Bush to have no artistic talent whatsoever. This wide-spread opinion of his work did not subdue his own enthusiasm for it in the least.
The roof of the studio was constructed of transparent, bullet-proof glass; Bush did not want to be shot during the only time that he allowed his mind to abandon the goals of financial gain, world domination and masochistic sex acts. While painting at times like this, he experienced the human notions of beauty and empathy with other beings. The only other time he experienced such feelings was while enjoying the close bond of friendship he shared with his only friend in the world, Beem Cheney. At all other times, Negon Bush was completely devoid of a conscience; he was incapable of feeling any degree of guilt or responsibility knowing full well the life-destroying outcomes of his behavior – such is the defective hard-wiring of the psychopathic personality.
Bush looked at his model, “You’re doing great, Seeta. Keep it up.” The model, a dominatrix he had met a few days earlier in the Dark Temple sex club, was lit by beautiful, wan yellows and oranges. Seeta stood erect, her legs apart, leaning over a mannequin that was in a kneeling position about two feet in front of her. She held a heavy-link, black chain that was wrapped around the neck of the figure before her. Except for the thigh-high, black leather, high-heeled boots, she was naked. Seeta had made-up her face to bear Asian features. She wore a blond wig, the hair tied back in a shoulder-length ponytail that hung below a She-Hun battle helmet.
On the canvas, Negon Bush was not painting the image of Seeta, but rather that of Nitra Khan, queen of the She-Huns. Bush considered his work and smiled. “Great, Seeta. Ok. Tummy in a bit… Good! Bust out a bit more… Perfect! Don’t move a muscle! That’s a great pose and the light is simply astonishing tonight!” He mixed a dark skin color of Van Dyke brown, Amarillo yellow and Zinoberry red.
In the painting, Nitra Khan stood over Bush, pulling him towards her by the chain wrapped around his neck. His face was contorted in an expression that clearly conveyed physical pain and mental pleasure. Khan was grinning like a demon who had just claimed a new soul; unlike Rice, who professionally dominated Bush, Khan performed the same function with true hatred. The scene was inspired by his recent summit with Khan and was set in the desert, at the base of Ryan Mountain, amid burning avocactus plants.
“Sir, my whole body aches. This chain must weigh fifteen pounds!” complained the model.
Bush quickly checked the weather radar monitor that he kept in the studio. He saw a massive cloud bank rapidly approaching Las Vegas from the northwest. “Damn it! Just a few more minutes, please,” he begged Mother Nature. “Seeta,” he coaxed, “five more minutes. I will pay you an extra one thousand dollars.”
Seeta clenched her teeth, strengthened by the thought of the extra money. One thousand dollars’ worth of work right now in five minutes was the equivalent of four hours of her professional time as a top-level domina on Level XXX and 160 hours of some poverty-stricken full-time employee’s life behind the counter at a McMeatball’s restaurant.
Bush absent-mindedly scratched himself between his chin and lower lip. Happily, he critically contemplated his work. “I can’t believe how lucky we are tonight! Really, I haven’t seen moonlight like this for at least a year!”
Seeta’s left foot ached. She transferred her weight onto her right leg.
Bush looked up from the canvas. “Wait, have you moved? Turn a bit to the left.”
Seeta moved to the left carefully.
“Yes, yes, that’s it. Don’t move an inch!”
Seeta’s muscles quivered with the sustained effort; she had been posing for almost ninety minutes now. Her arms were leaden.