Editor’s Note: This is the second act of “Apocalypse Dan,” a semi-true “New Bloggerism” take on the Sen. Dan Sutton Pagegate matter.

In Act I, we learned that Janklow had been hired to “dispatch” Apocalypse Dan, a rogue South Dakota legislator.  Janklow is driven to Pierre by his trusty driver Marc.  They begin to experience the many temptations and problems of Pierre, ranging from juicy steaks at The Cattleman’s Club to goose poop at Capitol Lake.

We pick up with Janklow and Marc entering the Capitol.

As Marc and I walk up the steps of the Capitol and enter the Rotunda, I get a cryptic message on my Blackberry:

Janklow:

Your “problem” is ended.  Drive yourself nuts.

The Justice

I immediately call Marc over and tell him his services are no longer needed.  He’s been a good and faithful servant.  He mumbles something about hijacking WiFi signals and buying a couple of loaves of bread to feed the geese (those fucking god damn geese again) at the lake.

As I enter the Rotunda and notice the half-naked women on the gold-leaf ceiling, I hear arguing.  Actually, it sounds like a fight.

The noise seems to come from the third floor, east wing.  I take the elevator up a floor and emerge outside the House of Representatives.

I peer through the clear portion of the frosted glass on the double doors that lead to the chamber then right to the lobby.

What I see abhors me.

Representative Roger, who is sweating profusely—appears to be gathering brown paper bags from lobbyists in the lobby.  My guess—he’s shaken the lobbyists down for their late evening lunch bags.  He has a ravenous appetite.  He stuffs bologna sandwiches into his pie hole as fast as he can grab the bags from the surprised lobbyists.  But he’s also spewing white bread, meat, and mayonnaise because he’s screaming at the top of his lungs, “Save the fetuses!  I must save the fetuses!”

Suddenly, he falls over stricken, clutching his throat.  Bologna has apparently gone down the windpipe. 

He turns red, then blue.  His stubby arms flail.  The lobbyist watch.  One, a short, graying gentleman with an impish grin, passes around a sheet to the brace of lobbyists and asks for a dollar.  He’s getting picks on the time of death for Representative Roger.  I ask if I can get a piece of the action.  He says sure.  I pull a dollar out of my money clip and say, “Put it on 9:14 p.m.”

Suddenly, a gurgle comes out of Representative Roger’s mouth—along with more mushy white bread and bologna.

“Leslee!  Steve!  Thou art forsaken me!” the sweating, chocking lump mutters.  Finally, mustering all his strength, he shouts, “It is done!” and a terrible belch emerges, smelling like half-digested cheap bologna.  The lights dim momentarily.

I walk over to the distinguished looking lobbyist with the impish smile.  “Hey, money bags, pay up.  Check your watch!  It’s 9:14 p.m.”

The lobbyist grabs a handful of ones out of his pocket and says with a raised eyebrow, “Don’t spend it all in one place, Janklow.”

I won’t.  I can’t.  You can’t spend $37 all at once in one place in Pierre.  Impossible, unless you’re buying lures at the Dakota Mart.

Meanwhile, seeing the Sergeant at Arms has abandoned his post, I sneak open the door and slip in.  My Marine training has its benefits.

Legislator Brock, a rotund man, is standing on his desk and stomping up and down, screaming “Baby killers, baby killers!” over at the a covey legislators who are cowering in the corner.

Other legislators are laughing and pointing at them.  All the surrounded legislators can manage is a plaintive look my way.  Their eyes cry out for my help.

Fuck ‘em.  Not my fight. 

Dan is my fight.

I turn to a pimply faced page, probably some legislator’s high school senior nephew from Cresbard.

“Who’s in charge here!” I demand.

“Shit, sir, I thought YOU were in command,” he said sheepishly while holding a carrier with four now cold coffees, three with cream, one black. 

“I gotta get these coffees to the Speaker,” he says, and he rushes off, spilling most of the contents along the way.

Suddenly, I see a hideous creature with painted features smelling slightly of meatloaf in the gallery, tossing small plastic fetuses at the riot below.  She’s screaming “Take that Planned Parenthood!  Take THAT Planned Parenthood!  I am prettier than Kate Looby!  I AM prettier than Kate Looby!”  She gyrates crazily. Representative Brock gyrates back.

I am pelted with little fetuses.  Damn, they sting! I must find cover!

I dive under Representative Tom’s desk.  Tom’s an old friend.

“Jesus Christ, what’s going on here?” I ask.

“Just my party bringing up abortion for the 15th time this session,” he answers.  Unfortunately, a curly head appears upside down, peering at us with reddened eyes under Tom’s desk.  It’s Representative Maggie.  She starts screaming at Tom in some unrecognizable dialect spoken only in the Canton and Hudson area.  Shit, she might as well be screaming in Hutterite.  I have no clue what she is saying.

“What was that all about?” I ask Tom.

“Oh, that was just Representative Maggie telling me that I’m going to hell,” he answered nonplussed.  “She does that too me about once a day.  You get used to it.”

Finally, an EMS crew arrives to cart off Representative Roger’s bologna fed carcass.  But it gives the House a chance to do something it never hesitates to do—say a prayer and pass a commemorative resolution for the now departed Representative Roger.

“That’s my cue to leave,” I tell my friend Tom. “If I listen to that commemorative bullshit, I’ll choke on my own vomit then I’ll be joining Rep. Roger in that “better place” as well.”

I bolt for the door, braving a hail storm of plastic fetuses.

Ouch!

I’ve wasted too much time with this leaderless bunch of maniacs.  I must find Apocalypse Dan!

Stay tuned for Act III, where Janklow continues his search for Apocalypse Dan.