Previously, some time ago, on Superfriends:
"Vice Decider Dick Cheney's body finally critically failed five months ago," said Boy Senator Lindsey Graham, lowering his voice and drawing close to Lieber Man. He glanced cautiously at the closed door. "Luckily, we were prepared for this inevitability, and we managed to transfer his still-living brain to a vat of nutrient solution connected to an experimental computer," Boy Lindsey explained.
* * *
"Since removing Cheney's brain, we have been working to transfer his consciousness and knowledge to a special mainframe supercomputer never before seen by all of mankind, which will merge psychically with the Vice Decider's mind to form the ultimate, super-genius entity - everlasting, immortal, and all-knowing," he said breathlessly. "But, best of all, this new entity will be completely free from any interference whatsoever from the three branches of government."
"He will become 4-BAD: Fourth-Branch Autonomous Dick," intoned Newtman. "It shall be done."
Since the nefarious Dr. Baracko's ascent to the American Throne, darkness as unforgiving as the blackest ink had descended upon the nation and the world. Grass, trees, and flowers had all been bled of their color, turning an ominous charcoal gray and lifeless beige as they wilted with the weight of the wickedness that had enshrouded creation. Dogs, cats, and every other animal throughout the land had suddenly drawn gaunt and untrusting, curling sullenly into themselves and away from the cosmic pestilence that had infected humankind upon the election of the Dark Antichrist, the beasts' habits becoming fickle and easily provoked to frenzied fits of rabid violence by the sensed coming of global catastrophe.
Indeed, the unspeakably vile, socialist sorcerer Dr. Baracko had inaugurated his iron-fisted rule, in a ceremony of unremitting hedonism and obscenity more grotesque than the most legendary Roman orgy rooms and vomitoriums. Red-blooded 'Merican men from the sacred countryside were marched like the sullen condemned to the base of what was once known as the Washington Monument, now sheathed in black, glassy, seamless obsidian. There, they were forced at gunpoint to disrobe and perform indescribable acts upon each other, as their fair women were dunked in hot patchouli oil and sold to braying hordes of Mexicans.
The building formerly known as the White House, just like the Washington Monument, now wore a ghastly shell of midnight obsidian. As if that disfigurement were not enough, hundreds of thousands of Dr. Baracko's hunchbacked minions had mounted the seat of government atop a five-hundred-foot high, gun-metal ziggurat. A vast, Red Square-like plaza now sprawled before the new, sinister citadel, stretching a square mile of polished gold forged from the seized treasures of persecuted bankers. Arrayed along either side of the square, for its full length, stood phalanx after terrifying phalanx of Dr. Baracko's new Barbarian Army - swarthy recruits culled from third worlds and urban enclaves, their snarling instincts to rampage and rape barely restrained by a spell-like allegiance to their new Overlord.
At the center of the square, on a raised dais of baby skeletons, surged a hip-hop group in tribal paint and paramilitary fatigues. The sound of their rapping and violent drumming thundered impossibly across the square, crashing into the hard Imperial Ziggurat, charging back over the snarling rows of the Barbarian Army, and washing through the quivering bodies of the Capitol City's horror-stricken denizens. Then, with one final, climactic explosion of drums, cymbals, and profanity from the band, Dr. Baracko unflinchingly slit the throat of a blonde virgin from Omaha, Nebraska, marking the inauguration of his rule over the former United States.
Moments later, as the Barbarian Army scattered in every direction to begin its rightful looting of small businesses, Dr. Baracko marched triumphantly into the Oval Office. He sat in the presidential chair and threw his long legs up onto the Kennedy desk, leaning back into a languid stretch as the tortured sounds of murder, mayhem, and income redistribution outside trickled in faintly through the closed windows. Dr. Baracko stared up at the high ceiling, savoring the culmination of his epic journey to finally seize and lord over the land he so reviled. A wry grin cracked across his long face as he lay his head further back into his open palms. At the far side of the Oval Office, First Henchman Biden lay half-drunk across a plush chase lounge, wearing nothing but ripped jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket as he flipped absently through a Hustler magazine.
"My first act as President. Hmmmm..." Dr. Baracko mused with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
Biden laughed wantonly, then abruptly fell silent as he opened the centerfold. "Gotta fulfill those campaign promises," he muttered sarcastically.
Dr. Baracko sprang into action, yanking his legs off the desk and grabbing the presidential phone. "Judith? Release my terrorist brothers, immediately!" he ordered into the phone. "They will receive not only the full rights of American citizens, but every material luxury the taxpayer can possibly afford!"
"Rock on!" rasped Biden with a devilish grin. He grabbed his handle of Jack Daniels and took a celebratory swig.
"And prosecute every member of the CIA and the Armed Forces, for their fight against the terrorists! In fact, prosecute every single former administration official as well, for politics!"
"Wooooo!" yelped the Vice Henchman. He wildly hurled his half-empty bottle of booze across the room and watched it shatter against the bust of Abraham Lincoln.
But no reply came from the phone.
"Judith?" Dr. Baracko said into the receiver. "Judith, are you there?"
Biden sat up on the chase lounge. He stared groggily at Dr. Baracko.
"Judith!" Dr. Baracko barked into the phone.
"I'll go see what the hell's going on..." said Biden, getting up off the chase lounge and heading for one of the Oval Office doors.
Suddenly, the intercom speakers in the ceiling loudly crackled to life. "That won't be necessary, Biden." The voice was ominous and familiar, if a bit scratchy through the speaker system, as if coming from a remote and distant location.
Biden froze in mid-stride. His face went blank. "Cheney?" he said incredulously. "Is it even possible? How are you in our communication system?"
"That doesn't matter," replied the voice with avuncular finality. "Cheney is no more. Now there is only 4-BAD."
"4-BAD???" Dr. Baracko and his Vice Henchman simultaneously erupted.
"Yes. Fourth Branch Autonomous Dick. I have transcended office, the three traditional branches of government, and human form itself," confirmed the gravely, disembodied voice from the intercom speakers. "I am now eternal. Inescapable. Throughout the entire government. Like a ghost that will forever haunt this place."
"So the reports are true!" cried Dr. Baracko, jumping up from his chair. Biden fell back onto the chase lounge, weeping.
"Judith! Security!" Dr. Baracko screamed into the phone, but only dead silence met him.
The electronic voice of 4-BAD continued unabated. "You will not release the terrorists and give them rights and luxuries. In fact, you will initiate an unprecedented policy of preemptive detention of anyone I deem a 'threat,' based solely on my saying so, for as long as I say so."
"What?!" yelped Biden, lifting his face from his hands, cheeks streaked with tears.
"And you will not prosecute any government official, not even those who committed Super-Patriotic Interrogation Techniques," 4-BAD intoned. "You will especially not prosecute any high-ranking person from my administration." Dr. Baracko wordlessly cast his eyes to the pristine Oval Office carpet.
"Most importantly, you must always Look Forward, never backward."
Biden finally reached his boiling point. He could withstand no more. He leaped up from the chase lounge and charged over to the presidential desk. "Dr. Baracko, you can't possibly be listening to this madness! You have to-"
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" The intercom speakers emitted a shriek so piercingly loud and shrill that Biden was knocked unconscious where he stood. His body went limp, knees buckling. His head fell violently forward, face slamming off the corner of the desk as his body collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Dr. Baracko looked at Biden where he lay bleeding from the mouth. Then he looked up at the ceiling speakers.
4-BAD cleared his electronic throat. "Now, where were we?"