FM2: Mr. Vice President, itâ€™s not the Times or the Post anymore who report these kinds of things. Itâ€™s bloggers.
DC: Weâ€™ve got to stop him before he gets to Blog Critics.
FM2: Whereâ€™s the *$(*% GPS we implanted on him?
DC: (points to FM2. FM2 looks up and points a finger at himself) Yes, you. (FM2 begins to shake his head vigorously, but Dick Cheney shoots him dead then turns to FM1) Thatâ€™s not the first man Iâ€™ve shot in the face.
FM1: Mr. Vice-President, you donâ€™t have to shoot me. Please Mr. Jackal. Iâ€™ve been your friend ever since we knew you as â€śCarlosâ€ť.
DC: A little too late. (he shoots the second man. We next see him jumping into a helicopter on top of the Executive Office Building) Iâ€™m Roveâ€™s handler. I guess Iâ€™m going to have to handle him. (the sound of a gun safety snaps off over the whirr of the helicopter blades)
Crosscut to Karl Roveâ€™s survival camp in the woods of Northern Virginia. He is using his Republican party tie as a headband as he roasts two dead rodents on a makeshift spit. With his shirt off and a full dose of adrenalin, Karl now looks like a very weird take on Matt Damon. He pulls off his White House ID and looks at his own name tag.
â€śIâ€™m not Karl Rove. Thatâ€™s not my real name. Who the hell am I? Who was I before I became this cold-blooded political killer?â€ť
Rove pulls another Blackberry out of his pocket and begins studying his list of contacts. He discovers that he has 347 messages from the Republican National Committee and fifteen messages with exclamation points from the Office of the Vice President. Camera cuts to a shot of Rove donning a disguise and slipping on to a commercial flight.
KR: This TSA bullshit, is so ridiculous. They took away my water bottle and moisturizing cream, but they ignored all the spy equipment that I checked on. I miss Air Force One.
He looks out the window of the plane and a flashback sequence begins with a mystery young man (mym) who looks like a much younger version of Karl Rove.
DS: You really want to help your country. Youâ€™re a perfect candidate for special political operatives school, The Rat Fuck Academy at the School of the Americas.