In his recent memoir, Murdering and Torturing Brown People For Fun and Profit, Dick Cheney recounted a dream that he'd had in a weeks-long coma following open heart surgery. Said Cheney in the epilogue,
I had a prolonged dream more vivid than any I’ve ever had, about a beautiful place in Italy.
The NY Times went on to say "that he was living in an Italian villa, pacing the stone paths to get coffee and newspapers."
Obviously, it hasn't occurred to Big Dick that his dreams are eerily similar to mobster Tony Soprano's dreams. Tony Soprano's dreams often looked as if they were penned by David Lynch. In one, he was briefly an Italian laborer showing up at a villa looking for a stonemason's job.
Cardiologists will sometimes say that during heart surgery and after, patients will have vivid dreams that often place them in situations quite removed from their real lives and they tend to be peaceful. In this respect, Cheney's dream was pretty typical. Furthering the mobster angle is the fact that, in real life, after murdering or ordering to have murdered countless people, this is exactly how many mobsters retire: Walking their little dogs, buying fruit from greengrocers, living the peaceful life, sometimes even going back to the Old Country.
Cheney's dream, if it's to be taken at face value, also shows what an incurable monster he truly is.
Cheney, while Chairman and CEO of Halliburton, overcharged the American taxpayer by capriciously doubling fuel distribution costs and was forced to pay back the government. He repeatedly went to Langley and twisted the dicks of junior intelligence analysts until he heard only what he wanted to hear about Iraq's weapons infrastructure program to legitimize going to war with them.
We wound up killing or having killed through the Flypaper Effect over one million Iraqis.
As "Vice President", he ordered whatever limited electricity to be had in Katrina's wake to be rerouted to the refineries in the Gulf Coast instead of hospitals. He advocated and still does the torture of hundreds if not thousands of innocents.
He got drunk and shot his best friend in the face then covered it up.
Any normal human being, toward the close of their life, would be bothered by their conscience in unguarded moments, especially during a post-operative coma. But not Cheney. Oh no. Cheney wasn't tortured by the six people at Gitmo who'd committed suicide or the countless others who'd been murdered or left to die through neglect while in American custody.
Cheney wasn't haunted by dreams of the million or more charred and dismembered Iraqis who'd died largely through his initiatives, he didn't have nightmares of hooded prisoners floating toward him in midair ready to electrocute him in a shocking embrace. He wasn't harangued by the five men who had to take his place in the draft because of his pathological dread of actually experiencing war.
No, what did he dream about?
Pacing on a stone path warmed by the sun while birds chirped and low-hanging fruit perfumed the air so he could get a coffee and a newspaper just like any normal human being. Cheney not only is untroubled by his conscience, he'd probably shotgunned it in the face, waterboarded it and put it out of its misery.