All your octuplet are belong to us.

M, also know as Dr. T, the praise of a billion taxpayers shower upon him, is awoken from his sleep.

Insignificant Aide (Ia) is staring at him expectantly.

Ia: "Ah sire, you awaken. The radiance of your handsome face has kept me warm this evening."

M: "Quick, you overgrown bag of filth, what is it you want now?"

Ia: "O divine brother, I would be blessed to be the mother of little ones."

M: "All right, Here you go."

A flick of M's regal wrist, a wave of his exalted finger; an imperceptible feeling of fulfillment in Ia's heart. M slumps back to sleep, and Ia goes about her wretched ways.

Ia soon drops a litter of 8. Tax payers are enraged.

Thou shalt not spend public funds for rearing of the fruits of immaculate conception.

Ia is summoned to a public town-hall style meeting. With a thousand eyes as witnesses, M hands down her punishment:

Death.

Ia languishes in max-security prison, as the seasons pass, each one bringing new hope via the endless cycles of the appeals process, and each new Governor and Commander-in-chief holding out the promise of an executive pardon.

As Ia's hopes grow dimmer and promises from the capital fade into the fog, taxpayers money too slows down to a trickle. Prison guards are underpaid and overworked. Prison doctors work one day a quarter. Heaters are on only on Wednesdays.

D-day approaches for Ia.

Will taxpayers have enough money left to gas her? Will they finally be able to bring to fruition the tying down and poisoning of the witch? Will faint-hearted weasels pardon her for their lack of balls to watch a life snuffed by a magical gas? Will we be denied a tailgating party before the execution? Are the commies plotting her escape? Will they take her away to flood our lands with litters larger and larger?

Only time will tell...