Washington Horror Blog

SEMI-FICTIONAL CHRONICLE of the EVIL THAT INFECTS WASHINGTON, D.C. To read Prologue and Character Guide, please see www.washingtonhorrorblog.com, updated 12/26/2015. Follow Washington Water Woman on Twitter @HorrorDC ....

Monday, February 01, 2016

Groundhog Day!

Washington Water Woman's got nothing!  Washington Water Woman has been sucked into an evil vortex which has been sucking the life out of her for a week, but hopes that she--and spring--will be back on track by the end of the week.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Snow Blindness

Chloe Cleavage walked out into the Washington snow, blindfolded.  "My feet are cold!" she squealed, but Stuart just laughed.  "Where is it?" she asked.

"Keep going!" he cried.

"Look, I tried the sled and the snowboard and the cross-country skis:  isn't that enough!?"

"But this is for your birthday!  I spent a lot of time putting together this piñata!" said Stuart.

Chloe took a wild swing with the bat, and hit something solid.

"That's the tree!" Stuart said.

Chloe took another swing and hit something that yielded.  "I did it!  I did it!" she exclaimed, pulling off the blindfold.  Then she saw the army of angry spiders emerge from the piñata and start racing up her bare legs.  She let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Chloe!  Chloe!" exclaimed Stuart, trying to shake her awake.  (Chloe was beating the couch with an umbrella, shouting, "Die!  Die!")  "It's just a bad dream!  You were having a nightmare and sleepwalking!"

Chloe slowly came to her senses.  Stuart was dressed like an Olympic cross-country skier, with a quarter the muscle tone.  He was dripping snow all over her condo carpeting.

"You should have come out there with me!  It's like when I spent a semester abroad in Switzerland!  Radical!"

She had only been snowed in with him for 24 hours, and it was making her crazy.  How had this non-relationship gotten to the point where she was expected to ride out a blizzard with him?  Exchanging sex for housework was one thing, but there was no escape this time!  She couldn't go to work, couldn't go to the store, couldn't say she had other plans!  He was peeling off his layers of clothes and coming at her with his nerdy pink flesh again!

"Man, I'm stoked!" Stuart exclaimed.

"Stop talking like a snowboarder!  You're an accountant!"

"Not today!" he exulted, tossing his last layer down.  "Let me give you a back rub so you can have a more relaxing nap this time," he cooed.

"Out!  I can't stand it anymore!  I'm not spending the rest of the weekend with you!"  She ran around to the other side of the couch.

"Whoa!  Take it easy!  You just had a nightmare!  You're getting a little cabin fever."

"No!  It's not cabin fever!  I can't do this anymore!  We have to end this!"

"Really?" Stuart said quietly.  "After all this time?"

"Exactly!" said Chloe.  "It's gone on long enough."

"Alright," said Stuart, putting his clothes back on, "if that's how you feel."  He went into the kitchen to re-bag all the groceries he had brought her for the weekend.  "I just left you the bread and peanut butter, since I know you hate cooking," he said, sarcastically.  "You can wash your own dishes."

She had never let him keep even a toothbrush at her place, so he had nothing else to collect before heading a couple doors down to his own condo.  "Hope you find whatever you're looking for," he sneered.  "If it's that guy that bought a place on the third floor, he's gay."

Chloe watched the door slam, walked over to set the deadbolt and chain, then headed back to the couch to crawl under the blanket.  What AM I looking for?  He wasn't so bad.  She clicked on the television to look at rich, handsome, rugged men she would never know.  Even her cousin, actress Chloris Cleavage, told her most of the guys in Hollywood were useless tools, or gay.  "Date a writer!" Chloris would say.  "They have imaginations!"  Chloe had dated some rich guys, some hot guys, some useful guys, some guys good for blackmailing.  And what did it all amount to?

She walked out on her balcony, and looked at the neighboring balcony where that weird family used to keep their Compost Cab compost and chant hippie dippy Indian stuff.  They weren't so bad.  Snow was blowing into her face.  Why did they name this "Jonas"?  She wiped the snow out of her face and turned away from the wind.  I'll watch Netflix until Monday, then back to work.  She thought about Prince and Prowling:  her desk, her responsibilities, the fancy coffee maker, the embarrassment about that tax scandal and the SOTA-Bunker raid, that empty joy she got from things' getting back to normal so that she could again goof off and rely on Laura Moreno to pick up the slack.  I'll do some online shopping, get some new v-necks.  She thought about asking the cute new contract attorney for advice about getting a rescue dog.  Why?  She leaned over the railing, wondering if Stuart and Chloris were the only ones who would care whether she jumped.  Then the railing gave way, and she fell.

Meanwhile, Nazi descendants Barbara Hellmeister (current alias "Betty Brandt") and Ernest Ironman were only becoming better lovers during the course of Snowpocalypse 2016!  Their time spent at the Trump National Golf Club (Sterling, Virginia), feeding into an evil energy loop with renegade demon Ardua of the Potomac, had fanned the flames of their passion for Aryan supremacy, sociopath behavior, and vigorous biological living.  Barbara had cleaned out Ernest's ear wax, removed his prostate tumor, raised his IQ thirty points through strategic electroshock therapy, and cured him of his bottom boils with her rigorous clinical treatments.  Ernest had cut Betty's hair, given her a Brazilian wax job (using tar from the groundskeeper's shed), and nourished her with foraged roots, freshly skinned squirrels, and creek water (pesticide-free this time of year).  They bathed in the pond every evening just after sunset, unknowingly (but appreciatively) communing with the evil Ardua while having sex to stay warm--sometimes in a threesome with "Poland", the pole cat.  Back in their secret love nest in the attic, they would fall asleep dreaming of the Fourth Reich.

But today was extra special:  today, Barbara had told Ernest they were expecting a baby!  They were celebrating by borrowing some Donald Trump snowmobiles to go hunt the weak:  those trying to make their way through the blizzard to pursue petty little endeavors which they were too stupid to realize were not worth risking death for.

Barbara and Ernest ran over two trespassing snowboarders on the golf course greens, threw rocks on the pond to force the trespassing ice skaters to fall under the suddenly cracked ice cover, then headed towards downtown Sterling to pick off cross-country skiers.  When they could find no more people outdoors, they headed to the neighborhood with substandard housing where Mexicans and Salvadorans were crowded in using kerosene heaters because their landlords had not repaired the broken furnaces.  Barbara and Ernest shot flare guns to set the homes on fire, laughing in glee as they drove away.

"Let's go to Langley!" shouted Barbara (who was high on pregnancy hormones and not at all ill, since Aryans never got morning sickness).  Ernest nodded, and they headed off to McLean to attack the CIA analysts who were so "essential" to government services that they were driving their SUVs in after hours of dutifully crawling through the blizzard.  The couple parked their snowmobiles a few blocks from the CIA parking lot entrance, and shot out approaching windshields with rifles for an hour before finally hearing police sirens and deciding it was time to head back.

Back in Washington, Chloe had lain in the snowbank screaming for help for ten minutes before somebody had come to her aid.  After more helpers arrived, they were able to carry her into the lobby of the condo building, and then fetched a doctor they knew lived in the building.  She examined Chloe carefully, treated her frostbite, then suddenly twisted her broken arm back into place with no warning.  Chloe let out the same blood-curdling scream she had issued earlier, during the nightmare, but this time it was all real.

"Sorry," said the doctor, "but it would have been worse to try to get a slow ambulance ride to the hospital."  She set a splint, then received a round of applause from the dozen people gathered in the lobby to watch.  "Maybe by tomorrow night you can go get a cast.  I have some pain meds I can give you, but we need to discuss anything else you're on.  Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," said Chloe, much to the surprise of her neighbors.

"Is there somebody to help you out at home?"

Chloe looked around, smiling sheepishly.

"I'll help her out," said an overweight, bald, 60-year-old divorcé, who had been lusting over Chloe since seeing her sunbathing on her balcony in August.

"Great!" said the doctor.

Over at the National Zoo, Tian Tian was enjoying the snow and the lack of humans trying to see his Panda cub.  It was a good day!

Over at the George Washington University Hospital, Dr. Khalid Mohammad came out to the Emergency Room waiting area to survey the field.  It was a bad day.

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COMING UP:  
Washington insiders plot Donald Trump's fate.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Adventures of the Cursed Rolex!

The Cursed Rolex had been wreaking havoc in Washington ever since Donald Rumsfeld received it as a gift from Dick Cheney, then lost it in the haunted Potomac River.  Having subsequently adorned a series of cursed wrists, it was now currently poisoning psychiatrist Ermann Esse.

In late December, Dr. Esse had advised patient John Boehner to follow his dream of building the first Catholic theme park.  (Instead of Cinderella's Castle, there would be a mini Vatican.  Instead of characters like Mickey Mouse and Daisy Duck, there would be a Saint Augustine and a Saint Monica walking around.  Instead of the Tea Cup Ride and Space Mountain, there would be the Communion Cup Ride and Ascension Mountain.)  Dr. Esse had also suggested several mafia bosses as good sources of loans, and Boehner had not been seen since visiting New Jersey just after New Year's.

Just before New Year's, Dr. Esse had encouraged patient Bridezilla to jet off to Martinique with a man she had only known a few days, the Condor--whom she knew as "Marco Pel".  The spy had hacked all her online accounts while she was drunk, only to discover that, as a mere contract attorney, she had been cut off from all the important Prince and Prowling client information previously inhabiting her life.  Then she had gotten him drunk, and they had gotten married at the Fort-de-France courthouse on January 4th.  When Dr. Esse received the honeymoon selfie in a text from Bridezilla, his first thought was, "I finally got the runaway bride down the aisle!"  His second thought was, "What a disaster this quickie marriage is going to be!  She will probably be coming in here on a weekly basis, and since I'm raising my rates in 2016, I'll be able to plan my own vacation to Martinique!"  His third thought was, "I could easily have an affair with her now.  She'll be so vulnerable!"

On New Year's Eve, the paranoid (with reason) U.S. Attorney, Atticus Hawk, had visited the shrink in despair about the pressure of working directly for the U.S. Attorney General, the anxiety of again being under FBI surveillance (because his ex-girlfriend had escaped federal custody), and the misery of not being able to find the support and comfort of a good woman.  Dr. Esse had suggested that Hawk start taking massive amounts of testosterone supplements to boost his self-confidence and bravura, resulting in (1) the need to shave three times a day (including his ears), (2) one-night stands every night in January, (3) and a drunken trespass (on a dare) into the Old Post Office Pavilion bell tower to rappel down the side and spray-paint "Donald Trump is a warthog-faced buffoon who licks his own--".  (Hawk fell and broke a leg before completing it.)

Today, Dr. Esse was seeing White House butler, Clio.

"I still see Reggie and Fergie sometimes," she admitted to the shrink, referring to her deceased pre-schooler twins, Regina and Ferguson.  "I know they're not really there, and yet, it seems like they are growing and learning and getting into less trouble."

"That's how you wanted it to be while they were alive, but you were a terrible mother," said the sick psychiatrist.

"I...I know," Clio said, struggling not to cry.  "I was so tired all the time."

"You can't use HIV as an excuse," the shrink said.

"Their father was gone."

"Another excuse," he said.

"What I'm trying to say is, they have a father figure now.  A man named Dennis.  He's a ghost, too, I guess."

"This is all a figment of your imagination."

"It seems so real," said Clio.

"You realize you could lose your White House security clearance?" asked the shrink, and he looked at her malevolently.

"Please tell me how to stop seeing them," she said, starting to cry.

"Let's try some hypnosis," he said.  A minute later, she was in a trance, and Dr. Esse was telling her things to do at the White House (steal some silverware, hide all the Obama girls' school books, let the toilet paper run out, spit in the soup) when he was interrupted by another patient, Didymus.  "You can't be in here," the shrink said, sternly.

Didymus was actually the ghost of former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara.  "Obama can learn from my mistakes!" Didymus pleaded.  "Let me give her some hypnotic advice to pass along!"

"This woman has enough obsessions without listening to you harp about the lessons of Vietnam!"

"Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize for what?  Let me talk to her!"

Then, for the first time ever, Dr. Esse got violent with a patient--or tried to--but his attempt to punch Didymus and push him out into the waiting area just resulted in Dr. Esse's falling over and crashing onto the coffee table.  Clio woke up from the loud thud, saw Didymus, recognized him from pictures she had seen, screamed that he was another ghost, and ran out of the office.

"Now look what you've done!" shouted Dr. Esse, turning purple in the face, too angry to examine his own wounds.  "I'm going to kill you!"

And he tried choking Didymus but fell over again.  "You've gone insane!" cried Didymus.  "Something is wrong with you!"  But Robert McNamara was still not very good at recognizing true evil, and so he never guessed that Dr. Esse's Rolex was cursed.

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Washington Water Woman is heading out of town for a week, but has plenty more posts coming!

Saturday, January 02, 2016

Good and bad New Year's resolutions!

Dick Cheney (current president of Heurich Society, former leader of the un-free world): 
--drill Arctic National Wildlife Refuge;
--start a new war in the Middle East;
--outlive his wife so he can run off with Condoleezza Rice.

Ann Bishis (Chief of Staff for Congressman Herrmark):
--start a prayer group on Capitol Hill devoted to Hera and Glaucos;
--successfully lead the Bicameral Anti-Zombie Caucus to total victory;
--get an earmark to clean up fracking-explosion mess at vacation home of boss's parents.

Paul Ryan (Speaker of the House):
--exceed number of pointless bills to repeal Obamacare passed by John Boehner;
--start an Opus Dei chapter on Capitol Hill;
--bench-press 250 pounds;
--find a tactful way to talk to his [zombified] chief of staff about his recent body odor problem;
--get nominated as Republican V.P. candidate, then become Presidential candidate after the Presidential candidate is assassinated by a left-wing nut job whom Ryan tackles to the ground.

Giuliana Sunstream (NoMa lifestyle guru/blogger):
--personally compost 100 Christmas trees;
--hire homeless people to hide hyacinth and tulip bulbs in the FBI headquarters' empty planters;
--sell on QVC a line of throw pillows made from Washington touristy t-shirts stuffed with dryer lint;
--host Paul Ryan's Super Bowl party.

Holly Gonightly (TFFT television reporter):
--lose 10 pounds so people stop saying she's too fat for television;
--break the biggest Washington story of 2016 while wearing red lipstick and a trendy fashion scarf.

Ghost Pippin (deceased cat formerly owned by Condoleezza Rice):
--get other feline ghosts to stop following him around, because cats are solitary hunters;
--piss on Charles Wu in a way that Wu actually smells it;
--move into the Supreme Court (White House already too crowded with ghosts).

The Gopper Ghost (deceased son of famed rat terrier, "The Gipper"):
--gather a large enough spectral canine pack to take on the Zombie Caucus;
--utilize Ghost Anatoly to improve Russian/U.S. relations;
--hear his own bark again, just one more time.

Glenn Michael Beckmann (militia man and conspiracy blogger):
--assassinate Donald Trump on live television, preferably with a cross-bow;
--win joint custody of love child born to Bristol Palin in December.

Central Intelligence Agency:
--assassinate Donald Trump, pin it on ISIS (or North Korea) (or Angela Merkel);
--find new secret sites to torture prisoners;
--overthrow at least one Latin American government, one Asian government, and two Arab governments.

State Department:
--get White House to stop letting CIA set foreign policy.

Ardua (river demon):
--use neo-Nazis and energy from Trump National Golf Club to unleash a new reign of terror;
--return triumphantly to Potomac River, stronger than ever.


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COMING UP:  Adventures of the Cursed Rolex!

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Giuliana Sunstream outdoes Martha Stewart for her holiday party!

Her toy Maltese, Vegas, was looking at her dubiously, dismayed as he was with the pungent smell of marijuana in the air, but NoMa lifestyle blogger Giuliana Sunstream knew this was the next step in growing her fan base--which had doubled last summer after her arrest outside the FBI building (for guerrilla gardening) had given her massive publicity and unwarranted credit for the rogue marijuana plants that sprouted shortly thereafter.  Everybody needed something that distinguished them from the competition, and Sunstream finally had it:  the best ideas for being the perfect pot party hostess.  The secret, she had decided, was never to make the party about the pot:  the party should always be about the hostess.  (Some people would say "the guests", but this was patently absurd!)  And so, like last year, she was charging $100/head for people to experience and learn from the perfect holiday party.

Outside Sunstream's loft, Bridezilla approached nervously.  She had purchased two tickets several weeks ago, planning to bring her lover, Paul, but he had turned out to be bisexual and was now back with his other lover.  She had been a junior partner at Prince and Prowling at the time of ticket purchase, but was now out of the partnership and working as a contract attorney in P&P's SOTA-Bunk (state-of-the-art review bunker).  She had thought about giving her tickets away, but she had nothing better to do today, and had always enjoyed learning new lifestyle ideas from Giuliana Sunstream.  She was wearing a sexy red velvet mini-dress which usually made her feel very festive, but looking around at the H Street corridor under a gray sky, she was finding it hard to believe there was a jolly world to enter there.  The members of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (DC Chapter) had treated her so differently the last time she attended their meeting, and now she wondered how she would be treated here?

The first time she had entered SOTA-Bunk, she had expected to be revered like a star-crossed lover (Juliet, Maria, Guinevere...), punished for breaching the social barrier to date a contract attorney.  Soon she discovered that one thing nobody wanted to know about their fellow contract attorneys was how they had also ended up in the dungeon.  No past, no future:  there was only the NOW.  And so people distinguished themselves based only on NOW.  There was "The Town Crier", constantly checking his contraband cellphone for communications from the outside world, rushing to be the first to announce to the room mass shootings, celebrity debaucheries, or candidate foibles.  There was "The Legend", famous for finding the best smoking gun in P&P history:  the "I vote for shit" email of 2004, never dethroned since then.  There was "Helen Keller", who pretended to have light sensitivity so that she could keep her eyes closed behind dark shades, clicking over and over again on the same document to prevent her computer from going to sleep as she dozed a half-brain at a time (like a dolphin).  There was "The Bartender", who had hidden liquor bottles in all the rest room toilet tanks.  There was "Pablo", who sold coca leaves to reviewers who had trouble adjusting to an atmosphere with 60% less oxygen than fresh air has. There was "The Hacker", who had not only broken through P&P's security shields to access the Internet from his work computer, but also successfully blocked his web-surfing from network scrutiny.  (Sometimes he was seen watching dirty movies at his desk, but becoming "The Snitch" on a review project was professional suicide.)  There was a small number of "Scorned Ones", who actually worked hard and followed the rules, but got paid the same as their lazy coworkers--because contract attorneys all earned the same money for Prince and Prowling from the idiot clients.

Bridezilla, like the others (or at least those without contraband), had entered SOTA-Bunk in a sterilized jumpsuit, with her personal belongings left behind in a locker.  She was a nobody, plopped gently but unceremoniously by staff attorney Laura Moreno at a uniform work carrel.  Bridezilla had been given sixty pages to read about workplace behavior, signed a dozen different forms stating she understood and agreed with client confidences and ethical requirements, then read another fifty pages about a case being run by idiot associates she used to laugh at upstairs--before being told to code sixty documents/hour and left to her own devices.  No more secretary, no more associates, no more partners, no more fancy coffee machine and catered meals.  All she had left was knowing that, as a former pageant queen, she would surely be the prettiest girl in the room!  But she had not been the prettiest girl in the room, and nobody noticed her at all.  And now, heading into this party, she was starting to think, maybe it's a good thing not to be noticed?

"You look beautiful, mamasita!" said the international petroleum expert (spy) known as "Condor".  He bowed to the astonished Bridezilla, then offered her his arm.  "If you need an escort up to the party, I would be delighted!"

He was tall, dark, and handsome, with a face and accent she could not quite pinpoint--an international man of intrigue.  She hooked her elbow gracefully around his without a word, deciding to keep herself equally mysterious as long as possible.  For him, she could be anyone!

A few minutes later, they were showing the dread-locked hostess their tickets and entering her Tropicoliday party, where she quickly adorned them with necklaces of hemp.  The Christmas tree was decorated with seashells made from re-purposed milk cartons, and jellyfish made from re-purposed plastic wrap.  Fruitcakes cut into starfish shapes adorned every flat surface.  A reggae trio handed out margarine tubs full of rattling pinto beans to anybody who wanted to join the band.

And there were brownies--lots of funny brownies....

In the kitchen, a valiant Vegas tried to defend his home from the encroachment of Ghost Pippin and his evil pack of feral feline ghosts, but everybody knows that ghosts can't resist reggae music and weed....

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COMING UP:  Good and bad New Year's resolutions!

Sunday, December 20, 2015

The longest night of the year.

Washington Water Woman was too busy with Christmas preparations to write a blog post this weekend, but she WILL tell you what Glenn Michael Beckmann will be doing on the longest night of the year:  hiding out in Meridian Hill Park in camouflage clothing, watching the Envoy's ever-changing computerized light show patterns for hidden terrorist sleeper cell messages....

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COMING UP:
Giuliana Sunstream outdoes Martha Stewart for her holiday party!

Saturday, December 12, 2015

The New Prophecy

"I don't know where she is," said Angela de la Paz, looking intently at the Potomac River.  "I just know that she's gone."

The coalition formed a scant month ago to destroy the demonic Ardua could scarcely believe their ears.  Lynnette Wong was hugging her chest, staring at the water.  Charles Wu was skipping pebbles while his mother admired his skill.  Sebastian L'Arche was holding the Gipper on a long leash as the dog sniffed at the river.  Marcos Vazquez had his arm tightly around his fidgety wife, Golden Fawn.  The Warrior was sitting close to the shore, sharpening a knife with a leather strap.

"So all this mumbo-jumbo worked?" Sebastian asked.

Angela smiled at the term "mumbo-jumbo".  "Well, for now."

"What do you mean?" asked Charles.

"She didn't die--she's just gone."

"But you can go in the Dreamtime and see where she is, right?" asked Golden Fawn.

Angela shook her head.  "She's just gone."

"Evil is never gone," said the Warrior, standing up.  "Never let your guard down."

"He's right," said Angela.  "It takes many forms."

"Not another morality lesson, please!" said Charles playfully, putting his arm around his extraordinary employee, who had kept him safe many times.  "Now, lunch in Georgetown on me!  Time to celebrate!"

The group started walking up the embankment, except for the Warrior, who caught Angela's arm.  "I will look for her," he said, without telling her about the New Prophecy, so they parted and she left him behind.

Over on Capitol Hill, Barbara Hellmeister was evaluating her options.  Rescued from zombie captivity/worship by Adolf Eichmann's great-grandson, Ernest Ironman, she had been locked up in the maintenance man's secret chamber below the Capitol for a couple of weeks.  Restored by cans of sauerkraut, loaves of rye bread, Rhinelander wine, and Vienna sausages, she was feeling more herself--except she had not seen actual sunlight in over a month.  She had no doubt the chocolate bars and new bag of clothes he had brought her indicated she was on the brink of becoming his sex slave if she did not take control of his mind soon and bring out the Aryan greatness within him.

"Ernest," she began, when he reentered the chamber.  "I would love to see where you grew up in West Virginia."  She had been carefully experimenting with mold spores, wine, and sauerkraut brine to engineer some type of hallucinogenic to weaken his will, and he inhaled it as soon as he approached her.  (She had built up her own immunity to it.)  "Do you think I will fit in there, wearing this?" she asked with a smile.

He looked at the skinny jeans and tight red sweater she was wearing without a bra, and he saw mountain pinks (creeping phlox) wrapping around her to support her breasts.  "Wow!" he said, sitting down.  "You're a woodland nymph!"

"Maybe I'm a nymphomaniac!" she said, handing him a glass of wine spiked with a touch of turpentine.  "I think those mountains would really make my blood race!"

Ernest contemplated this, while sipping the wine.  It had been a long time since he laid a woman down in the grass.  Then he remembered it was December.  "Too cold in the mountains," he said, shaking his head.  "But it's warm today!  Maybe I'll take you out to the countryside," he said, deciding that might be nicer than taking her on the cracked leather couch he had salvaged from John Boehner's departure.

Out in Sterling, Virginia, Ardua was resting in a large pond, weakened by her long crawl from the Potomac River through a series of creeks to this quiet body of water.  She had dwindled to a tenth of her size from what she was before those meddlesome humans had joined forces to attack her.  Once dreaming of becoming large and fierce enough to be called Ardua of the Atlantic, the former Ardua of the Potomac was now Ardua of Trump National Golf Club, doomed to hide quietly with the other bottom feeders dodging stray golf balls.  But unlike the other bottom feeders in the waters of Trump National Golf Club, Ardua felt something special here--an evil energy nurtured by the greed, narcissism, and hatred of a man who had no idea that he had inherited Hitler DNA from an experiment done on his father's mother.  The demon Ardua had plugged into the neo-Nazi energy of Donald Trump.

"Fore!" shouted Ernest Ironman, now on a serious drug trip.  He had parked his pickup truck in the woods near the golf course, and Barbara Hellmeister was trying in vain to quiet him down as they sneaked into the club to throw back golf balls they had picked up outside the wall.  "Golf is a waste of God's playground, Mr. Trump!" Ironman shouted, throwing the balls into a nearby pond.  "I know a better thing to do with that soft, soft, sand trap!"  Hellmeister smiled in spite of herself, getting excited about the dangerous, manipulative fun she could have with a simple man like this.

And Ardua got excited, too....

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COMING UP:  The longest night of the year.