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 ....

Saturday, March 25, 2017

The Alt-Alt-Alt blog of Glenn Michael Beckmann!

The blog of conspiracy theorist and militiaman Glenn Michael Beckmann is written in code to his followers; what follows is a de-coded rendition--


I have been hard at work doing reconnaissance on the so-called Presidency of so-called human being Donald Trump, and things are truly terrifying, even to this warfare-hardened patriot!!!  As my loyal followers know, Trump is a puppet king installed by aliens to weaken human civilization prior to their full-scale invasion of Planet Earth.  This is what I have learnt this past week.

1)  The secret president of the Hunter-Gatherer Society, Sarah Palin, was one of the first to recognize Trump as a fake, but she was quickly replaced by an alien wearing her skin.  (That's why she (it!) is appearing on that Alec Baldwin game show now, instead of rallying against crony capitalism.)

2)  The health care negotiations were never even called that!!!  I saw the secret papers, and they were WEALTH CARE negotiations!!!  That's why it failed:  only Representatives who get donations from insurance companies were happy with it, and the rest jumped onto the get-bribed-by-Koch-Brothers wagon train to vote against it.

3)  Devin Nunes is NOT a traitor!!  He is being blackmailed by the Russians, who taped him with Russian hookers and vodka at the Trump International Hotel!  Nobody's been played for a bigger sap than he has.  He doesn't even have shares in a Russian gas company!  They really got him cheap, but he's a victim.

4)  It's true Comey was at the White House on Friday, but NOT because Trump demanded an explanation of that whole "phony intelligence leaks are not illegal" thing from the hearing.  It was because Sean Spicer wanted the FBI to make sure no trafficked children were locked up on the grounds by Steve Bannon prior to today's #pizzagate march on DC.  (They didn't even call it off after the Comet Ping Ping militiaman from North Carolina pleaded guilty or Alex Jones issued a videotaped apology for the hoax!  What a bunch of numb nuts!  Everybody knows the pedophile capital of the country is Zanesville, Ohio.)

5)  It's not true that Rex Tillerson still only cares about oil!  He also cares about liquor and cars.  He was going to skip NATO and go straight to Russia, but the NATO generals went BERSERK, so now he agreed to stop in Brussels.  From what I've heard, the food is WAY better in Brussels than Moscow, so what the Hell?  But he HAS to go see Putin, because he has a friendship medal from Putin, and Putin can no longer even leave Russia because he would be arrested almost anywhere, or killed by poison CIA blow darts.

6)  Some people are saying that Flynn is cutting a deal with the FBI to rat out a whole bunch of Trump cronies, but I haven't been able to verify that.  For one thing, who ya gonna be more afraid of:  the FBI or those "former" KGB agents who are murdering everybody right and left!!!???  

7)  Some people are complaining that a Trump operation in Iraq just slaughtered a couple-hundred civilians, but his campaign promise was to kill all the terrorists, including their families!  And it really frustrates him that he can't brag about it on Twitter, because even Ivanka would get mad at him for THAT!  

8)  "What is the deal with Ivanka?" everybody's always asking me! "Was she sexually molested by Donald Jr. and has repressed memories about it, so she does whatever Kushner tells her, even turning her kids Jewish and moving to DC, and risking terrorist retaliation on daddy just to promote her perfume brand by getting photographed with Angela Merkel?"  I've tried to get close to her several times, but they keep increasing the Secret Service detail on her street!  One time there were ten SUV's, I'm not even kidding you!  Brittani has stared at videos of her and is CERTAIN she was molested as a girl, but Brittani had a tough life and kinda sees that thing everywhere.  But if you're ever reading this, Ivanka girl, my buddies are ready to spring you from that gilded cage any time you decide it's time to go!  If I get the entire Hunter-Gatherer Society assembled, ain't no Kushner or Secret Service agent gonna stop us REAL men from liberating you!

9)  I have reconnected with Brittani's father, Bubba Blaylock, and he's working security at the White House for Steve Bannon!  Yeah, I saved the best for last, readers!  He's been a great source of info, so I gotta give him props, even though he IS acting pretty weird, and that Rolex he's always scratching under looks vaguely familiar.  Anyway, I haven't told him she's living at my place.  They would BOTH be mad at me!  He said there's no way in hell he can sneak me into the White House, but if Bannon ever goes to Mar-a-Lago, that might be another story.  And he said there's no point in planting bugs because they're sweeping that place all the time, but he doesn't mind telling me some stuff.   He does give me the creeps, though--he's definitely changed since we rescued Brittani.  Has a deranged look in his eye!  (People used to tell ME that, until I started on marijuana, so I know what I'm talking about.)  I asked him if people are scared of Bannon, and he said they're constantly taking his ammo away from him and he'd be a wuss in a knife fight.  He pinched a cleaning lady on the ass, and she sprayed Pledge right in his eyes!  Real men don't pinch, I'll tell you that!


Out on the river, Angela de la Paz had just come from her surprise appearance at her son's third birthday party with his adoptive parents.  She could have just visited Lucas in the Dreamtime, but she had not felt his physical embrace for a long time.  Nor her boyfriend's:  she pulled on one of his shirts and headed into the houseboat kitchen to see what she could cook up for Dulles, who was out somewhere.  She could feel the growing presence of Ardua of the Potomac slinking around the river bottom, feeding on greed, egomania, revenge, even treason.  These were the ugly ways of the world, threatening to erupt in a volcano in Washington:  the longer that molten lava was held down, the more deadly the eruption would be.

"You're back," the FBI agent said, now standing in the kitchen doorway.  "It smells good."  He was afraid to kiss her.

She put down the spoon and walked towards him.  "I had a vision."

Washington Water Woman is fleeing the country for a bit, but hopes to return to blogging in a couple of weeks...if martial law is not declared and the borders are not sealed....

Sunday, March 19, 2017

The Earth is flat!

"He's not gonna fix it!"

"He IS gonna fix it!"

"He's not gonna fix it!"

"He IS gonna fix it!"

"Whatever is IN the Trumpcare legislation, that's what's going to happen, sir!  You will LOSE Obamacare, and you will NOT be able to buy insurance again because of your recent cancer treatment."

"It was only melanoma!  I've worked hard all my life on construction sites!  It ain't fair those Mexicans got darker skin!"

The Buddhist monk waved aside the Episcopalian priest and sat down to take a turn in another round of Trump cult de-programming by the interdenominational Seekers.  "Sometimes people say things which are untrue," he began.  "For instance, when Trump said climate change was a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese."

"It IS!" interrupted the construction worker, who had been kidnapped by Seekers special agent Solomon Kane at the request of his cousin, a nurse at Sibley Hospital.

"When Trump was challenged about saying that, he denied he ever said it, even though it was a statement in a publicly posted Tweet.  This is what we call being caught in a lie.  In Buddhism, we call it--"

"Don't gimme your mumbo-jumbo New Age crap!  I'm a Baptist!" exclaimed the construction worker, who hadn't set foot in a church since his father's funeral in West Virginia fifteen years earlier.

"You voted for a man who promised to abolish the health insurance program which covered your cancer treatments.  If the legislation abolishes it, Trump cannot wave a magic wand later and find a new insurance plan for you."

"He's making  America great again!" the construction worker said, though not as loudly as before.

"What will actually improve for you?"

"Those Mexicans will be deported!"

"And then what?  Will you work twice as many hours on your current construction site to do their work as well, and earn twice as much money?"

"We can only work during daylight hours."

"Will they pay you more?"

"Maybe not, but the project will last longer for me."

"Or maybe they'll just loosen their standards and hire more ex-cons, or take on high-school dropouts who will do it for half of what they pay you.  Maybe they'll cut corners to get things done faster with fewer people."

"They can't do that!  OSHA's got rules for construction sites!"

"OSHA?  OSHA won't be enforcing any rules in the Trump Administration."

Not far away, the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Carnage had been in his State Department office all weekend, trying to do the work of several career diplomats summarily dismissed by Secretary of State Rex Tillerson within a week of his confirmation.

"Hey, you need any help there, cowboy?"  (It was the source employee known by triple agent Charles Wu as "C. Coe Phant", standing in the doorway.)

"Not from you, Indian," replied the ADAfC, with a sneer.  "When those budget cuts come through, we'll all just have to live without your amazing talent," he added, sarcastically.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Phant, with extremely false bravado.  "See, I know things about Tillerson," he lied.  "Who do you think leaked that email alias he used to discuss climate change?"  (It had actually been Charles Wu, thanks to his agent "the Tarantula".)

"Whatever," said the ADAfC.  "Didn't change a damned thing.  Exxon lied about climate change--everybody already knew that."

"You think it's a coincidence that came out the exact same week Tillerson went to Beijing?"  (It was not, but, again, Phant had no clue why.)

"Crap comes out on this Administration daily.  Who even has time to keep up with it all?"

"The Chinese--that's who!  If somebody can't save face in front of the Chinese--"

"Whatever!  I've got policy directives to get out to our embassies."

Phant was getting frantic.  He had been completely out of the loop on the Asia trip, knew nothing about current NATO affairs, and was spending most of his time trying to find Trump campaign donors willing to be ambassadors anywhere beyond the English-speaking world.  "Look, I can't lose my job!" he cried suddenly.  (He was already exhausting his savings to pay off the high-flying credit card balances he formerly covered with payments from Charles Wu--back in the days when Phant actually had useful information to sell.)  "Can't you make me your Associate Deputy Assistant or Assistant Associate Deputy or--"

"Here," said the ADAfC, handing Phant his house key.  "Go buy me groceries and toilet paper, clean the bathroom, change the sheets, vacuum the carpet, cook me dinner, and gather all my clothes to take to the dry cleaner in the morning.  Then I'll think about what I can do for you."

It was then that Phant vowed to himself that, if he was going down, he would take down the entire State Department with him.

Back at the shuttered Georgetown retail space they were using for Trump cult de-programming, a tag team of a Jesuit professor and Jewish rabbi were into their third hour working on a Florida woman.  (She had been flown up on her husband's private jet under heavy sedation after he had heard about the Seekers.)

"Sebastian Gorka is a documented Nazi," the rabbi repeated.

"That's fake news," she replied yet again.  "Those photos are all fake."

"Your great-aunt was murdered by Hungarian Nazis."

"Trump has nothing to do with that!" she protested.

The Jesuit took his turn.  "Jewish community centers all over this country are getting bomb threats because of the rise of white supremacists emboldened by the fact that Trump never renounced the Ku Klux Klan and has filled his cabinet with Breitbart racists.  Kushner is like a rich Jew buying his way out of Nazi Germany, heading to Israel, and to hell with the rest of them--they can live or die!"

"That is offensive!" the woman snarled.

"Yes, it is!  That's why Gorka needs to be fired!  That's why Bannon needs to be fired!  That's why Trump needs to show he cares about American Jews at least as much as the Jews in Israel!"

"They will never accept us as white!" interjected the rabbi.

"They know Jesus was white, and he was Jewish," she replied.

"Do you also believe the Earth is flat like that other Floridian, Shaquille O'Neal?"

"Well, if Trump says so, I wouldn't at all be surprised."

Her husband ran over at that point with a wild look in his eye.  "Well, where's the corner then?  You show me the corner of the Earth, and we'll both jump off and kill ourselves!"

Outside the store, some river rats headed into the sewer to report back to Ardua of the Potomac.

The Alt-Alt-Alt blog of Glenn Michael Beckmann!

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Home Sweet Home!

Barbara Hellmeister (currently known as "Dr. Bibi Von Braun", Special Science Advisor), was in the White House residence making her first attempt at a test-tube baby.  Though just the thought of genuine Hitler ancestral DNA in Donald Trump's sperm was enough to make her enjoy having sex with him, the natural attempts at pregnancy had not worked.  She peered through the microscope at the lazy Trump sperm refusing to penetrate the ovum she had painfully extracted herself using a robotic arm and local anaesthetic.  Old man sperm, she thought, sighing deeply.  Her Nazi grandfather's science journals had served her well over the years, but she was now going to have to study up on the modern science of cloning.

Not far away, in the encampment pitched in the shadow of the Washington Monument, Joey Bent Oak came out of a tipi with a big smile on his face.  "Can we put one up in the backyard?" he asked his adoptive parents.

"Of course!" said Marcos Vazquez, smiling at Golden Fawn.  "Come on--let's get out of the cold."  He had become extremely protective of his pregnant wife, recovering from her third bout with breast cancer.  He had not even wanted her to get involved with the stress of Native Nations Rising at all, but she had marched with her grandmother to the White House on Friday and was very energized by the experience.  "The Foundation should have sponsored this," he added.  

"Too political," she sighed, disappointed again with her Board work on the Washington Redskins Original Americans Foundation.

"Defending treaty rights?  Defending their legal treaty rights?"  He shook his head as he steered them towards the street to hail a taxi.  "Even the museum didn't do enough," he added.

"These are dangerous times," she said.  They were heading now to the National Museum of the American Indian for lunch and a tour of the newest exhibit she had recently curated.  "I think individual employees did quite a lot in a quiet way."

"Are things going to get better?" asked Joey, who knew a lot about evil in Washington, but sometimes they had to remind themselves he was only eight.

"Yes!" said Marcos, with the insistent hope for the future only an expectant father can have.

Across the Potomac, Bridezilla had told her boyfriend it was too cold to go outside.  He had proposed jetting off to the Caribbean for a few days, but she had told him she was not going to deal with all the "crazy ICE jackboots" terrorizing U.S. citizens and non-citizens alike at the nation's airports.  He came in with supplies from the drugstore and some hot Chinese carryout, and found her still using wet swabs to clean the miniature furniture in her Tudor dollhouse.  The human dolls on the top floor looked on with little expression, but Thelma and Louise (the conjoined guinea pigs living on the bottom floor) were purring enthusiastically.

"Are you hungry?" asked the former spy (known by many as "Esperantu Edward"). He had taken a lengthy break from his career when the beautiful junior partner from Prince and Prowling first captured his heart with her exquisite taste in miniaturist decor, and they had spent many happy hours furnishing the details of this home, as well as the Disney dream castle he had given her (surprisingly installed at her law firm office). However, her dollhouse passion was becoming even a little too much for his own eccentric enthusiasm.

He kissed her and asked again if she was hungry, but she made a non-committal sound. That's when he noticed that the $7,000 Fabergé jeweled miniature egg pendant he had purchased to comfort her after her Russia practice had lost yet another client to Morgan Lewis was now hanging around Thelma and Louise's conjoined neck. "Uh, honey, that's awfully expensive to let the girls play with. And they might accidentally swallow it!"

She turned to scowl at his smiling face. "They're not stupid!"

"I was hoping to see it around your neck, my lovely!"

"My law school friends won't even Facebook me since stupid Prince and Prowling made me set up this stupid Russia practice!" she replied. "I can't be seen with Russian jewelry anywhere! I have to deal with creepy Russian [air quotes] 'businessmen' asking me to set up shell corporations in the Cayman Islands every week, and I keep turning them down because I'm not going to be called a useful idiot for Vladimir Putin when the cows come home! I'm making no money for the law firm, but at least nobody's ever going to call me a Russian agent! I still have my personal integrity!" She saw him look down at the Ivanka Trump necklace she was wearing and quickly took it off. "Fine!" She took the Fabergé necklace off the pigs, replaced it with the Ivanka necklace, and put the Fabergé around her own neck. "But no photos, and I only wear it at home!"

"I'm going to find you some good Russian clients," Edward said impulsively, and even he was unsure if this was because he wanted to make her happy or he was ready to get back in the spy game. "They won't have ties to Flynn or Manafort or Erdogan or the Russian ambassador. They won't be in those cities, owning those properties, going to those meetings. None of it--I promise!"

Back in Washington, Barack Obama was seated at his home computer in Kalorama, ready to take a first stab at his memoirs. They would probably only be here a couple years while Sasha finished high school, but he liked the house and the neighborhood. Still, sometimes something felt...off. He shook it off, looked at his notes again, then looked at the blank page on the computer monitor. He hadn't been planning on writing the Obamacare chapter first, but, seriously? Trumpcare? Literally taking poor Americans off health insurance and making insurance companies richer. The parade of people getting interviewed over and over again on television: "yes, I'm on Obamacare, but I voted for Trump!"  Buyer's remorse, seriously?! Or maybe he would start with the Paris climate plan, now that Pruitt had gone on the record as a full-tilt climate denier bullshitter for the fossil fuel industry. And took "science" off the EPA website!  Sometimes Obama wondered if reality was slipping away from him. He looked out the window at the Secret Service agent pacing the sidewalk. Does he buy this bullshit I wiretapped Trump? Does anybody really buy that bullshit, or are they repeating the lies on purpose?

"On purpose," whispered a woman's voice. He turned around quickly, but there was nobody there.

Down at Southwest Plaza, Dubious McGinty was walking out into the brisk sunshine. The wind was brutally cold, and his old bones were achy, but he had to get out for a bit. It didn't seem that long ago he used to fight with Ardua of the Potomac, but he knew he was no match for the demon living in the parking garage of his apartment building. He smiled at the sight of a lovely young pregnant woman opening a townhouse door to the moving truck which had just parked at her curb. It was Yasmin, whose husband, Dr. Khalid Mohammad, shooed her back into the house--not because he thought Muslim women belonged hidden but because he increasingly thought she could only be safe in this country if she were.

COMING UP:   Another week of 
de-programming Trump's cult followers!

Sunday, March 05, 2017

The Enemy of Your Enemy

Vice-President Pence was in the Oval Office filling in for Donald Trump while POTUS was doing political fundraising, playing golf at Mar-a-Lago, and Tweeting that Barack Obama was responsible for all the damning evidence coming out against Trump's Russian mafia connections.  Not an entirely atypical day for Pence, but still....

"Sir?"  A staff member from the National Security Council was at the door, and the V.P. called for her to come in.  "You're wanted in the Situation Room."

"Not again," Pence muttered under his breath, rising with a silent prayer.

"Not again," Congressman Paul Ryan muttered under his breath, a mile away.  "The pundits actually praised Trump's address to Congress, and then he turns into paranoid Alt-Right conspiracy lunatic again on the weekend!  OOF!"

"Alt-Right," repeated his Thaitastic masseuse, pressing her thumbs into the inflamed adrenal glands at the tip of each kidney while she dug her knees into his buttocks muscles.

"GAAAAA!  How do we push the domestic agenda forward when the GOP has to keep defending him on a weekly basis?"

"GOP," repeated the masseuse, sliding her thumbs under his shoulder blades.

"Aaaaah," the Speaker of the House sighed.  "The Senate goes through all the embarrassment of confirmation hearings for an Alabama good-old-boy, and now Sessions turns out to be a racist and a perjurer!  MOTHER OF--!"

The masseuse was pulling his arms backwards out of their sockets and bending the Speaker's spine backwards.  "Racist and perjurer," she repeated.

"I ask myself every day:  what would Ayn Rand do?  And the answer is always:  look out for herself.  So what do I want?  That's the question. CRIKEY!"

The masseuse was laying down some karate chops on his upper back.  "Look out for herself," she repeated before rolling him onto his back.

"Can I tell you a secret?" the Speaker of the house asked.

"Secret," she repeated, lifting his right leg to rotate his hip.

"I want to be President of the United States.  OW!"

The Thai masseuse had abruptly dropped his leg, sat down to straddle his groin, and pushed both arms above his head.  "I tell you secret now.  Everybody tell me want to be President.  Talk about line of success."

"The line of succession?" he asked, getting aroused.  "Who?"

"No, no, no!" she frowned, getting back up.  "No balls!  No dick!"  She grabbed his left leg and began rotating the hip while he pleaded for names.

Meanwhile, over on Capitol Hill, President Pro Tempore of the Senate, Orrin Hatch, was being wined and dined by the Russia Caucus, though he did not yet realize that.  "We're concerned about how many dominoes might fall," said Texas Congressman Zeke "Slick" Hicks, handing the third-in-line-of-succession a whiskey.

"Oh, I'm not much of a drinker," said Senator Hatch, who had already declined a visit to the Hicks hot tub (where Hicks had placed a couple hookers provided by the Russian ambassador).  "I'll admit that I do have some reservations about the President, but--"

"Exactly!" interrupted the Representative from Oklahoma.  "But what we really need is some stability for our constituents and friends to do their business planning."

"All we're saying, Senator," added Congressman Hicks, offering Hatch a marijuana-laced brownie, which was also declined, "is that petroleum exploration and drilling requires political commitment and cooperation--"

"Such as in the Arctic Circle," interrupted the Representative from Alaska, "and we would like to know if we can count on your support in the event that you end up in the White House."

"This is outrageous!" exclaimed Hatch, though he was secretly thrilled at the thought.  "You are slandering the Vice-President and the Speaker of the House!"

"Oh, no, not at all!" protested Congressman Hicks.  "Unfortunately, sometimes innocent people get swept up with the guilty--"

"Especially if they are defending the guilty," interrupted the Representative from Oklahoma, "so it's important for you to go on the record now."

Congressman Hicks took Hatch by the elbow to turn him towards the hidden video camera and handed him what Hatch thought was a glass of water but which was actually a glass of Russian vodka.  "Sometimes the best way to know what's coming down the pike is to put that race car in the fast lane, Senator."

Senator Hatch took a gulp and started coughing.

Back at the White House, Captain Tyler Glockmann was briefing Vice-President Pence on the location of three Soviet nuclear submarines and (at the secret direction of Condoleezza Rice) stoking his fears about Russian reprisals.

"Reprisals for the smearing of the Russian ambassador?" asked Pence.

"No, sir, Commander," said the Defense Intelligence Agency operative beholden to the Heurich Society.  "Intelligence indicates that Putin is growing impatient for certain promises to be kept."

"What promises?" asked Pence, looking around at a room full of generals, colonels, and their aides.

"We thought you might be able to help us with that," said one of the colonels, with a sad smile on his face.

"I know nothing about the Russians!" insisted Pence, getting red in the face.

"Sometimes it's easier to spot the shadow than the actual object," said Captain Glockmann.

"Come on!" shouted the ghost of Henry Samuelson, who had brought a large contingency from the Ghost CIA to this meeting.  "The time for pussyfooting around is over!"

"Hear, hear!" echoed his colleagues, spectrally glaring at the White House ghosts.

"You're not welcome here!" declared Ghost Dennis.

"We need to work together!" protested Ghost Henry.

"Not with you!" said several members of the Shackled in unison.  "Go away!"

"We wouldn't have to be here if you could get into Trump's head properly!" cried Ghost Henry.

"He hears everything I say!" retorted Ghost Dennis.

"He thinks you're Nelson Rockefeller!" replied Ghost Henry.

"I just need to fine-tune my delivery," pouted Ghost Dennis.

"Ya think?  Because your Nelson street cred didn't get him to understand anything about Nixon, did it?!" glowered Ghost Henry.

"None of this is helping!" said the senior member of the Shackled.

"We need to work on Pence!" exclaimed Ghost Henry.  "Talking to a crazy person doesn't help!  Together we--"

"No!" shouted the Shackled in unison.

"Anyway," said Ghost Dennis with a sigh, "Pence lost his sanity three weeks ago."

A mile away, a slightly hungover Chloe Cleavage was leaving Trump International with a few more nuggets of actionable Russian intelligence (and a touch of Herpes) from Sergei, while a flock of starlings flew off to report to Ardua of the Potomac.

COMING UP:   Home Sweet Home! 

Sunday, February 26, 2017

The so-called judges, so-called reporters, and so-called refugees!

The meeting of the D.C. chapter of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous was underway at the upper Georgetown home of Judge Sowell Ame (who had just gotten his house de-ratted again by a rat terrier brought over by Sebastian L'Arche).  He had paid good money for the de-ratting, and the catering, and he was damned sure determined to get his fair share of the time allotted.

"I go to the annual Kuwaiti Embassy party every year," he began.  "It used to be a nice affair at the Four Seasons.  I could walk there, have nice food, champagne, walk home.  This year Trump pressured the Kuwaitis to move it to Trump International, and it was a nightmare!  First you have to take a taxi, then you have to get through the gauntlet of protesters, then you have to be searched by the Secret Service, then they take your cellphone away for the whole party, then you have to mingle with white trash wearing Ivanka Trump gowns they bought on sale at Tyson's Corner, and as soon as you are introduced as a judge, they roll their eyes at you!"

"So-called judges!" laughed Prince and Prowling junior attorney Bridezilla.

"'Judge' is a title that deserves respect!" cried Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts, turning red.

"They didn't respect Merrick Garland, either," said Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi.  "And the GOP is threatening to shut down the Fed.  It's bad all over."

"Oh, please!  Nobody ever respected economists," replied Judge Ame.

"That's true," said realtor Calico Johnson.  "The economists all said Trump would be a disaster for the economy and the federal budget, but he won the Election, anyway.  I get a lot of hate as a realtor, these days!  People just assume you're a slumlord and that you got rich snapping up properties in foreclosure, even if it's only partially true.  And that's the general public!  A lot of realtors think now you need to have your name on stuff or it doesn't count!"

"Well, I'd like to say that the Trump Administration respects some judges very much!" exclaimed a former member of the FISA Court.  "My colleagues are so busy fielding surveillance requests that they hired me as an outside consultant to get through all the filings!"

"Well, that's a waste of taxpayer money!" barked Dick Cheney.  "Why can't they just rubber-stamp 'em all?  In my day--"

"When dinosaurs roamed the Earth!" whispered a member of N.U.T.T.Y.

"I'm not deaf, missy, and I still have a drone pilot on speed dial!"

"Oh, Dick, you are the funniest!" squealed Bridezilla.  "I have bigger problems than all of you!  I'm supposed to build up the firm's new Russia practice!  How am I supposed to do that?  They don't have any exports except figure skaters and vodka, and the Russian mob doesn't leave any room for anybody else to make a profit."

"Putin should have been taken out fifteen years ago!" growled Cheney.

"Well, we all know you were too busy invading Iraq," said Talaverdi, rolling his eyes.

"You watch it, pal!  You think they're not thinking about putting Italians on the terrorist watch list?  If they're interrogating U.S. citizens returning from Peru, they're halfway there!"

"I'm a legal resident, and I'm married to an American citizen!" replied Talaverdi.  "Your little Mussolini's not laying a finger on me!"

"I would advise you to keep your political opinions to yourself," said Chief Justice Roberts, looking up at the ceiling.

"Don't you worry, Luciano!" said Bridezilla.  "I have a great place to hide you!"

Meanwhile, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle, who was still on anti-hallucination medication but still seeing monsters here and there around town, was desperately trying to become a political reporter.  For weeks he had been spending hours a day sitting in Lafayette Park, where various White House insiders would pop out on their coffee breaks to sit on his park bench, surreptitiously take the burner phone he was holding for them, and send out Tweets and emails to the Resistance.  Sometimes he would try to interrupt them with questions of his own, but usually they would wave him off and keep tapping on the burner phone.  At this rate, he was never even going to be able to write a single WaPo story, let alone convince the senior editors he had excellent sources and should be moved to the political division (which was, of course, the most coveted at the newspaper).  So today he decided to try a different tactic with the National Security Council employee sitting next to him.

"So, um, can you confirm the rumors about ghosts in the White House?"

"Ghosts?" squeaked the staffer in a suddenly high-pitched voice.  "You mean I'm not the only one?"

Over on Capitol Hill, Congressman Herrmark's Chief of Staff, Ann Bishis, was having dinner with her identical twin cousins.

"Why were you delayed in Greece?!  It was supposed to be a two-week vacation!  Was there an immigration problem?!  The Congressman did all that paperwork to explain why you need the work permit to be his personal bodyguards!"

"No, that wasn't the problem," said Nick, pushing his food around the plate.


Nick looked at Costas, and Costas finally started speaking.  "Well, we got married."

"What?!  How?!  What?!  Nobody told me anything!  Why didn't you tell me?  I would have flown over there for the wedding!  But you've had so many girlfriends over here!"

"When you meet the right one, you just know it," said Nick.

"And they were the right one," said Costas.

Ann started laughing.  "How can they be the right one? Your English is so rusty after a month away!"

"So beautiful, double perfection," said Nick.

"Wait, what?  Not identical twins!"  Her cousins smiled sheepishly, and she punched both their arms.  "You two are mental!"

"That is an insult, no?" protested Costas.

"Are they here?  Did you get them visas?  That was the delay?'

"Well, the thing is, they're a little bit Syrian," said Nick.

"What do you mean a 'little bit Syrian?'"

"Kurdish, which is like Greek Syrian," said Costas.

"No, it's not!" retorted Ann.

"Well, it's complicated," said Nick.

"Are you actually telling me you married Syrian refugees?"

"That is such an ugly word, Ann, please!" cried Costas.

"They're not terrorists!" exclaimed Nick.

"I didn't say that!" protested Ann.  "But you can't just up and marry Syrian refugees!"

"Well, we did!" they retorted in unison.

Back at the White House, a somewhat inebriated and very lecherous Steve Bannon tried to follow Special Science Adviser Bibi Von Braun into the East Wing, but she pepper-sprayed him and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Did you see that?" he sputtered, turning around to the nearby Secret Service agent before falling down, half-blind and fully in pain.

"Sir, that's the residence.  We need you to stay in the West Wing."

"Get me help, you asshole, and arrest her!"

"She has access, sir.  She's his doctor."

"What kind of doctor pepper-sprays a Chief Strategist?  GOD, THIS HURTS LIKE HELL!"

"I thought you were a fan of Satan, sir."  The agent pressed his comm.  "Can somebody fetch the alt-doctor?  We've got Alt-Right One down.  Please bring the alt-stretcher because he's drunk off his alt-ass."

"You're fired!"

"Doesn't work like that, sir."

Bannon pulled out his gun to shoot the agent, but only blanks came out.

"Doesn't work like that, sir," the agent repeated.

The enemy of your enemy.... 

Sunday, February 19, 2017

A new conspiracy theory!

Militiaman and conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann had been to almost every Trump protest held in Washington in the past two weeks.  He would feign reluctance when his young roommate Brittani dragged him out of their Southwest Plaza apartment (which she was constantly doing, since the real estate demon was upsetting her a lot), and he would complain about his neglected Beckmann's Floral Cushions (AKA Beckmann's Bad Asses) clients, but secretly he was glad for the excuses to do a lot of reconnaissance, trying to understand what was going on.  The last meeting held of the Hunter-Gatherer Society had almost caused the group to disintegrate, with members arguing about everything from the Trump boys' namby-pamby hunting techniques to whether a Jew could be a white supremacist.  This afternoon he finally had some peace and quiet to think while Brittani was at her GED class prior to dragging him off to the Supreme Court this evening for another rally.  He understood that the poor girl had been through quite an ordeal in her young and bizarre marriage, and suspected she was running around to all these protests more for the adrenaline rush than from highly developed political opinions, but he was an adroit political analyst with years of experience in the military [imagined] and private security [criminal], so it was high time for him to connect all the dots and explain to his blog readers what was really going on in Washington.  He lit another joint and sat down to his computer.

Meanwhile, psychiatrist Ermann Esse had seen a fair amount of odd clients over the years, but his undercover CIA work as Melania Trump's fashion designer "Gunther Zimmer" had been an extremely strange experience.  Every weekend he was in Florida with his pin cushion, needle, and thread for fashion emergencies--which usually consisted of his doing a quick hypnosis to calm Melania down while he fiddled with imaginary loose threads in the outfits the CIA was having made in NYC.  For most of the weekend, he would be left to wander around the resort eavesdropping on millionaires and billionaires--secretly diagnosing their Hercules complexes, Oedipus complexes, Napoleonic complexes, and Eva Braun complexes.  Then he would fly back to NYC, where he would work daily with Melania on her personal wardrobe, as well as her flagging fashion line, during the hours that Barron was in school.  His CIA mission was to hypnotize her into influencing Trump, but he could see no evidence that she had any influence on Trump, let alone influence that could be manipulated by him.  But with the CIA still blackmailing him, he had little choice but to stay on mission.  Sometimes he felt guilty that they ended up having kinky sex when he attempted the hypnosis sessions, but the woman was in the worst and most embarrassing trophy-wife marriage he had ever seen, and she was desperate for the touch of a man who did not give her the willies.  And, he told himself, it would be worse for her if she got caught having sex with Secret Service agents!  Better for him to satisfy her!  His CIA handlers, of course, would have loved nothing better than to receive tape of her having sex with Secret Service agents, but he did not want her to be the sacrificial lamb.  And so he would lock the door, let her strip to her underwear prior to trying on a new outfit for fitting, say hypnotic words until she relaxed, start offering suggestions to her for influencing her husband, and then find her ripping off his clothes instead of putting on her own.  It was a failed mission, but he was enjoying it.

Over at the White House, special science adviser Bibi Von Braun (real name Barbara Hellmeister), was in the White House bedroom where she now lived--though she still frequently visited her secret lair atop the 14th Street Bridge because she found it very energizing to be there (twenty feet above the demon Ardua).  She was pleased that the Hitler DNA coursing through Trump's veins was, in fact, leading to the advancement of policies putting the white race back on top, but she was pessimistic about his stability and stamina.  Her chemical experiments to strengthen his heart, clear his arteries, and melt his body fat were not making much progress, and she was quite certain that Melania was deliberately sabotaging him with fatty cheeses and cured meats.  Trump's sons were too obsessed with money to devote the needed time to racial advancement, and his daughters too obsessed with fashion.  And so Barbara knew it was up to her to bring the next great Hitler into the world.  She had read every word her Nazi scientist grandfather had written on fertility, and was constantly giving Trump vigorous sexual therapy sessions to try to get pregnant, but her frequent examination of his sperm under the microscope showed they were tired and unwilling to swim.  She realized she was going to have to do this in a petri dish and had set up all the lab equipment she needed in her (constantly locked) East Wing bedroom.  Trump would be very eager after his return from Florida--pumped up about his adoring "masses" (ha! nothing like the Fuhrer's) but frustrated by his wife's near frigidity (Slavic peasant stock!).  Bibi would bring him his nighttime smoothie and get to work.

Meanwhile, triple agent Charles Wu was delivering "C. Coe Phant" a nice wad of cash in exchange for spilling some State Department secrets over lunch at The Palm.  Unfortunately, the secrets were messy, confusing, and not very promising for re-sell to Beijing or London.  In fact, "Phant" could not actually verify what the new Secretary of State was going to do about anything because Tillerson did not have enough political appointees in place to develop more than a loose framework favoring petroleum-drilling and paying lip-service to the NATO alliance.  Though Wu had convinced Beijing to grant Trump a valuable Chinese trademark in exchange for affirmation of the One-China policy, the spy was under considerable pressure to get the U.S. to pull back from even the slightest deference to Russia.  This remained a seemingly impossible task, despite the best efforts of an army of Chinese and U.S. hackers to unearth counter-blackmail material.  Sensing Wu's frustration, "Phant" cleared his throat.  "I think, ultimately, there is actually not going to be much upheaval at State or in world diplomacy.  Probably a movement back towards a George H.W. Bush style of--"

"Starting a new war in the Middle East?" Wu interrupted.  "Iran?  To drive up oil prices?  Will he nuke Tehran?  Does he realize that would cause nuclear fallout on Trump hotels and golf courses in Dubai and Saudi Arabia?  Does he understand how any of this works?"

"I just work at State, Charles," replied "Phant", adding a suggestion that Wu search for a reliable source inside the White House.

Wu pulled back the cellphone case he had placed on the table, unzipped it, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, handed it to "Phant", and stuck the case with the remaining wad of cash back in his coat pocket.  "Alright, see you around," Wu said, getting up to leave.

Back in Southwest Plaza, with the hot breath of both global warming and the local real estate demon causing the buzzed Glenn Michael Beckmann to sweat profusely, and after having perused all his favorite #alternativefacts news sites on the Web, he was finally confident about, and ready to blog on, his latest conspiracy theory:  Donald Trump was a puppet king installed by aliens to weaken human civilization and make the imminent invasion of Earth easy....

COMING UP:  The so-called judges, 
so-called reporters, and so-called refugees!

Sunday, February 12, 2017

And Justice for All!?

"General Sessions?"  Justice Department Attorney Atticus Hawk grabbed his pen and yellow pad to listen to his new Attorney General--Jefferson Beauregard Sessions (who liked to be called "General Sessions")--give a new assignment over the speaker phone.

"Now, they're not telling me about this new Executive Order exactly because they've got so many leaks in the White House.  We just need to prepare for all possibilities."  (Sessions spoke in a slow and easy Alabama drawl, which Hawk found soothing...except for when it was not.)  "I need you to work on a brief for the defense of a possible order allowing Immigration to hand arrivals over for transport to Guantánamo."

"GITMO?!  Sir!"

"'GENERAL!'" barked Sessions, losing his cool and his drawl.

"General, sir, Guantánamo was for enemy combatants picked up during conflict."

"The conflict is everywhere, Hawk!  We can't have namby-pamby lawyers showing up at airports saying they're gonna represent people likely to be scum of the Earth just because they're refugees or resident legal aliens working as emergency room doctors or Microsoft engineers!  These people need to be interrogated!"

"Oh, boy," sighed Hawk.

"I was told you had written more legal memos and briefs about Guantánamo than anybody else," said the Attorney General.

"Well, yes, sir, General."

"I'm not gonna let another DOJ embarrassment happen like the Acting Attorney General did in the Ninth Circuit," said Sessions.

"No, sir, General, sir."

"I think this Order could go in various directions, and I need briefs ready for all of them."

"General Sessions, there are no precedents for--"

"Don't talk to me about precedents, son!  We are livin' in unprecedented times!"

"If somebody is a legal permanent resident--"

"Then they should've stayed permanently residing in the U.S. instead of traipsing off to crazy foreign countries on vacation!  Now, get to work lickety split!  I got other skillets on the campfire!"

"Yes, sir, General Sessions."  Hawk hung up the phone.  If somebody in this Administration has a heart attack, they're gonna be shocked at the sea of brown faces working the GW Hospital emergency room.  He clutched his gut with one hand while grabbing the Pepto Bismal bottle with the other.  And somebody already told him, and now I'm the Torture Expert again.

Of course, for every Atticus Hawk available to the new Attorney General, there were dozens of other civil servants who had resigned and could not be replaced under Trump's hiring freeze, not to mention a suite full of empty offices not yet filled by his own political appointees.  And of the hundreds of attorneys he had at his disposal, he sure did not trust most of them.  And so he had already turned to outside counsel....

"Ladies and gentlemen," began former Senator Evermore Breadman, sitting at the head of the largest conference table Prince and Prowling had.  "Our law firm has been retained to assist the new Attorney General in preparing legal defense memos pertaining to the dozens of lawsuits already filed against President Trump."  (Several half-chewed brownies and blondies actually fell out of people's mouths as jaws dropped around the table.)  "Now, some of you are aware we sidestepped getting hired by Trump operatives during the campaign, but things are different now.  We have always said this law firm can thrive in any political scenario, and this will be no different."

"No different?" asked several partners in unison, while senior associates took swallows of coffee trying to make their brain cylinders start firing more rapidly.

"My husband couldn't even get into the country two weeks ago!" complained one of the tax partners.  "He's a law professor at Georgetown!  He was returning from an international conference on chemical weapons!"

"This was not an easy decision," said Breadman, "but when a law firm is called to serve its country--"

He was interrupted by a peal of laughter from junior partner Bridezilla.  "Goodness gracious!  The amount of Ivanka Trunk clothing I was able to purchase on 70% discount yesterday!  This is all too funny.  Yes, let's serve our country!"

Breadman frowned at the increasingly odd junior partner and looked for reinforcements from the Managing Partner, who told the assembly that they had negotiated a great billing package.  (The Managing Partner did NOT tell them that a big part of the deal was allowing their state-of-the-art review center bunker to exit from further legal monitoring on deferred-prosecution labor violations.)

"But a wide variety of parties are suing the Administration, including private corporations," said junior partner Felix Cigemeier.  "We might end up with a lot of conflicts of interest."

"In these times of economic uncertainty for corporate America, we actually feel it is financially safer to take on a large government client with a booming case load and severe understaffing at the moment," said the Managing Partner.

"And there's no reason to tell any of your corporate clients about this," said Breadman, and Bridezilla started laughing again.

"Of course not!" she exclaimed.  "Some of our corporate clients are probably owned by Trump anyway!  Nobody's seen the tax returns explaining his five-thousand different limited liability corporations all over the world!"

"Well, I don't think this is humorous!" said the disgruntled tax partner, who had already decided it was time to take up that offer to jump over to Prince and Prowling's arch-enemy:  Lye, Cheit and Steele.

"We don't take this decision lightly," said the Managing Partner.  "Evermore even believes the Trump Administration will be shorter-lived than almost any Presidency in our nation's history."

"But we will gain valuable DOJ insights which will serve our clients for years to come," added Breadman, to more than a few gasps.

Not far away, contract attorney Laura Moreno was carrying a box of binders when she passed Breadman's Wall of Me.  She put down the heavy box to take a breather while she examined the updated photos:  Breadman standing next to Jeff Sessions, Breadman standing next to Steve Mnuchin, Breadman standing next to Tom Price.  It was the disappointed lechery of Breadman that had gotten Moreno demoted back down from a staff attorney position, and she only hesitated for a moment before removing several framed photos and walking them out into the hallway to be dumped in the ladies' room trash.

A mile to the south, Dulles Samuelson finished cleaning the upper deck of his houseboat, Singapore Surprise, and headed down to the smells of Angela de la Paz's cooking.  She was going on very few assignments for Charles Wu, and, as far as he knew, not taking on any supernatural missions, either--despite the large amount of time she spent in the Dreamtime.  She wouldn't tell him much about the Dreamtime, and he couldn't tell her much about his new FBI workload, so lately they had not talked much at all except about the weather and whatever television program Angela was currently binge-watching.  Was she feeling guilt?  Despair?  Anger?  Whatever it was, she wasn't the kick-ass killer of zombies and demons he had once known.  But he was determined to do what he came to Washington to do:  fight evil.  He had just hoped it would be more by her side, and less in the entrenched bureaucracy of the FBI--where he was pretty sure the entire White House staff (including Trump) were under investigation, but where he, a new agent, was still assigned to routine criminal investigations.  He knew there was nobody in Washington who could bring down Trump faster than she could, but she wouldn't.  Why?  He had asked himself that a hundred times.  She knew Trump had no soul!  Why?

"Smells good," he said, entering the kitchen area.

"I'm going to go to El Salvador for awhile," she replied, not looking at him.


"Visit my relatives."

"You're not in touch with any of those relatives!  Who's still alive down there?"

"A couple cousins."  She added more ingredients and resumed stirring the pot.

"Are you mad at me about something?"

She put down the spoon and finally turned to look at him.  "I tried to do it."


"Get Trump's soul back from Satan.  I couldn't do it!"

"What?!  Is that why you've been been in the Dreamtime so much?!"

"I couldn't do it!"

"What about Steve Bannon?"

"Don't you think I tried that, too?!"

"That's all the more reason for you to stay here!  A lot of people need protection!"

"You think I don't know that?!" she cried, tears welling up.  "I just need to be in some other country for awhile.  I can't stand any of this.  I can't believe what my parents went through to get to this country, and the politicians are just throwing it all to Hell!"

He put his arms around her and let her cry into his chest.  "It'll be okay," he said.  "There are plenty of other people in this fight.  You do what you need to do.  I'll be here when you're ready to come back."

A few miles away, attorney Coretta Rosa McIntyre smiled grimly after her final reading of the next lawsuit Goode Peepz was filing against the Trump Administration the next morning.  "I will do this as long as it takes," she said to the photo of Jeff Sessions and Donald Trump adorning her dartboard.  "You're all going down!"  She turned back to the computer and pressed the print button.

COMING UP:  A new conspiracy theory!