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 ....

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 dogs 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....

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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.

"What?!"

"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."

"What?"

"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.

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COMING UP:  A new conspiracy theory!

Sunday, February 05, 2017

White House Diaries

Diary of Clio, the White House butler:
I've never felt so low since the twins fell off the roof and died!  Everything is so UGLY now.  Ugly people, ugly words, ugly gold spray paint.  Making the maids change his damned hand-wash satin sheets every day because he's doing such ugly things in that bed with God-knows-who, since his wife is never here!  Those Russian and Slovenian women sent over from the hotel as "massage therapists"!  What a disgusting man.  And that strange woman Bibi Von Braun!  They say she's Trump's Special Science Adviser, but he gave her full access to the EAST Wing, and she's always messing around--up to no good, I'm sure.  She keeps putting special-blend smoothies in his mini-fridge for him to drink first thing in the morning, and Rhonda swears she saw Dr. Von Braun collecting hair from his bathtub!  Is she doing voodoo on him?  I don't know!  The worst thing is I'm seeing Regina and Ferguson everywhere!  I'm gonna have to look for a new psychiatrist.  I see those kids running around on a tear--making people trip, hiding their keys, changing the TV channels to CNN, rubbing spare scarves and neckties in the potted plant dirt, sending Tweets on people's phones.  And I KNOW Reggie and Fergie were the ones that sprinkled white pepper in Trump's underwear drawer!  That man's always walking around scratching himself!  But I have to admit, I laughed pretty hard when I heard that they keep finding a jar of Mexican salsa on Trump's Oval Office desk!  That's the only thing that's made me laugh in quite awhile.

Diary of Randy "Bubba" Blaylock, Trump's personal security detail:
And my ex said I'd never amount to anything!  HA!  First, I freed our daughter from that white slavery thing, then I found that Rolex, and now I got a job working for the President of the United States himself!  I would've thought my criminal record would prevent me from getting a gig like this, but Mr. Bannon recruited me straight off my Facebook page!  Said he liked what I was posting about Darth Vader, Dick Cheney, and the need for every man to fulfill his bad-ass destiny!  I mean, I knew I was a bad-ass, but after I got Brittani out of that dungeon, things just TOOK OFF!  (Where is that girl, anyway?  Her dumb-ass mama and new sissified husband already lost track of her!)  I LOVE working for POTUS!  Yeah, that's what we call him around here!  Except some of us call him KOTUS 'cause he's the KING, baby!  Don't get me wrong--I know he can be an asshole sometimes, and I honestly don't think I would take a bullet for a man too cowardly to kill his own spiders (he won't do it!).  But, man, I'd love to SEE somebody try to take him out so that I can whip out my gun and shoot the perp!  And then I'd pistol-whip him and stomp on him, too--although maybe that would be hard if a bunch of other people jump him at the same time.  My real fantasy, though, would be for Bannon to say, "Dudes!  We've discovered that ALL the reporters at the White House briefing are secretly working for North Korea and Iran!  We need you to put on your gas masks, then go in there and beat the crap out of them after they're blinded by the tear gas!"  And I would be like, "Are we KILLING them, like Trump said on that O'Reilly interview??!!!"  And Bannon would just WINK!  And then I would be like, "What about the Fox reporter?  Or that blogger from the Aryan Nation?"  And Bannon would be like, "They'll be taken to safety with Angry Spice first!"  (That's what we call Spicer!  What a Spice Girls fag!  He should shave his head, get a tattoo or something.)  Man, I really do hope I get a chance to beat the crap out of somebody soon, or I might have to find a new girlfriend, ha ha ha ha!  Man, this Rolex itches.

Diary of Ghost Dennis:
He's listening to everything I say!  This is the first U.S. President who has actually listened to me since Richard Nixon--in his first two years, that is.  Trump can HEAR me!  Unfortunately, he argues with me constantly!  He thinks I'm the ghost of Nelson Rockefeller!  In what universe do I sound like Nelson Rockefeller?  "That's not true, Nelson!" Trump says!  "And I don't take advice from guys who can't get into the White House by themselves."  WHAT?! I tried to talk to him about why Nixon almost got impeached, and he said, "LOSER!  Resigned the Presidency!  They'll never impeach me--the people love me!  And I'll get anybody who doesn't have my back!"  I said, "Mr. President, your approval rating is hovering between 30 and 40%, and your own WIFE does not even have your back--didn't you see that footage of her incredible frowny face when you were taking the oath of office?"  And then he went off again about how everybody's lying that his inauguration was NOT the greatest, most impressive spectacle ever witnessed in the history of television democracy ratings.  Then I got tired and went away for awhile.  When I tried to go back to tell him he's being lied to about Poland's invading Belarus, he said, "Not now, Nelson!  I gotta reply to Arnold's latest Tweet!"  Can a ghost go insane?  I think I'm losing it.

Diary of @RoguePotusStaff:
Saturday Night Massacre--Bannon got a dozen people fired while Trump was in Florida.  He trusts almost nobody, with good cause!  But he actually fired some of the wrong people.  Still, we're switching out the burner phones again and lying low for a bit.  If he only knew!  Cooks, maids, Secret Service agents, protocol officers, RNC staffers, chauffeurs.  But after he fired those people, a couple more turned to our side!  They said their wives had them kidnapped by Solomon Kane and de-programmed from the Trump cult by a weird group of clerics calling themselves the Seekers!  Whatever works, man.  Resist!  Thank God no major policy announcements during the Super Bowl, but I know we'll be dealing with fallout from a bunch of asinine Trump Tweets soon enough--I'm a little terrified to find out what the ACLU is going to unleash, actually.  They're rich!  Surely the first time in history they have enough donations to buy a Super Bowl ad.  And Lady Gaga?  Man, if somebody doesn't get him to turn the channel over to the Puppy Bowl during her halftime show, it's gonna be ugly on @RealDonaldTrump.

Diary of Bridge, the White House gardener:
Crocus and daffodils starting to poke up a bit, too soon.  More freezes coming.  Maybe Hell will even freeze over.  Clio's kids gone hog-wild again, but those pre-schoolers more mature than #SoCalledPresident.  I gotta work on those rose plants tomorrow, even though I'm not sure he'll ever sign anything in the Rose Garden.  Just Tweets, then signs what the #UnholyTrinity tell him to sign, and then he Tweets some more.  And Ghost Dennis?  Ooh, boy.  Things are too riled up on that side, too riled up.

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COMING UP:  And Justice for all!?

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Carnage

"Your new title is what?" asked triple agent Charles Wu, staring across the Chez Grand Mere table at the man formerly known as the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope.

"I don't have the new business cards yet," he replied.

"I'm sorry--I just don't think I heard you right," said Wu.

"Assistant Deputy Administrator for Carnage," said the State Department official.  "Could we just move on now?"

"Carnage?"  Hong Kong-born Wu had learned English at some of the best schools in Britain, but he was suddenly doubtful about his grasp of this word.  "Carnage?  As in--"

"I don't know what it means!  Let's move on."

"Massive destruction?  Loss of life?"

"It's just a title!  We have more important things to discuss," wailed the ADAfC, fighting back the tears.

"Look, I would very much like to work together in the coming weeks," began Wu, but the ADAfC interrupted him.

"Weeks?!"

"Do you think he'll last more than a few weeks?  My point is that Beijing, quite frankly, is content right now to sit back and let Trump blow up your country.  If Trump does not want to be a global leader that anybody actually follows, Beijing does not have a problem with that."

"China needs to throw him a bone, or tariffs are coming," replied the ADAfC, stabbing at his food.

"A bone?" asked Wu, incredulously.  "Have you forgotten that Beijing is financing the federal debt here?"

"No," said the ADAfC quietly, reaching for another swallow of expensive French brandy.  "He just wants China to show some favorable response to his leadership, such as retreating from those islands."

The ADAfC was now eating his rosemary potatoes, not even making eye contact with Wu, who could see the facial tic and feel the vibration coming from the ADAfC's foot tapping nervously on the table leg below them.

"That's a non-starter, I'm sorry," said Wu, and he was sorry--sorry that this man must have barely escaped the State Department massacre, sorry for himself that he could earn very little espionage money (or brownie points) in a country where diplomacy was dead, sorry that his SuperPAC adviser at Prince and Prowling had been told to start up a Russia Practice, sorry for his young daughter to have to grow up in a country with a disgusting pig calling the shots.  "Please convey to your boss that China would welcome a new role as the strongest country on the United Nations Security Council.  Please convey to your boss that the U.S. cannot win a trade war with China.  And please convey to your boss this."  With that, Wu handed the ADAfC a printed-out email, recently hacked, which the State Department official promptly read and started having a panic attack over.  "They say Rex Tillerson only cares about drilling oil, but he might care about that," added Wu.

Meanwhile, Prince and Prowling staff attorney Chloe Cleavage had already received her first anonymous payment from Charles Wu, which the British agents claimed to know nothing about.  Humiliated that her secret call-girl life had been exposed by Nigel ("Prickly") Hawthorne and Richard ("The Third") Mollington, she was just as eager as Wu had predicted to run with the agents' suggestions that she work at getting the Russian businessmen staying at Trump International Hotel to compromise Trump on tape.  After they had arranged her training meeting with Wu agents Apricot Lily and Camisole Silk, and assured her that her activities would ultimately lead to freeing a lot of Eastern European women from sex trafficking, she was ready to return to the swank hotel for another party in the "Russian" suite.  She smiled nervously at the young girls, who looked paler and more glassy-eyed than last time.  She thought she recognized a couple of Prince and Prowling's Exxon clients, so she made a beeline to the other end of the suite.  Apricot Lily and Camisole Silk had told her that the fattest, baldest, ugliest men were the easiest to manipulate, but they still gave her the willies, so she walked up to youngish Sergei, who handed her his own drink.  "Nice Muslim ban, eh?" he asked.

"Yeah!" she fake-giggled.  (Worst pick-up line ever!)  "Does Russia have a Muslim ban?"

"Oh, they don't come to Russia," he said.  "We have a big wall!"  Then he started laughing at his own joke.

"In more than one place!" she said, suggestively, but the comment only confused him.

"No, that was joke--no wall."

"I know," smiled Chloe, "but this is hard."  She pressed her hand against his pectoral muscles (which, she was disappointed to find out, were not actually hard).

"Yeah, lots of hard things," he said, putting an arm around her.

"How hard are Trump's things?" she asked.

"Would you like me to tell you about Trump's things?" he asked with a smile.

A mile to the west, it was the most chaotic meeting the Heurich Society had ever held.

"Silence!" shouted the Chair, Condoleezza Rice, from the giant flat-screen television beaming her face across the country into the upper-floor meeting room of the Brewmaster's Castle.  "We will discuss every item in agenda order!"

"You promised that Tillerson would protect our interests!" complained the international banker.

"Give him a chance!" exclaimed Rice.  "He doesn't even have a full team in place yet at State."

"A team?" cried the former CIA officer.  "What does any of this have to do with teams?  Trump is uncontrollable!"

"He can be controlled!" insisted Rice.  "He's just got some egomania steam to blow off first, and then--"

"And then what?!" interrupted the international arms merchant.  "Israel makes a first strike against Iran?  Beijing drops a neutron bomb on Taiwan?  I can't sell arms to people who are wiped off the map!"

"Don't be so melodramatic!" retorted Rice.

"We have reports from ten of our overseas mining operations that they will be expropriated in the event of a trade war with the U.S.," said the Treasurer.  "U.S. currency is about to take a nose-dive."

"I admit it's a rocky start--"

"There are Homeland Security agents attacking journalists in a New York airport," said a Midwestern Congressman.  "Things are spinning out of control!"

"Oh, it's not that bad," said Captain Tyler Glockmann, rolling his wheelchair into the room and waving to Condoleezza Rice on the video screen.  "Turns out I'm not the only rogue employee at the Defense Intelligence Agency.  Let me tell you:  it's been a very interesting week there!"

Over at the White House, Nazi Barbara Hellmeister--with a new face and a new name--entered the West Wing for her interview to be a Special Scientific Adviser to the President, while demons danced and angels wept.

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COMING UP:  White House diaries!

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Resistance!

Militiaman and conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann was feeling completely out of his element, having been dragged to the Women's March by his roommate, Brittani.

"Come on, Glenn, smile!  This is resistance!  You hate Trump!  You spent hours yesterday blocking that security point to keep his supporters from going to that parade!"

"I wouldn't have bothered if I had known how few people were coming for it!" he replied.

"Isn't this fun?" she teased.

"I don't see why I have to wear this pink hat," he replied.

"Because your camouflage clothes would have scared people without it!" Brittani retorted.

"Ashley Judd did kick some ass in that 'Divergent' movie, but her speech here was a little over the top, don't you think?"

"We all need to go over the top every now and then!" laughed Brittani, who was still a silly 15-year-old girl in many ways, but needed to grow up fast after the Nazi lunacy and demonic traumas she had witnessed in 2016.

Beckmann was armed with two guns, three knives, and four hand grenades, but he had never been more confused in his life about what his militiamen should be fighting for.  And now he was reading a sign saying vaginas were stronger than balls!  "Can we go home now?  I think it's gonna rain."

Meanwhile, Coretta Rosa McIntyre, Goode Peepz law firm's newest Harvard Law hire, was sorry to miss the Women's March, but she was not yet done preparing all the Freedom of Information Act requests and court filings the firm wanted to do a press conference about Monday morning.  The only visible sign that she had taken any break at all was a color-printed screen-grab she had pinned to her bulletin board:  "The arc of history bends slowly, but it bends toward punching Nazis"--complete with a still frame of Richard Spencer's being punched on live television.

Over at the Arlington Group Home for the Mentally Challenged, social worker Hue Nguyen was taking a dimmer view of physical assault.  The Home had long prided itself on being co-ed and inclusive, but things had taken a sudden turn after the inauguration, with all the women complaining that Larry and Buckner were groping them whenever the social worker on duty was not around.  Larry insisted it was a lie and that the women were just riled up about the Women's March in DC, while Buckner claimed he was only trying to be a macho man like President Trump.

"Don't say 'President Trump' in here, you Russian traitor!" cried Cedric, clutching his teddy bear Aloysius.  "As soon as he visits the CIA, whammo!  They have a hundred ways to kill him and make it look like an old man with blubbery cholesterol died a natural death!"

"Cedric!" exclaimed Hue Nguyen, the social worker on duty.

"Or the Ghost CIA will just scare him to death!  Ghost Henry gets scarier every time I see him."

"Killing is never the answer," said Nguyen.

"It is if you're defending somebody else from getting killed!" said Theresa.

"Like that Nazi who got punched during the ABC interview!" giggled Melinda.  "Bam!"

"Only the appropriate law enforcement authorities--" began Nguyen.

"He controls them all now!" said Buckner.

"Shut up, you groper!" exclaimed Theresa.

"Yes, this is what we need to discuss," said the social worker.  "Private parts are private parts here.  If we cannot maintain these simple rules, you might all end up in a living arrangement you like a lot less."

"It's not like I whipped my private parts out!" protested Buckner.

"You grabbed mine!" cried Melinda.

"You still had your clothes on!" retorted Buckner.  "It's just locker room fun, like our President said."

"Stop calling him that!" exclaimed Cedric.  "You're upsetting Aloysius!"

It was then that the group home's helping dog Millie decided to take things into her own hands--or, rather, her own jaws--clamping her mouth down on Buckner's genitalia.  The man yelped in pain, causing Theresa and Melinda to laugh and clap their hands.

"Millie!" cried the social worker, but the dog held on.

"Now, how does it feel?!" Melinda taunted Buckner.

"Alright, alright!  I'll stop grabbing your pu--"

"Don't say it!" admonished the social worker.  "Larry, what about you?"

"I never groped anybody," he lied, causing Millie to let go of Buckner and wrap her teeth around Larry's private parts.  "Ow!  Alright, alright, I'll stop!"

"This is an important issue," said Freddy Ritchings (AKA Brother Divine of the International Peace Movement).  "I must preach on this tomorrow during my Church of Twitter service!"

"You mention my name on Twitter, I'll kill you!" exclaimed Buckner.

"The names will be changed to protect the innocent!" said Freddy.  "The times will be changed to protect the reticent!  The colors will be changed to protect the indigent!  The flowers will be changed to protect the magnificent!"

"That makes no sense," said Theresa, now petting her protector, Millie.

Does it ever? asked Aloysius.

Over at the White House, reluctant CIA agent Dr. Ermann Esse had made unexpected progress in getting close to President Trump.  Though his undercover identity as fashion designer "Gunther Zimmer" had not gotten him very far in October, it was a different story now that it was clear how many fashion designers were refusing to make clothes for Melania.  Suddenly a favorite of the First Lady, the psychiatrist now found himself frequently having bizarre conversations with her and making crazy dress sketches to capture her whims--sketches he would get to his CIA handlers as soon as possible so that they could get the clothing actually made.  And now she was advertising the fashions on the taxpayer-funded White House website!  "Isn't that illegal?" he had asked his handlers.

"You let the sequestered FBI Grand Jury deal with that," they had replied.  "Your job is hypnotism!"

And so "Gunther" desperately tried to psychoanalyze the First Lady, whose Slovenian psyche and shady rise to the top made for a far different patient than any he had ever had before.  The shrink could not hypnotize her until he understood what her soft spot was, and that he still had not found.

Back at the Women's March, Dr. Khalid Mohammad kept turning to look at the face of his wife, Yasmin, who was enthralled by the speakers.  Khalid had done the one thing you are never supposed to do--marry somebody in hopes of changing them--but Yasmin really was changing.  She kept touching her pregnant belly and smiling, proud to be a woman and happy to be in a huge crowd where Muslims were welcome.  (She no longer wore a head scarf, but was happy to see some women did.)  "This is the best thing I have ever done!" she exclaimed, turning to kiss her husband, and Khalid smiled, wondering who this woman was.

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COMING UP:  The State Department's Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope 
has a new title-- 
Assistant Deputy Administrator for Carnage!

Sunday, January 15, 2017

Russia Today!

"Who is Martin Luther King, Jr.?" little Delia was asking her English governess.

"A great American who was secretly investigated by the FBI as a Communist--the same FBI who now turns a blind eye to Russia's financial and degenerate blackmail against Donald Trump."

"Oh, my!" said Buffy Cordelia's father, Charles Wu, entering the room.  "Perhaps we can pull up a documentary or something."

"Well, you don't want me to shield her from the truth, do you?"

"She's only four, Mrs. Higgety-Cheshire!"

"I will not raise a child in ignorance!"

"Why are you fighting?" asked Delia, her lips quivering.

"We're not fighting, sweetheart," said the triple agent, picking her up.  "We just need to have a talk about what our pre-kindergarten educational goals are this year."

"We need to start stocking canned goods," retorted Mrs. H-C.

Several miles away on Capitol Hill, Texas Congressman Zeke "Slick" Hicks was holding the second meeting of the secret Russia Caucus, which was already in tumult.

"I thought this was about dividing up oil drilling rights in the Arctic," said a Representative from Alaska.  "I'm not comfortable with Russia Today hacking into C-Span!"

"That was an unfortunately overexcited teenage intern," said Rep. Hicks.  "He has been dealt with."

"Dealt with?" said a Representative from Louisiana.  "You promised this would not get Putinesque!"

"That's not what I meant!" said Slick Hicks.  "Here are your new Exxon pre-paid gasoline debit cards.  They each have $3,000 on them."

"Gas is not that expensive right now," muttered the Representative from Ohio.

"Well, you can buy other things at those stations:  milk, bread, magazines, cigarettes, lottery tickets--"

"Lottery tickets!" scoffed the Representative from Alaska.  "I want some cold hard--"  He abruptly stopped himself, then said in a whisper, "How do we know the Russians aren't taping us right now?"

"This is my house," exclaimed Slick Hicks, "not some sleazy Moscow hotel full of hookers!"

Then the others started wondering how he had afforded this house, anyway.

Nearby, the Dog Whisperer was in Lincoln Park, asking his colleague Becky Hartley to take all the dog leashes.

"Sebastian, what is going on?!  I can hardly hold these three--they're all going crazy!"

Sebastian L'Arche did not answer her as he shoved additional leashes into her hands and told the dogs to calm down.  Then he trotted over to the bushes where The Gopper Ghost was wagging his tail at his old friend.  Anatoly needs to talk you, said TGG.  The Whisperer squatted down to his level and then saw the dead Samoyed harboring the ghost of the former Russian diplomat, Anatoly Malenkov.

You need to move on!, whispered L'Arche, who had never come to grips with the idea of canine ghosts--something living dogs found even more disturbing than human ghosts.

Nyet! barked Anatoly.

And you're human!  You have no right to even be in that Samoyed!

He's in doggy heaven, no problem! barked Anatoly.  I'm still in danger!  I know too much!

Danger!?  L'Arche was gripping his own head with both heads, feeling he was losing his mind.  Get out of this world!  Go to the light!

No light! barked Anatoly.  I am needed in this world, to warn everybody about Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin!

Anatoly, whispered L'Arche, the world already knows, and nobody can stop it!

Up in Cleveland Park, Charles Wu was arriving for his meeting with two British agents.  "Nobody can stop it, mate," said Nigel ("Prickly") Blackthorne before Wu had even sat down at the Comet Ping Pong table.

"Don't call me 'mate,'" said the Hong Kong-born occasional agent for the British, unzipping his coat with a frown.

"Look, we came all the way up here to this death-threat restaurant in Cleveland Park because it's convenient to you," retorted Prickly, "so piss off!"

"Calm down, the lot of you!" said the other British agent, Richard ("The Third") Mollington.  "Have a slice, Charles."

"I need to support this place--it's my daughter's favorite," said Wu.  "And if I were in any danger here, I would know."  He nodded to the server who recognized Wu and was already going back to get the order Wu had phoned in.

"You would know, hmm?" asked Prickly, sarcastically.

"Yes," said Wu, "I have the best bodyguard in D.C."  (He was referring to his supernaturally prescient employee, Angela de la Paz.)

"Well, she's not here, mate," said Prickly.

"I said not to call me--"

"Alright," said The Third.  "Why did you invite us here?  You ready to kiss and make up or not?"

"Is the Steele dossier accurate?" asked Wu.

"Do you really need to ask?" replied The Third.  "We've got a bloody Prime Minister who thinks Brussels is a bigger threat than a man who had a Russian dissident poisoned in London!"

"I have an idea," said Wu, who was working closely with Chinese hackers but was also interested in trying a more old-fashioned approach--and this is what he needed the British for.  "My surveillance of Trump International Hotel revealed a suite of Eastern European prostitutes."

"Everybody knows that," said Prickly.

"Not everybody knows that a Prince and Prowling staff attorney was also invited to, shall we say, mingle with guests there."

"What are you saying?" asked The Third.

"I'm saying she's a high-priced American call girl.  I can't directly approach her because of my other dealings with the law firm, but you could show her the surveillance on her and then request her services in spying on hotel guests."

"You want us to blackmail an attorney for being a hooker?" asked Prickly.

"I want you to persuade her to gather intelligence," said Wu, "with your charm."

"The thing about hookers is that they take their shirts off," said Prickly.  "How's she supposed to wear a wire?"

"I've already got wires and cameras in there," said Wu, "but these Russians and their cronies never get taped saying anything--they talk over music or television, or talk outside.  I need you to train her how to get them to spill their secrets in a quiet moment, close to my devices.  She's a complete newbie who's never even been out of the U.S.--there's not a single guest in that hotel that would ever recognize her from being overseas anywhere and suspect her of being a spy."

"You don't think they'd be on the lookout for FBI informants?" asked The Third.

"Maybe, but I think she's willing to go further than an undercover FBI agent would."

Prickly and The Third exchanged glances.  "We'll have to get Paul to agree," said The Third.

"Of course," nodded Wu.

"And we can't pay her," said Prickly, "not for that."

"Of course not," Wu said with a smile.  "I think she will do it just because you ask, given the circumstances.  You might even tell her that some of the other women are undoubtedly there against their will and she could help free them.  And it might even turn out she's a patriot, but, in any case, I will take care of her without your ever having to promise anything.  After all, espionage is dangerous work, and should be compensated."  He gave them a sharp look, which they rightly interpreted as his lingering anger that Delia's mother had been killed by the British in a botched spy operation.

"You're actually hopeful we can turn the tide here?" asked The Third.

"Well, we can certainly play our part," said Wu.

A disheveled man came running into the restaurant, and the two British agents jumped up ready to draw their concealed guns on another nutjob convinced there was a Clinton child pedophile ring in the non-existent basement.  "He works at the movie theater," said Wu, motioning for them to sit down.  "Probably picking up an order on his break."

Prickly and The Third sat back down, a little embarrassed.  The threat assessments for Washington now qualified it as a "moderately dangerous" posting for British nationals.  If they knew about Ardua of the Potomac, they would ask for a transfer.

**************************************************
COMING UP:  Resistance!

Saturday, January 07, 2017

The Pregnant Pause

"It's a Christmas miracle!"

"It's a Christmas nightmare, you mean!"

The two Maryland animal sanctuary volunteers were showing Sebastian L'Arche where Megamoo was chewing hay in her stall.

"And how old is she?"  L'Arche thought the cow had already been geriatric the last time he saw her, to treat her bovine narcolepsy years ago.

"Too old!"

"And there's no bull here!"

"May I?"  L'Arche gestured at the enclosure.

"She hasn't let anybody near her since the vet was here.  That's why we called you."

The Animal Whisperer walked slowly towards her, and she remembered who he was.  What happened? L'Arche whispered, taking her head into his hands and looking softly into her eyes.

I can't talk about it, she said.

L'Arche squatted down next to her and put his ear against the cow's belly, quickly frowning--he did not at all like what he heard inside that womb.

Down in upper Georgetown, Golden Fawn was lying in bed, staring out at the snow and the raven looking in at her from a bare tree branch.  It was the first time she had ever been pregnant.  It was the third time she had been diagnosed with breast cancer.  Unwilling to expose her unborn child to radiation or chemotherapy, she had opted to have both breasts entirely removed.  She had never felt more like a woman, and less like a woman.  She again touched the artificial materials under her skin which plumped her chest up into a fake bosom, one that could never give milk to her unborn child.

Her grandmother walked in with barley soup.  "Why don't we move the bed further from the window?  It's so cold!"

"It's well-insulated," said Golden Fawn, thanking her for the soup and propping herself up for the tray.

"So are igloos, but you don't put your bed right next to the wall."  Golden Fawn's grandmother crawled under the blanket to lie beside her.  She had already figured out that it was Golden Fawn's mother-in-law who had given her the crazy herbs that got her pregnant and also resurrected the cancer, but had only chided the woman in private.  "How is it?"

"Delicious," said Golden Fawn, who recently had no appetite for anything unless her grandmother cooked it.  "How is Joey?"

"He took his sled out with some friends--they are hopeful."

"Hopeful," repeated Golden Fawn, like it was a word she had never heard before.

"I'm still hopeful," Dr. Khalid Mohammad was saying to his wife, as they drove away from the disappointing open house a mile west of Golden Fawn's home.  "After the initial wave of Trump people buying houses, there will also be Obama people who decide to sell, and we'll have more to choose from."  He patted Yasmin's pregnant belly, and she smiled at him.

"Sure!" she said, though she secretly wanted to move far away before the Trump Administration could arrest them in the middle of the night and lock them up in a Muslim concentration camp.  "We still have over seven months," she said, wanting to sound equally hopeful.

"Seven months!" he laughed.  "We need to be moved before then!"

To Chicago, she thought.  Maybe all the way to California.

Over at the White House, Ghost Dennis was also thinking about the ticking clock.  It's not too late, the murdered Nixon staffer was whispering into President Obama's ear.  This is what we used to call the "pregnant pause"--when people are so in shock about public affairs that you can quietly reset the agenda in your favor.  President Obama put down the report he was reading at his Oval Office Desk, got up, and walked over to the window to look out at the snow and try to clear his head.  You can set a trap for him--MANY.  President Obama had never told anybody about the voices he sometimes heard in here, but for the first time ever, he wished he could hear them more clearly.  It's not too late to save the Republic from the moles and the hacks and the haters.

"Tell me how!" President Obama exclaimed, as his deputy chief of staff walked in.

"Sir?"

President Obama wheeled around, not seeing the arrival of the raven that Golden Fawn had sent to him.

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COMING UP:  A surprising new 
secret agent investigates the Russians!