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 6/6//2017. Follow Washington Water Woman on Twitter @HorrorDC ....

Sunday, December 10, 2017

GOP gives Bad Santa a run for his money.

Congressman Paul Ryan was finding it increasingly difficult to balance his responsibilities as an Ayn Randian Speaker of the House with his memberships in both the Russia and Zombie Caucuses.  He had just finished meeting with the Russia Caucus--which was up in arms about (a) Iowa Congressman Steve King's attacks on anybody with a foreign accent ("what matters is white skin!"), (b) Trump's failure to Tweet in support of Paul Manafort's right to use KGB buddies to defend himself from the Justice Department ("how many people is Trump gonna throw under the bus?!"), and (c) the forced relocation of the Russia Suite from the opulent Trump International Hotel to the decidedly dull Capital Hilton ("I can't do hooker jelly shots with cheap vodka!").  He was now walking into a shit storm at the Zombie Caucus meeting.

"Paul, you can't cut Social Security and Medicare!  Nobody's easier to feed on than frail elderly!  We need them to stay alive!"

"Or Medicaid!  When I'm really hungry, nothing is easier than lying in wait in a handicapped restroom stall!"

"And how could you support reciprocal concealed carry?  If people blow each other's brains out with handguns, that is robbing our food supply!"

"And why are you letting Secretary of Interior Zinke take Grand Staircase-Escalante land out of the National Monument and handing it over to the petroleum industry?  Patagonia is right:  this is stealing our land!"  (Everybody turned in surprise to look at the woman who said this.)  "Well, it was where my husband proposed to me!"

"Didn't you eat him?"

"That's not the point!"

"Look," said Speaker Ryan, feeling peckish at all this talk of feeding, "everybody has to make compromises to please our campaign donors."

"You suck!"

Ryan frowned but continued.  "The fact is, we all have to consider whether our way of life is sustainable.  Whose brains are we eating today?  Whose brains are we eating tomorrow?  Whose brains are we eating in the years to come?  I have encouraged people to take personal responsibility for learning to feed without creating new zombies in the process, but some Americans insist on feeding, feeding, feeding without any long-term planning."

"Eat the rich!"

"Eat the Koch Brothers!"

"Eat Sheldon Adelson!"

"See, that make no sense," replied Speaker Ryan (who Nancy Pelosi once called a lovely man who is wrong about everything).  "First of all, there are only a few of them!  One percent of the American population!  Secondly, if they don't fund my reelection campaign, I'll have to return to a small town in Wisconsin where I'll run out of brains to eat in about two weeks.  Now, all they ask is a massive tax cut, and we need to give it to them."

"It's gonna explode the deficit!"

"Yes, but I've got a top-secret long-term plan for that.  First, we cut entitlements because I've been promising Ayn Rand that for a very long time."

"She's dead!"

"Oh, she talks to me every night in my dreams!" insisted Speaker Ryan.  "The second stage is that the Chinese will refuse to keep loaning us money, and they'll call in the debt.  They'll send over politicians and bankers to collect it, and we'll just eat them.  Then they'll send more, and we'll eat them.  See?  They have over a billion people in China, so I figure they can keep sending over bill collectors for decades, even hundreds of years, and we can eat all their brains."

"I don't like Chinese food."

Meanwhile, over in McLean, CIA Director Mike Pompeo was reading another report from a Chinese spy on negotiations with North Korea when he was interrupted by yet another phone call from Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, which he put on speaker phone.

"The Dems want a briefing on how bad the Middle East is gonna blow up!  Why couldn't you talk the goddamn moron out of moving the embassy to Jerusalem?!"

"It's a Hanukkah gift to Jared and Ivanka," replied Pompeo.  "He had to go big, because Ivanka's really pissed off about Trump's campaigning for Roy Moore.  I mean, who the Hell campaigns for a pro-slavery statutory rapist just before attending the opening of a Mississippi civil rights museum?"

"Oh, don't give me that bull-caca!  It's for his lunatic evangelical base that think the Jews need to be in Jerusalem before Christ will return--and God only knows why evangelicals can't recognize that Steve Bannon is the anti-Christ.  Didn't you tell Trump it would light a powder keg all over the Middle East to move the embassy to Jerusalem?"

"Of course I did, Rex!" retorted Pompeo.  "He thinks it will subside over time."

"Our embassy personnel are already at risk in Beirut, of all places!  Israel's killing Palestinians.  And now I've got Democrats demanding to discuss the safety of American citizens abroad after Trump Tweeted those inflammatory anti-Muslim messages!"

"Look, Rex, tell those Dems the threat was always there, and Trump's just bringing it up to the surface where we can deal with it."

"Deal with it?  Deal with it?  I don't know what kind of CIA fantasy you're hatching to deal with it, but over in the real world of diplomacy, every goddamn Middle Eastern ambassador is pissing all over me right now!  What are we gonna do if our ambassadors and troops get expelled from Iraq, Kuwait, Qatr, Saudi Arabia?  Iran will win!"

"I've got bigger things to worry about right now!" exclaimed Pompeo, scratching under his Cursed Rolex.  "Is North Korea gonna nuke us?  Can Trump and Judge Pirro order me to use CIA agents to purge the FBI?  Is this skin rash serious?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?!"

"It's a little red and flaky."

"Not that, you moron!  You can't use CIA agents to purge the FBI!"

"Are you sure?  I feel like nobody here is being straight with me about what I can order CIA agents to do.  And every time I try to learn more about an investigation, I'm told 'way undercover, boss' or 'off the ranch, boss', and they give me nothing."

"Yes, I'm sure!  Leave the FBI alone.  Mike, just give me some statistics I can tell these Dems about risk level for Americans abroad."

"Tell them to stay home," replied Pompeo, hanging up the phone. 

He took the Rolex off to apply ointment, but the watch immediately started whispering to him, so he lifted it to his ear to listen.  "I knew it!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air.  "I'll send the CIA in to clean up the goddamn FBI!"  He was now scratching his wrist furiously.

In the control room where Pompeo's office was being monitored on hidden camera, an agent shook his head and phoned his boss to discuss a new contingency plan.

Across the river, in Cleveland Park, Felix and Liv Cigemeier had just put their son Lucas down for his nap, and Liv had started packing for her International Development Machine trip to the U.S. Virgin Islands with IDM President Augustus Bush.

"Is this one of those sexual harassment things?" asked Felix Cigemeier.  "How can your boss be taking you to the United States Virgin Islands on International Development Machine business?"

"Robert can't go because he's got the flu, and Momzilla--"

"Yeah, I understand all that, but, you do international development work."

"I don't know!  We got a huge grant to rebuild housing and put in some health clinics."

"How?  How could you get a government grant like that?"

"Sometimes you're such a lawyer!" smiled Liv, pulling short-sleeved blouses out of the closet.  "I only wish it were Puerto Rico--the government is still neglecting them."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Felix.  "Doesn't this smell like some kind of Republican slush fund for Augustus Bush?  And his Bush clan in the U.S. Virgin Islands?  Which probably paid a bribe to--"

"I thought you said it was a sexual harassment thing!"

"One or the other!" replied Felix.  "You're gonna be calling me tomorrow hollering '#MeToo' or complaining that IDM seems to be helping rich people instead of poor people down there!"

"Well, Augustus is too smart to harass the wife of a lawyer, but I promise you, I will be on the lookout for the latter."  She approached Felix for a hug.  "And, incidentally, are you now an expert on Republican slush funds?  If so, how?"


"Never mind."

In the next room, Angela de la Paz had already entered the DreamTime of her birth son, Lucas.  "Felix is alright," she told him.  "He hasn't lost his soul...yet."

COMING UP:       
Esperantu Edward versus Putin's thugs!

Friday, December 01, 2017

The Diary of Jared Kushner

Dear Diary,


Why is this happening to me?!  All I wanted to do was be a good husband and son-in-law, and get super rich!  What's so wrong with that?

I was having a nice relaxing week, playing single dad while Ivanka was doing her photo ops in India.  I got to read the bedtime story!  I let the kids eat cheeseburgers and French fries!  I got online and ordered them the Hanukkah gifts they wanted!  I let them stay up late watching cartoons!  I even let them watch "Pocahontas", and told them sometimes Grampa Trump makes a mistake, but he's the President!

Then the nanny came on to me, and I had to fire her, and she's probably gonna accuse me of #MeToo sexual harassment, and how will I get Ivanka to believe me?  The nanny was probably wearing a wire for "The New York Times", but how can I prove that!?  I had to make up a lie about why I fired the nanny!  The kids loved that nanny!  I had to drop the kids off the next day with Eric and Lara at the hotel, and they hate Eric and Lara!  They only like Aunt Tiffany.  They wanted to go to the Christmas Tree lighting with Aunt Tiffany last night, and how was I supposed to know they'd spend the whole time asking where all the people are?  Who put out all those empty chairs?  It's a conspiracy to embarrass us ALL THE TIME! 

Why don't they love us?!  I'm busting my ass flying to the Middle East constantly--where all the damned TERRORISTS and REFUGEES are--and I make deals with the Saudis even though they HATE JEWS!  But does anybody give me credit for it?  NO!  I'm creating EQUITY FOR THE FAMILY!  I'm creating peace in the Middle East, too!  It will be very peaceful after this Yemen thing is crushed, and Iran, and Qatar, too.  Syria's a lost cause, but, hey, nobody can blame ME for THAT!  Last night there was a huge party celebrating 40 years of peace between Israel and Egypt, and did the lamestream media cover it?  NO!  And 40 years from now, will they give me credit for giving Saudi Arabia the greenlight to starve out the Houthi people and lock up political dissenters?  NO!

And I'm re-shaping government!  And negotiating a better NAFTA!  And who fired the White House exterminator and ordered new ones?  Me!  I also got rid of the white legal pads and replaced them with yellow ones.  I have to do EVERYTHING at the White House!  What does Omarosa do?  NOTHING!  What does Kellyanne do?  NOTHING!  What does Melania do?  NOTHING!  She can't even do Christmas decorations right!  What was she thinking?

I do EVERYTHING, but it's never enough!  They're always coming after me!  Last night I had a dream that I was going through the airport, and somebody had a gorilla android robot they were trying to take on my plane, and I said, ARE YOU CRAZY?  I made the airport security call the bomb squad, and they put him in the room where they explode suspicious packages, and it SURVIVED THE DYNAMITE!  And then the gorilla came up to the shatterproof glass and screamed at us:  "You will regret this!  You will regret this!"  Like a real gorilla, or a real person!  And I woke up IN TERROR!  It was a hundred times worse than the dream where Nana is being fed into the Holocaust oven because I did not speak out about Charlottesville.  Is that gorilla Robert Mueller?  Is it that guy that works for Kislyak who scares the shit out of me?  WHO IS THE GORILLA COMING FOR ME?!

I woke up today thinking we were going to pass the greatest tax millionaire tax cuts in U.S. history, and people would finally start giving us respect for MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, and I find out MIKE FLYNN MADE A DEAL WITH ROBERT MUELLER!  WHAT THE HELL?!  What is he saying?!  What is he telling them?!  You can't rat out Russian mobsters--THEY WILL KILL US ALL!

I promised Dad I would never go to prison, but maybe that's the only way to stay alive!  OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!  They're going to take away my provisional security clearance!  I'll have to work from home and listen to the tutor's stupid Chinese nursery rhyme songs all day long!  Will I lose Secret Service protection?  I can't go jogging without protection!  I'll have to use the treadmill in the basement, and whenever I do that down there, right when I'm feeling the burn and I'm SUPPOSED to get the runner's high, he always comes at me!  That horrible slave ghost with the shackles on!  And then I know I'm dehydrated and have to stop to drink water, and I never get my runner's high!  I need Secret Service!  I need

OH GOD!  They're saying Flynn named me.  FLYNN NAMED ME!  This isn't fair!  I've gotta call my lawyer!

COMING UP:      
Bad Santa takes over the GOP!

Sunday, November 26, 2017

The Giant Sea Shell of Death

Ivanka Trump was, for the first time, hosting a meeting of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (D.C. Chapter) in her own home.  The attendees were in awe of her white pumpkin-filled, gigantic sea shell.

"Was there a pearl the size of a grapefruit in that oyster?!" exclaimed Bridezilla.

"That is not an oyster," said Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi Yellen.  "It is the shell of an endangered giant sea clam."

"The Endangered Species Act is so ridiculous!" piped in Justice Neil Gorsuch.  "The Founding Fathers roll over in their graves every time it's upheld in court!"

"You think they would have wanted the Bald Eagle to go instinct?" asked Judge Sowell Ame.  "Anyway, I have to follow precedent!  Some of us aren't at liberty to throw out decades of jurisprudence just because there was a hundred-million-dollar slush fund pushing us into a lifetime appointment!"

"How dare you imply that a Supreme Court opening was purchased by dark money!" cried Chief Justice John Roberts.

"They paid McConnell not to allow a hearing on Merrick Garland, didn't they?" said Dick Cheney.  "What a brilliant move!  Boy, I thought I had balls when I ran this town, but this is at a whole new level now!  Whoa, Nelly!"

"Now, now!" fussed Ivanka, walking into the room accompanied by two Mexican maids--one carrying a silver tray laden with oysters Rockefeller, and the other a silver tray laden with hot mini-quiches in the shape of oak leaves.  "We don't need to talk about politics all of the time!"

"I agree!" said Talaverdi Yellen.  "Let's talk about economics!"

"Oh, my Gawd!" moaned a member of N.U.T.T.Y. (Nannies United to Take Y-chromosomes).  "Nobody cares about that!"

"You should care!" chided Talaverdi Yellen, turning to wag his finger at her.  "Your taxes will certainly go up if this Republican tax plan goes through!  I, myself, will probably pay fewer taxes, but what good will that do when the federal budget explodes and the American economy tanks?  All the fiscal attacks on teachers, nurses, graduate students, uninsured children, destitute elderly--hell, do they really think there won't be an armed revolution in this country!?  There are more guns than people here!  And if that doesn't kill me, the complete evisceration of all federal functions except military, coupled with a misplaced Libertarian backlash against the Federal Reserve Board, will leave me unemployed!  As an Italian citizen, I will be at a disadvantage competing for jobs in the academic sector, and will have to return to Italy with all my United States retirement savings more endangered than this hideous clam!"

"Hey!" sputtered Ivanka, unaccustomed to rudeness in her inner circle.

"Oh, lighten up!" laughed John Boehner.  "It's the holidays!  Eat, drink, and smoke--for tomorrow we die!"

"It's 'be merry', not 'smoke', John," said realtor Calico Johnson.

"You be merry your way, and I'll be merry my way!"

"Do you think taxes matter to us?" exclaimed another member of N.U.T.T.Y.  "Most of us are #MeToo victims, but nobody will believe us!"

"That's because you're trying to steal your charges' fathers away from their wives!" scoffed Gorsuch.  "You are the sexual predators!"

"Hey!" protested Ivanka, uncertain what a perfect hostess would do in this situation, and frustrated she had not seen a truly photogenic moment to post online.

"Nobody understands us!" protested a third member of N.U.T.T.Y. (who had thought her life would change during a brief fling with Ame, but then he told her he needed to "focus on his career").  "If I seduce a father, and then he refuses to leave his wife to marry me, I am the victim!  I am still the nanny!"

"You have no idea what #MeToo means!" screamed a former member of the FISA Court, trying to control the tears welling up in her eyes.  "When Steve Bannon came and asked for permission to spy on Barack Obama because he is a Kenyan, and he pulled out his dick and said he's going to get what he wants one way or another, and I complained to my supervisor, and he called me a liar!?"

"That is a shocking accusation!" cried Gorsuch.  "You can't just smear a man's hard-earned reputation like that!"

Boehner burst out laughing.  "I think that's actually solidifying Bannon's hard-earned reputation!

"Hey, here's a thought!" interjected Ivanka, who had been frantically texting her favorite new lifestyle blogger Giuliana Sunstream, to get ideas to steer party conversation in a safe direction.  "Let's go around the room, and each person show us their favorite photo they took on Thanksgiving!"

"No dick photos!" two different women cried in unison, and Ivanka quickly looked down at her phone to see what else Giuliana would suggest.

"Could we just stop using the word 'dick', for God's sake?!" complained Cheney.  "Let's stick with 'willy' or--"

"By the way, Dick," interrupted Roberts, "you must be thrilled that Christian Bale is going to play you in a Hollywood film!  He's outstanding!"

"He's Welsh, for God's sake!"

"Who would you have picked?" asked Johnson.  "I think when my story is told, it should be Chris Pine, or maybe Chris Pratt, or possibly Chris Evans."

"A solid American actor, like Tom Cruise," said Cheney.  Bridezilla burst out laughing, causing Cheney to get red in the face and lash out at Johnson.  "And why the Hell would they do a movie about you?"

"Oh, Dick!" said Bridezilla.  "I love you, Dick, but that is all wrong for you!  Bruce Willis with glasses--that's the way to go!"

"Okay," said Cheney, "that would work."

"I've had an amazing life!" protested Johnson.  "I'm a successful real estate mogul, just like Trump."  (Several pairs of eyes rolled.)  "I'll probably run for Governor of Maryland someday, and I've dated some extraordinary women--one of them died in mysterious circumstances, and another, well, we didn't really date, but the FBI questioned me after she burned her own house down, and then--"

"What were you doing when that woman died?!" interrupted a member of N.U.T.T.Y.

"I had nothing to do with it!" cried Johnson.  "I wasn't even there!"

"Well, you brought it up," said Ame.

"Hey!" broke in Ivanka, ready to put out another suggestion from Giuliana Sunstream.  "On Thanksgiving, we all say what we're thankful for, but why don't we say today what others are thankful to us about!  I'll start: people are thankful to me for being a great boss!"

"In China?" asked Boehner under his breath, before accidentally bursting into laughter at his own joke.

"People are thankful to me for bringing Originalism and integrity to the Supreme Court of the United States!" declared Gorsuch.

"You just did a paid speaking gig at Trump International Hotel!" retorted Ame.  "I once got a formal reprimand for drinking chablis at a neighborhood wine tasting!  How was I supposed to know their neighbors were suing over rats in the alley?"

"People are thankful to me because I know what fascism is," said Talaverdi Yellen, "and I am warning people in this country that if a great country like Italy can be set a hundred years back economically, so can--"

"Oh, stuff it, you wop!" exclaimed Ivanka, jumping to her feet.  "My father is not a fascist!"

"What's a fascist?" asked Ivanka's young daughter, who had escaped the nanny and entered the room hoping to find cake.

It was at this point in time that a tipsy hunter who was illegally engaged in after-dark deer-hunting in Rock Creek Park, and who had climbed a tree to get a better vantage point with his infrared goggles, lost his balance while shooting his cross-bow and let fly an arrow that arced over and well past the trees, then came crashing down through the little girl's upstairs bedroom window.  (Yes, Ivanka's daughter had narrowly escaped accidental death at the hands of Glenn Michael Beckmann!)  Startled Secret Service officers scrambled into action, racing in to shove Ivanka and the two Supreme Court justices down to the floor--leaving everybody else to fend for themselves.  (But they were all pretty good at it.)

Outside the window, a satisfied member of The Shackled floated off to haunt another house.

The Diary of Jared Kushner!

Monday, November 20, 2017


Things were slowly getting back to normal in the White House now that Donald Trump had returned from his long trip abroad:  he was watching television, Tweeting that black athletes belonged in prison, sexually harassing the housekeeping staff, planning how he would spend all the money he would save in taxes if Congress passed the tax scam bill, doing self-congratulatory Cabinet meetings, eating a lot of ice cream, phoning Bannon, ignoring Barron, and arguing with the ghost of Nelson Rockefeller.

"I'm NOT Nelson Rockefeller!" protested Ghost Dennis (who had been murdered during the final year of the Nixon Presidency).  "You can't just keep ignoring Puerto Rico!  Why don't you do a Thanksgiving humanitarian gesture for them?"

"Nobody cares about Puerto Rico!" retorted Trump.  "If those lazy Spics don't know how to turn the lights back on, it's not my fault!"

"Just forget for a minute whose fault it is:  those people are moving to Florida and will vote Democrat there next year!"

"I like Vice-Presidents who don't die!  You're a loser!"

"Mr. President, do you understand that twelve nations signed the Trans-Pacific Partnership WITHOUT the United States?  Not only did you come home WITHOUT a better deal than Obama had negotiated, you came home with NO deal, and strengthened the ascendancy of China in the entire Pacific region."

"China loves me!"

"Of COURSE China loves you!  You ignore their humans rights abuses, and they're stronger than they've ever been!"

"Go away!  It's time for my cheeseburger!"

A mile away, triple agent Charles Wu was having a very different conversation after returning from his parallel trip through Asia.

"Thank you for getting those boys out of prison in China," said the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Carnage.  "That was huge!"

"Are you okay?" asked Wu, watching the bleary-eyed ADAfC shoving his Froggy Bottom cheeseburger into his face like a starving man.  "Are you having trouble sleeping?  I have a business partner in Chinatown who could help you with some herbs--"

"No, no, gotta stay sharp," replied the ADAfC (who had recently started using Ambien and a not-great, but very convenient, sex robot to fall asleep at night).  "Tell me about North Korea," he asked, before taking a huge gulp of his seventh Coke of the day.

"We've bought some time, but Un is extremely unhappy with the barrage of insults."  (The ADAfC nodded, shoving french fries into his mouth.)  "Designating North Korea a state sponsor of terrorism is also not helping.  (The ADAfC shrugged.)  "He also keeps saying that Iran was tricked into giving up nuclear weapons so that the U.S. could bomb it with impunity."

"That's not gonna happen," said the ADAfC, gulping more Coke.

"Why don't you have some of my salad," said Wu, pushing his plate over, but the ADAfC shook his head.  "Why are you so sure that Iran will not get bombed?  The Saudis are blockading Qatar and bombing the hell out of Yemen, and the U.S. is ignoring it."

The ADAfC exhaled deeply.  "Because Mad Dog Mattis doesn't want to see a million Iranian troops pouring over the border into Iraq and Syria."

"Are you sure about that?"

The ADAfC said nothing, instead reaching into his pocket to pull out a new business card for Wu.  "I have a new title, and I wrote some new cellphone numbers on the back."

Wu examined the card, indicating that the ADAfC was now the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Purging the Deep State at State.

"You are the Deep State at State!" laughed Wu.

"Don't you ever say that!" exclaimed the ADAfPtDSaS.  "I'm a patriot!"

"It was just a joke, man!" said Wu, reaching across the table to pat the hand of the ADAfPtDSaS.  "You're the most patriotic man I've ever met!" he added, snapping back to a cool, collected demeanor.

Meanwhile, over at the brand new Museum of the Bible (in a private room decorated with Adam and Eve wallpaper, snakeskin-covered chairs, and apple-shaped light fixtures), it was the annual Thanksgiving luncheon for the very patriotic Holier Than Thou Caucus--and Congressman Herrmark was terrified of what he was hearing.

"It was FrankenFranken was the one grabbing women by the pussy!"

"He grabbed an ass!  That's not a pussy!"

"Same difference!"

"Why do you believe Franken's accusers and none of Trump's?"

"You may as well ask why ducks fly south in November!"

"A lot of them don't fly anymore, because of global warming.)

"Look, I have a 14-year-old daughter, and I'm more worried about this Roy Moore fellow.  I do not want him coming to D.C.!"

"Oh, just keep your daughter at home and out of the malls!  With Moore's help, I bet we can get a Ten Commandments statue put into the Capitol Rotunda."

"Are you out of your mind?!  He will destroy the Holier Than Thou Caucus!  All we need is one scandal, and we're toast!"

"There will be no scandal!  He's a Baptist!"

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean!?  You think Pentecostals have more scandals?!"

"I didn't say that!"

"What do you think?"

Congressman Herrmark did not notice all eyes had turned to him.  He was lost in thought about Mia, the girl he had brought back from Asia and kept in his house for awhile until she was taken away from him.  Those were the happiest days of his life!  His sweet Mia!  Why didn't the world understand how nice it was to have a budding flower in the midst of the ugly, sordid world of politics?  Somebody snapped their fingers in front of his face.

"Huh?  What?"

"What do you think?"

"The real problem is zombies," replied Congressman Herrmark, and the room erupted in laughter.

"The real problem is Uranium One!" cried Attorney General Jeff Sessions, not far away--entering the office of Justice Department attorney Atticus Hawk and slamming the door behind him.  "It's Clinton-Russia!  Not Trump-Russia!  And certainly not ME!"

"Absolutely, General Sessions," replied Hawk.  (This was his default reply to the AG's rants.)

"Where's the snitch?!" demanded Sessions--who clearly had no idea that it was Hawk himself who had leaked to ABC News that Robert Mueller had requested DOJ documents related to the AG's Trump-Russia "recusal" and the firing of James Comey.

"I really can't say," replied Hawk.  "It's hard to even recall who is at what meeting, let alone who has even read certain emails before deleting them."

Sessions screwed up his eyes suspiciously, then rejected the idea that this loyal employee from a good [WASP] family could possibly be mocking him.  "I declare, I am tired of my name being dragged through the mud with these Twits!"

"The Tweets?"

"What are you gonna do about this?!"

"I'll set up some more Twitter accounts and--"

"The snitch!  I want you to find that lily-livered snitch!"

"Yes, sir, General Sessions!  It's just that I was working on your plan to take money away from Sanctuary Cities.  You said you wanted to stick it to them between Pearl Harbor Day and Christmas."

"Oh," said the A.G.  "Alright, then, I'll assign Sanctuary Cities to somebody else."

As he saw Jeff Sessions exit his office, the snitch smiled broadly for the first time in months.  Now I can take the rest of the week off!

Billionaire-funded SuperPACs buy 
death and taxes...for somebody else.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Fugit! Fugit! Fugit!

"How can you eject me from the Russia Caucus on Veteran's Day?!" cried California Congressman Dana Rohrabacher, stomping his feet from the cold and frustration.  "It's an insult to patriots!"

"You're no veteran!" retorted Texas Congressman Zeke "Slick" Hicks, blocking Rohrabacher from entering his front door.

"Nobody's done more for veterans than I have!" declared Rohrabacher.  "I don't even take my flag pin off in the shower!"

"Now you're telling me you have nipple piercings?!" exclaimed Hicks.  "I should've known better than to get mixed up with a bunch of California wackos!"

"What?!  Did you toss Devin Nunes out of the Russia Caucus, too?"

"Of course I did!  I don't know what Robert Mueller has on you, and I don't want to know!"

"He's got nothing!  And I'm not going down alone!"

"Listen, you little turd blossom!" muttered Hicks, grabbing Rohrabacher by the scarf around his neck and dragging him inside as a woman ran by with a jogging stroller.  "Don't you make threats at me!  I've still got the Exxon boys on my side!  If I were you, I'd cash out my chips now and move to Moscow!  Devin's thinkin' 'bout the Azores, but he's a friggin' moron if he thinks he'll escape extradition there."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" cried Rohrabacher.  "After all we've been through together!  Speaker Ryan's gonna hear about this, you turncoat!"

"He's the one that told me to toss you both out of the Russia Caucus, you nitwit!  Things are gettin' too hot!  We need to pass billionaire tax cuts for our billionaire donors!  Now I suggest you use the rest of your Veteran's Day doing photo-ops at the World War II Memorial, and if somebody asks you about Trump's comments that he believes Vladimir Putin is telling the truth and our military intelligence officers are a bunch of political hacks, tell 'em you stand by our American patriots!"  And with that, Hicks opened his front door again and pushed Rep. Dana Rohrabacher back out onto the front porch.

"Excellent," said the Russian ambassador, emerging from the dining room around the corner.  "Now let's get back down to business, Congressman."

Several miles away, CIA Director Mike Pompeo was taking his fiftieth phone call of the day to defend the Intelligence Community's assessment that Russia interfered with the 2016 Election.  He had the statement down cold:  a brief factual assertion with no mention of Donald Trump's treasonous remarks in Southeast Asia.  The problem was, as each call ticked by, he was scratching away another layer of skin underneath his diabolically Cursed Rolex.  Finally, the skin broke, and his blood flowed out into contact with the Cursed Rolex.  He slammed down the phone and jumped up from his desk, shouting out something in Latin.

"Sir?!" cried his assistant, running into Pompeo's office.

"Fugit!  Fugit!  Fugit!" exclaimed the CIA Director, jumping up onto his desk and ripping open his shirt and jacket to bare his chest like a gorilla.  "Mortifer!  Mortifer!  Mortifer!"  He was now jumping up and down wildly.

The assistant, a retired Army Ranger, dove at his boss head-first while simultaneously pushing Pompeo's legs out from under him.  The CIA Director went tumbling head-first toward the carpeting, somersaulted across the floor, and was about to get back up when his assistant quickly pinned him in a headlock to force Pompeo to pass out.

"Malum...malum...malum," the CIA Director gasped weakly before blacking out.

The assistant exhaled deeply, rolled Pompeo over onto his back, then looked up as two CIA officers rushed in after hearing the commotion.

"Did he slash his wrist?!" cried one of them.

The assistant looked down at the little dribble of blood smeared under the Rolex, then back up at them.  "Something like that," he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to press on the cut.

"Typical," said the other, shaking his head and turning to leave.

Meanwhile, back in Washington, militiaman and conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann was driving down Pennsylvania Avenue towards Trump International Hotel in an elaborately modified backhoe.  About a year had passed since he had narrowly escaped going to trial for criminal trespass charges relating to his drone's dumping pig manure on the hotel.  Since then, a lot of people on the Internet had eclipsed his own vehement conspiracy theories about how the hotel was a den of harlots and thieves financed by Saudi petro dollars and Russian bitcoin, but nobody had eclipsed his willingness to fight the Orange Menace head-on.  "Now, I know you've practiced quite a lot at trapeze school, but you've only got one shot at this," he said, turning to glance at Brittani, who was wearing double-layered Lycra body suits and a black ski mask.

"I can do it!" declared Brittani, who was still not quite sixteen.  She fist-bumped Beckmann and started climbing up the backhoe as he slowed down at the approach to the Old Post Office Pavilion bell tower.  "I'm ready!" she cried, and he stopped the truck altogether and climbed out of the truck to watch as Brittani started swinging back and forth to build up momentum and height.  A security guard was now coming out of the hotel but was rendered speechless at the sight.  Brittani swung higher and higher until she was ready to make the arc all the way into the bell tower.

"Hey!" shouted the security guard, more entranced by the operation than outraged.

Brittani had unfurled a banner with giant letters spelling out #MeToo during her final arc, then landed a bit roughly but safely inside the tower--where a small group of tourists momentarily forgot how cold and windy it was up there and started clapping and taking pictures.  She smiled shyly at the crowd.  "Here, help me unroll this!"

"What on Earth?!" asked the tour guide, trying to suppress a smile as several people helped Brittani without even knowing what the next banner was going to say.  With some effort, they unfurled it and hung it outside the tower:  it was a list of names pertaining to women who had complained about sexual harassment from Donald Trump.

Down on the street, Glenn Michael Beckmann was trying really hard not to want to have sex with Brittani (who already had an annulment from her disastrous under-age marriage in Virginia).  "Damn, this is hard!" he muttered under his breath.

"Man, that is cool!" somebody exclaimed, patting Beckmann on the back.

"He's a puppet king installed by alien overloads to weaken human civilization before they invade Earth," Beckmann said, handing the woman his business card.

"Um, okay," she said, moving along.

Meanwhile, inside Trump International Hotel, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle was drinking at the bar, discreetly taking notes on all the bankers, hedge fund managers, tax shelter lobbyists, and billionaires walking in and out of the lobby, before and after their forays upstairs to the Tax Bill suite--where they were getting hammered on Trump Wine and grudgingly hammering out tweaks to appease recalcitrant Republicans who kept saying they could not possibly vote for a bill that would explode the federal deficit so that the super rich could get tax cuts while 98% of their constituents received no benefit or actually ended up worse off!

"Hey, handsome," said his girlfriend, attorney Coretta Rosa McIntyre, sitting down beside him.  "Did you get it?"

"Yep, already uploaded to WaPo website."  He turned to give her a kiss.  "You have more spies up there than you told me!"

"Some of them were last-minute recruits on the cleaning staff.  Is this who I think it is?" she asked, pulling up a cellphone photo.

"Hm," replied Perry.  "It looks like Stephen Miller with a wig and mustache."

"That's what I thought!  He was trying to get into a suite at the other end of that hall, and this guy speaking Russian barked something at him through the chain, then slammed the door in his face."

"You're telling me there's a Russian gatekeeper up there!?  Damn!  Nobody even told me!"

Coretta shook her head, sympathetically.  "They have enough reporters chasing the Russia thing:  you've gotta help me stop this horrific tax plan!"

"John McCain just slammed Trump for favoring a KGB colonel over the U.S. Intelligence Community," he said.

"And will probably vote for tax cuts, anyway--in a tax plan that will hurt veterans.  Focus!"

"I understand, really!" protested Perry.  "The 'pro-life' politicians will end adoption tax credits, and the 'fiscal hawks' will pretend trickle-down is a real thing, and it's all a bunch of total bullshit and craven corruption, but man I wish I could be the one reporting on Michael Flynn's going to prison!"

"Would you also want to be the one explaining seven hours of Carter Page testimony one Tweet at a time?  'Cause that's the downside of working that beat!"

Back at Langley, CIA Director Mike Pompeo was buttoned up again, with some fresh gauze wrapped around the wrist under the Cursed Rolex--which he had immediately put back on after regaining consciousness, despite his assistant's warning that it might feel heavy on the cut skin.  The Director refused to take any more phone calls about Trump's comments on Russia and was hoping for something fun to work on, like North Korea, when one of the CIA's top Middle East spies entered his office.  "Finally!" Pompeo exclaimed.  "Tell me what the Hell is going on in Saudi Arabia!"

"It all started with Donald Trump and the glowing orb...."

"This sounds good!" whispered the Cursed Rolex.

Ghosts don't shiver from the cold, but the ghost of Henry Samuelson shuddered as he floated over Ardua of the Potomac and returned to his old McLean stomping grounds just in time to hear the part in the story where Jared Kushner smiles nervously while the Saudis ply him with cash and make jokes about the Jews.

COMING UP:    Coming home!

Saturday, November 04, 2017

Pretend I didn't say that!

British agents Nigel ("Prickly") Blackthorne and Richard ("The Third") Mollington were on their way to pick up Chloe Cleavage and drop her off again at Trump International Hotel.

"How much longer do you think she'll keep doing this?" asked The Third, smoothing the fake Uber and Lyft decals stuck to the passenger window.

"Well, Charles Wu is paying her handsomely, I believe, and she did say she was in love with Sergei."

"You know that's not a good thing, right?" replied The Third.

"I still can't believe George Papadopoulos was wearing a wire for the FBI!" snickered Prickly.  "Wu's got camera footage of him in the damned Russia Suite!"

"We're gonna nab these bloody bastards, eh?!"

"Speaking of that," said Prickly, "we can't keep putting off Chloe about the sex trafficking thing."

"We got a couple of those girls out!" retorted The Third, defensively.  "It's a delicate balance!"

"I know!  I know!"  Prickly gunned the car through the yellow light.  "You think Chloe's safe going in there today?  I mean, the Russkies must already be nervous after the Manafort indictment."

"Chloe's not wearing a wire!  She's just getting Sergei close to Wu's listening--"

"I know, I know, but if she asks too many questions and they do start frisking her for a wire, she could really freak out.  She's no pro!  We haven't given her enough training!"

"That's not our fault," responded The Third.  "She's a bloody staff attorney at Prince and Prowling and only gets one week's vacation a year?"

"How do we know they haven't already torn up the Russia Suite and found Wu's bugs, eh?" asked Prickly.

"He would tell us."

"Wu's in Asia for the Dotard trip!"

"He would know, and he would tell us, and his bugs just look like bugs, Prickly!  The Russkies would just step on 'em.  There's no way in Hell the Chinese are gonna let Russia get more powerful:  this is Beijing's century."

"Yeah, yeah, and Washington's looking more like Beijing every week."

Across the river, Secretary of Defense James ("Mad Dog") Mattis was in his office making final preparations for his trip to Europe.  "No, no, no," he muttered into the phone, nodding at the assistant bringing him in another file stamped "Top Secret".  He shook his head silently and motioned for the assistant to shut the door on his way out.  "I have discussed that with POTUS, and he understands."  Mad Dog rolled his eyes and reached for his rubber stress ball to squeeze.  "Kelly has assured me Trump understands he's got no bunker in Asia, and if he taunts Kim Jong Un into shooting Air Force One out of the sky, there's a five-percent chance we're swearing in President Pence."  Mad Dog lifted the cover of the new folder, grimaced at it, then closed the folder.  "Look, we need NATO, and it's not helping us that the Niger fiasco did not take into account French intel.  I got troops on every God-damned continent in the world, and I need to make sure somebody's got our backs out there."  He shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the ceiling, then leaned forward again.  "Look, I don't wanna hear another damned word about the Russkies!  Who's monitoring their submarines?  ME!  Who's monitoring their communications?  ME!  Who's monitoring their troop movements?  ME!  You think I give a shit about who's buying Oriental rugs or Trump condominiums?  NOT ME!  You point me to the enemy, I'll kill 'em!  I need Congress to reauthorize that MAUF!  Come in!" he barked at the knock on the door.  "I gotta call you back."

Mad Dog hung up the phone and looked up as his assistant opened the door to announce Captain Tyler Glockmann from the Defense Intelligence Agency.  Mad Dog's heart sank, but he nodded and stood up as Glockmann rolled in on his wheelchair and saluted Mattis, who saluted back.  "Please tell me this is the last report, and I can get on the plane."

"It is the last report," said the mole placed at DIA by Condoleezza Rice and the Heurich Society, but I think you better read it before you get on the plane."

Not far away, Prince and Prowling junior partner Bridezilla was arranging new pieces of furniture in her miniature Tudor dream house because her conjoined miniature guinea pigs (Flower Girl and Maid of Honor) had scratched the old furniture up too much.  "I love the velvet fainting couch!" she exclaimed, looking up at her boyfriend, Edward.  "It's so romantic!"

"Actually, I thought you would use that piece upstairs, and put one of the human figurines on it?" asked the man known in spy circles as "Esperantu Edward".

"Oh, no!  It looks so good near the fireplace!"

"Sooo," began Edward, "just like that?  Breadman told you to close the Russia Practice?"

"Just like that!" she cooed, smiling at the twins' rubbing their noses against the soft velvet.  "After all that billing!  Thanks to you, of course!"  She stood up to kiss Edward.  "You found me so many of those clients!"

"Yes," he nodded, "yes, I did.  And, well, my buttercup, some of them are not happy about it."

"I understand--I do!"

"But I thought there were rules about attorneys' dropping clients?" asked Edward.

"Well, you're not supposed to in the middle of a trial--things like that."

"Oh," said Edward, handing her the cherry wood sideboard with a miniature silver tea service tray glued to it.  (He was thinking about the Putin resistance clients who were, in fact, very much in the middle of something when they would meet at the monthly Prince and Prowling Russia Practice receptions.)

"I love it!" exclaimed Bridezilla.

"So much work was put into that practice," muttered Edward.

"It's fine," said Bridezilla, trying to center the sideboard directly under a silver-framed mirror.  "There's plenty of Political Practice work."  (The truth was that she had developed serious concerns her boyfriend was a Russian spy, or a spy on Russians, or a double-agent--and after annulling her first marriage to a secret spy, she really did not want that again.  After all, she had fallen in love with Edward because they shared a passion for miniatures!)  "You know Prince and Prowling management goes whichever way the wind is blowing, and now they've decided the wind is blowing against the Russians.  But they're going to have a lot more trouble backing out of that DOJ deal."

"What DOJ deal?" asked Esperantu Edward (who had been warned by Charles Wu that Bridezilla wouldn't tolerate more espionage in her life).

"Whoops!" laughed Bridezilla.  "Pretend I didn't say that!"

Meanwhile, former Senator Evermore Breadman, a Prince and Prowling Senior Partner, was meeting clandestinely with Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions in Breadman's limousine, driving down Route 1.

"Are you sure these windows are tinted enough?" asked Sessions.  "I can see the Potomac quite clearly.

"They're actually one-way mirrors, General Sessions," replied Breadman.  "My wife won't rid in this limo because sometimes birds smash right into them."

Sessions frowned.  "And you're sure nobody else has had access in here?"  His eyes were darting around nervously, examining the upholstery.

"I'm the only one with the keys, and I vacuum it out myself.  It's the only exercise I ever get, ha ha!"  He saw the AG was not laughing, and abruptly fell silent.  (Breadman, of course, tape-recorded every conversation he had in this limo, but he had, in fact, answered the question honestly.)

"Look, Evermore, I'm worried about the damned Russia thing!"

"Are you?" Breadman asked, feigning surprise.

"There's a lot of chatter about those Mueller indictments, and the kid turning state's evidence, and some people are even saying that I was set up for perjury!"

"That's outrageous!" exclaimed Breadman, trying to look sincere.

"Exactly!" cried Sessions.  "I need to know I can count on your firm to help me out if things get sticky for me!"

"Hm," said Breadman, pretending he was contemplating this for the first time.  "Well, General, the firm's of-counsel arrangement with Justice encompasses lawsuits you have to defend which were filed against Donald Trump and his Cabinet, and, as you know, we have been quite busy with those!"  Breadman attempted another smile and chuckle, but Sessions was having none of it.

"I thought I could count on you, Evermore!"

"Look, absolutely, anything we can do, General, but I wouldn't feel right taking on that sort of thing because, well, you need a top-notch criminal defense attorney."

"I am not a criminal!" screamed the Attorney General.

"Of course not, General Sessions, of course not!  But if that has to be proven in a court of law, well, we have no experience fighting perjury charges."

"Charges?!  Plural?!"  Sessions started hyper-ventilating.

"Now, now, General, I can recommend some terrific attorneys for you!"

"I need somebody I can trust!"

"Absolutely!" replied Breadman.

"Not some namby-pamby who's gonna be forced by Mueller into breaking attorney-client privilege!  God, I hate him so much!"

"Sure, not a namby-pamby," responded Breadman.  "Only the best!"

"And no Jews!" added Sessions.  "Kushner's the one they need to be kicking to the curb, not me!"  Sessions looked past Breadman out the other window as they passed a billboard proclaiming Virginia gubernatorial candidate Ralph Northam bragged about restoring voting rights to child molesters.  "Damned straight!" he cried, pointing at the billboard for Breadman to turn around and look at.  "Now, that's a criminal!"

"You don't think convicts should get their vote back after they serve their time?" asked Breadman, trying not to picture Sessions pushing a mop in a federal penitentiary.

Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac slithered along at 60 miles/hour enjoying every minute of the conversation.

COMING UP:    Blechs, lies, and videotape!
                               (The Senate's tax plan!)

Saturday, October 28, 2017

New- AND old-fashioned nervous breakdowns!

"Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!"

"Settle down!  Keep a lid on it until we are out to sea!"

Angela de la Paz and Dulles Samuelson heard the commotion, climbed up to the deck of their houseboat, and saw several Members of Congress scurrying onto and around the Molotov Cocktail, berthed next to them.

"I can't get the rope off!" wailed Congressman Dana Rohrabacher, winding the mooring rope tighter instead of unwinding it.  "We've been sabotaged by Robert Mueller!"

"Get a grip, Dana!" shouted Congressman Devin Nunes, shoving the California Representative aside.  "Lefty loosy, righty tighty!"

"Are they trying to flee the country?" whispered Angela de la Paz.  "Maybe you should call your boss at the FBI?"

"If those scumbags flee the country, that's a victory for America!" he laughed.

"Sh!" she elbowed him.  (They heard the engine start and saw Congressman Paul Ryan pulling a skipper hat lower against the bright sunshine in his eyes.)  "Maybe I should call Golden Fawn?  Her husband's in the Coast Guard."

"That's all we need!" replied FBI agent Dulles.  "Accusations that the 'Deep State' is harassing Republicans on their Saturday afternoon boat ride!"

"Where's the Exxon attorney?" wailed Rep. Rohrabacher.  "I thought they were supporting us!  I'm innocent!  Everybody's talking about my Moscow trip like it was evil!"

"We have a God-given right to pursue happiness wherever it might be," said Texas Representative Zeke "Slick" Hicks, leader of the secret Russia Caucus.  "That's right there in the Constitution!" 

"Isn't that in the Declaration of Independence?" whispered Angela.

Congressman Hicks sat down, lit a cigar and told the Speaker of the House they were ready to embark.  Congressman Rohrabacher was trying to strap his life vest on while vomiting over the side.

"Oh, get a grip!" cried Congressman Nunes.  "I'm sure Wikileaks will help us out again soon!  The uranium and the dossier are just the tip of the iceberg with Hillary:  lock her up!"

Angela and Dulles then saw a head peak out of the Molotov Cocktail hold, bark at everybody to shut up, then duck back in.  "Ah, there's the ensconced attorney," said Dulles.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, a new resident had arrived at the Arlington group home for the mentally challenged.

"This is Anne Marie," said psychologist Leo Schwartz, gesturing to a middle-aged woman wringing her hands after 36 hours in a hospital psychiatric ward.

"I know you!" cried Buckner.  "You work at Walmart!" (The woman shook her head.)

"At the ice cream store!" declared Melinda.  (Anne Marie again shook her head.)

"Anne Marie would prefer not to talk about where she works.  But ice cream sounds like an excellent idea!  Why don't you all show her around the kitchen, and you can all have some ice cream.  He watched as Theresa put her arm around Anne Marie's waist and steered her towards the kitchen.

"What is her story?" asked social worker Hue Nguyen, as they walked into her office and partially shut the door.

"Twenty years as a White House secretary until a nervous breakdown this week," said the psychologist as they sat down.  "Secret Service had to remove her and put her in an ambulance to the hospital."

"She attacked the President?!" asked Hue.

Leo shook his head.  "No, she curled up in a fetal position under her desk and wouldn't come out.  Said only Satan himself would hand out Halloween candy and comment on whether a child was fat or not."

"That's what broke her in the Trump White House?!" Hue exclaimed.

"The straw that broke the camel's back, I assume," replied Leo, handing the social worker the thin case file.  "Not much in there.  She was sedated in the ambulance, woke up calm in the hospital, talked lucidly during her psychiatric evaluation, but said she did not want to go home to her house in [air quotes] 'Trump Country'.  Her husband was livid, but she refused to let him take her back to their house in Loudoun County.  She agreed to take a bed here while waiting to see if she can go live with her married daughter in Charlotte.

Hue was silent as she read through the file, then looked up.  "No certain diagnosis?"

"Might be a real old-fashioned nervous breakdown," replied Leo.  "Rest and a break from old routines might be all she needs.  She has a mild sleeping pill and no other meds for now.  I'll stay for the remainder of the day to observe her, if you want to take a break, and I'll come back tomorrow."

The two walked out to listen in on the ice cream party now underway in the dining room.

"Leo is the best Jew you'll ever meet!" said Larry.  "I don't know where Hue is from, but she's awesome."

"We don't have any Nazis here!" exclaimed Melinda.  "You'll like it!"

"The President could have the best ice cream in the world, right?" asked Buckner.  "Not this cheap store brand?  Hue is Vietnamese."

"She's American!" retorted Melinda.

"Is Trump nuts?" asked Larry.  "This is our helping dog, Millie."

"Trump has the nuts which are straw huts in his brain on the train!" exclaimed Freddy Ritchings (AKA Brother Divine of the International Peace Movement, and host of the Church of Twitter).  "I do not see a Nazi in our house, just a mouse!  Ice cream is the dream for the team which believes in fall leaves and grieves what's up the White House sleeves.  Millie is not silly, and this dog will lift your fog!"

"Is it a magic dog?" cried Anne Marie. 

The psychologist and social worker exchanged a glance; then Leo shrugged.  "A desire for magic help might be a rational response to working in the Trump White House."

"I think somebody cast an evil magic spell over Trump," continued Anne Marie.  (Leo and Hue exchanged another glance.)  "I think it's those evangelicals that keep praying over him!  They don't say anything I ever heard in church!  What if they're wolves in sheep's clothing?"

"Honey, they don't even bother having sheep's clothing!" exclaimed Melinda.

"And the ghosts!" added Anne Marie.  (The psychologist and social worker exchanged another glance.)  "Barron has imaginary friends, but Melania says they are ghosts and should just be ignored, but Barron is talking to them constantly whenever he walks around, and he has this dead look in his eyes."

"Ooh!" cried Theresa.  "Is he possessed?"

"I don't know!" exclaimed Anne Marie.  "Maybe I imagined everything, and I'm the crazy one, and it's normal to Tweet about football players and watch television instead of reading reports.  And why do they want to kill Hillary?  Is that normal?  That doesn't seem normal to me!  And Ivanka is like a Stepford wife!  She scares me so much!  I feel like she could slit her own children's throats and still have that phony plastic lipstick smile on her face while she talks about women's empowerment!  And she's always yelling at the cleaning staff that they're not vacuuming enough, and there's dust everywhere.  Why is she even in the White House?  I've been there twenty years!  I've typed up and filed these memos for twenty years, and I know a lot about public policy, but Ivanka keeps a giant make-up bag and hairstyling bag in the ladies room!  Nothing makes sense to me anymore!"

Just then Cedric bolted out of the dining room with his teddy bear Aloysius gripped tightly, then pulled up short in front of Leo and Hue.  "No, no, no!" he whispered.  "The Secret Service will get revenge for this!  We're all in danger!"

"Calm down, Cedric," said the psychologist, putting his hands on both of Cedric's shoulders.  "She's just venting about her workplace:  I haven't heard any state secrets."

"Don't you understand?!" cried the former CIA agent (who sometimes got confused and thought he was a British agent).  "It's all in code!  Aloysius taught me the code years ago!  It's very, very bad!  Now Ghost Henry is going to return!"  Cedric did not wait for a reply, but ran upstairs to his bedroom. 

"I'll ask the psychiatric review board to take another look at Cedric's meds," said Leo.  "But you should take a break!  I'll stay a few hours and write notes on Anne Marie's interactions with the other residents."

"Are you kidding?!" exclaimed Hue, turning her attention back to the conversation around the corner.  "I want to hear more stories from the White House!"

"Trump is afraid of staplers and paper clips," continued Anne Marie.  "He banned them from the Oval Office!  All papers have to be in color-coded folders:  blue is for information bashing democrats, pink is for information bashing Hillary Clinton, red is for Russia, green is for budget items, and manila is for everything else.  But he won't read the papers anyway!  At first he would reject anything with staples or paper clips, but now that he has the folders, he just pretends to read the papers:  he's really just reading a couple sentences at the top and a couple sentences at the bottom.  If the National Security Adviser insists he needs to read more of it, Trump pretends there's a spider in the folder and throws it off the desk, spilling the papers all over the floor!  Then he orders the Secret Service to kill the spiders, and asks the National Security Adviser to just tell him what's in the folder!  We hear everything because he punched a hole in the wall months ago when Robert Mueller was named as a Special Prosecutor, but never asked for it to be fixed--he just taped a magazine cover with his face over that hole." 

Back at the dock, Angela de la Paz was sitting on the deck of Singapore Surprise, feeling the last hour of sunshine before the clouds rolled in.  She slowly came out of the Dreamtime and smiled at Dulles Samuelson, who was sipping a beer while working on their Halloween costumes for the party being thrown tonight by her employer, Charles Wu.

"Your father hitched a ride on the Molotov Cocktail," she said, noting the involuntary shiver Dulles experienced every time she brought up the ghost of former CIA agent Henry Samuelson.  "He's never going to stop trying to control everything."

"Which would be fine if he had been good at it to start with," replied Dulles, ruefully, before abruptly changing topic.  "Hey, do you think if North Korea launches a nuclear weapon at us, you'll get a vision to warn us?"

Angela pondered this for a minute.  "I think my visions are for unseen dangers and things I can stop.  I'm not sure either of those apply."

"But you did a lot when you were in the Middle East, right?" insisted Dulles.

"I killed people," she said, looking at the horizon.  "I killed men who were hurting women.  I killed the man who killed the father of my baby.  But killing...causes more problems than it solves, I think."  And the woman once known in Egypt as a mythologically fierce she-beast got up, kissed Dulles, said she was getting cold, and headed inside.

Over at the Department of Justice, Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein sat stone-faced as Attorney General Jeff Sessions berated and interrogated him about Special Counsel Robert Mueller's sealed indictments.

COMING UP:    Mad dogs and Englishmen!