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, September 17, 2017

Less Than Human

Ricky Chesterfield, a car mechanic and KKK member from South Carolina, had been living with Nazi Barbara Hellmeister for weeks, since meeting her in Charlottesville.  She had explained to him all the scientific evidence for the white supremacy he had always believed in his heart.  She had assured him through DNA lab testing that, though not a pure Aryan, he had quite a respectable amount of Aryan DNA in his system.  And he totally believed in her supremacy and worshiped everything about her. They spent a lot of time holed up in her secret lair atop the 14th Street Bridge, fishing, talking, soaking in the [demon Ardua] river vibe, and having animalistic sex like nothing he had ever known before.  Sometimes he accompanied her to her rented lab space in Arlington, where Barbara had stashed all the equipment she had acquired while working in the now shuttered White House science office.  He loved "playing doctor" with her while she wore her white lab coat and talked German to her.  Then he would have some beers and fall asleep while she kept humming and running experiments.  Every now and then she would send him on a TaskRabbit run to fix a car or truck for cash.  She also gave him synthetic drugs to sell.

From Barbara Hellmeister's point of view, Ricky Chesterfield had barely enough Germanic DNA to be considered respectably Aryan, but he would suffice for now.  And his non-Aryan blood made him sufficiently stupid to believe her that the baby she was pregnant with--already showing--was his.  She now had a neo-Nazi lover, helpmate, provider, and protector for the Hitler-infused Trump DNA clone she had growing inside her.  And it was pretty easy to make him happy:  he liked her cooking, he adored the euphoria drug she was secretly giving him, and his favorite game was for her to hook up a catheter for him to watch his own pee collect, then take it out and do "occupational therapy" on his genitals.  She, herself, had been rather happy for weeks, but couldn't help now feeling the one-year anniversary of the death of her first baby (a genetic freak, mutated because of the influence of Ardua, and accidentally killed by Barbara's plastic surgeries).  They had wandered uncertainly the day before between the Trump Mother of All Rallies (MOAR), the Juggalo rally, and the Antifa rally (for, respectively, either reveling in camaraderie, showing contempt for freaks, or picking fights with commies), but none of them had really elevated her mood.  Then, this morning, that violent meme of Trump's driving a golf ball to knock down Hillary Clinton reminded Barbara of giving birth in the Trump National Golf Club bunker, and later burying her infant there.  Now, without telling her about the death anniversary, she told him she was in the mood for doing something crazy, and he readily agreed.

Meanwhile, over on Capitol hill, the Zombie Caucus was debating the newest bill to replace Obamacare.

"This is getting boring.  Why do we have to keep talking about this?"

"It's just an exercise to exhaust and distract Democrats so tax cuts can be passed."

"Wait, I think I'm a Democrat?"

"Are we in favor of tax cuts?"

"No, too many zombies are not paying taxes.  We need humans to pay taxes!"

"You are a Democrat!"

"What about the Obamacare bill?"

"We always vote to repeal:  unhealthy people are easier to attack!"

"I think we should revisit this issue:  healthier people have tastier brains!"

"Well, it's a trade-off."

Just then, Congressman Paul Ryan, the Speaker of the House, walked in.  "I really need you all to vote for the Obamacare repeal, okay?  We're already in Continuing Resolution territory, and we're losing our base!"

"That doesn't matter:  Kris Kobach and voter suppression will keep us all in power."

"How do you know?  Is he a zombie?"

A couple hours later, Barbara Hellmeister was back in Arlington, just finishing up a special batch of synthetic drugs.  "I want you to distribute this in Southeast," she told Ricky.

"You mean Capitol Hill?  Or over by Nationals Park?"

"No, I mean Anacostia."

"It's too dangerous!  It's full of--"

"We are the superior race!  You can dominate them!"

Ricky stared at the drug.  It was one thing to listen to her stories about the Final Solution and all that, because it was a long time ago, but it made him a little nauseous wondering what kind of drug he wanted her to sell in an African-American neighborhood today.

She saw his hesitation and kissed him hard.  "I need this!"  She then watched him leave, hoping he would slaughter hundreds of people she thought genetically deserved to die more than her own first child...and DNA freak.

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COMING UP:       
The Reiki Triplets get some new clients!

Sunday, September 10, 2017

The diary of White House security guard Randy "Bubba" Blaylock.


Dear Diary,

What a week!  And that's saying a lot when you work in the White House!  Guarding Sebastian Gorka was definitely more boring than guarding Steve Bannon, and then when he was gone and I got transferred to Stephen Miller , I really thought it would just get duller and duller.  Southern Californian Nazi who attended Duke University?  Sounds like a loser who never had a girlfriend in his life and secretly watches gay porn.

But then something weird happened this week!

So it started with President Sinking Ship (I'm sorry, I was rooting for the guy, but HELL!) getting back from his do-over in Texas, then deciding to fly to North Dakota to beg for tax cuts for millionaires.  First of all, NOBODY goes to North Dakota if they don't have to!  Second of all, how many millionaire campaign donors live in that God-forsaken state?  WHAT is the point?  All they do is grow wheat and drill oil, and they can't even do the last one right because the tribes and enviros are getting on their backs!  Third, I'm not that great at math, but I'm pretty sure you can't do tax cuts when you gotta provide billions of dollars to FEMA to clean up two hurricanes!

Anyway, since Ivanka thinks people in DC are super mean, she says, "Daddy, can I fly with you to North Dakota?"  Yeah, she's got kids of her own but still calls him DADDY!  She leaves her own kids BEHIND to fly with DADDY!  Not because she's a special adviser but because she likes standing on a stage and having people clap for her, just like the old man.  And her own kids are asking Jared, "Daddy, why is mommy gone again?"  And he's like, "she needs to help your grandfather sell tax cuts for millionaires."  PSYCH!  No, he's like, "shut up and practice your Mandarin nursery rhymes, we have some more bribes to do with the Chinese ambassador's buddies."

But I'm excited, right?!  Because Trump's flying off with his daughter-wife, neglecting Melania again, and it's gotta be my big chance, right?  Stephen Miller is on a conference call with Steve Bannon about what Bannon is gonna tell Charlie Rose ("Own it, man!  You ARE a street fighter!"), so I mosey over to the East Wing to see what Mrs. Voluptuous is doing while Barron's at school, and that shit fashion designer is there again, Gunther Zimmer!  Man, I checked high and low when I found that Navy Seal parachute thread in his sewing kit in July, but I could never figure out what his deal is!  So the Secret Service are kind of hanging back in the upstairs hallway, like they're a little embarrassed, and I see that Melania's got the master bedroom door open, and she's modeling a gown for Zimmer, and as SOON as Zimmer sees me, he invites me to come in and shut the door behind me!

Then they both start giggling, and he tells her, "See, I told you he would come by!"

"Did you know zere are ghosts in zee White House, Bubba?" she asks me, and they both giggle again!

I'm like, "Hell, I thought I was the only one hearing them!  There's one that's always scolding Miller, and he's always yelling back, 'I can be a Nazi if I want to!  It's a free country!'  I mean, I understand where the Confederates are coming from, but being a Nazi is too much!  Even Bannon wasn't a Nazi!  I'm not sure about Sebastian, but he was always talking in some foreign language on the phone."

Well, Zimmer was nodding, but Melania looked confused, so I changed the subject, telling her what a pretty dress she had on.  And she's like, "Vell, I'm ready to take it off!"  And they both start giggling again.

And then Zimmer tells me, "I TOLD her you would be into it!"  And just like that, she's taking off her dress and coming onto me!  Honestly, I don't think I can write much more about this because I heard there's a thing called Freedom of Information Act requests, and my diary might be shown to a reporter someday, but let's just say, the three of us had a fun couple of hours before Barron came home from school that day!  

Well, that night after I drop Miller off at his sissy metro-sexual CONDO and head home to Virginia, I find spooks waiting for me at the house!  At first I think, SHIT, the Secret Service ratted me out to Trump!  But, no, it's the freakin' CIA!  They say they've got a tape of me in the Presidential bedroom with Melania, and I need to cooperate!  At first I was pretty pissed off to think Melania was a CIA agent, but they explained NO, she was REALLY into me, and it was Zimmer that set up the hidden camera, so I felt better.  They also explained that she's an illegal alien, so it's OK for them to spy on her.  But I asked, "she's not so bad, is she?"  And they said no, but she might have dirt on Trump and the Russia thing, and I said, "well, that's just a lie from CNN!"  But they said, no, it isn't, and they showed me some proof but said they needed more, and they appealed to me to be a patriot because they were worried about what Trump was gonna let Russia do to the good ole USA!  And then I thought about my daughter and how proud she would be if I told her I helped the CIA fight the Russkies, so I said OK!  I'll do it!  I mean, I didn't have much choice anyway!  I don't really care if some sex tape of me gets out on the Internet, but Trump seems like the kinda guy that would beat a wife black and blue for that, you know?  So all around it seemed like the right thing to do.

I am a little bummed the CIA confiscated my Rolex!  Said Zimmer had recognized it as stolen property, but I only stole it from that monster that had my daughter locked up in his basement!  And how does the CIA know about that, anyway?  I will say that skin rash has finally cleared up, though, and I stopped having those nightmares where the Rolex was TALKIN' to me and tellin' me to KILL people.

So now I'm in cahoots with Gunther Zimmer!  No wonder he turned her on!  I thought he was just a gay fashion dude, but he's got those CIA skills to seduce and be a super spy!  I could learn a bunch from him.  

And sure enough, the CIA was right!  Friday the goddam RUSSIAN ambassador is suddenly at the White House!  They never told the press or set up a fancy press conference or anything!  SECRET SPY SHIT!  Well, Miller doesn't know shit because he just deals with immigration, stuff like that, but Melania tells me all about the Russian ambassador before she heads off to Camp David.  Shit gettin' real!  And then I report it to the CIA!  Me, Bubba Blaylock of Winchester, Virginia!

Whoops, Secret Service bringing them back, I need to sign off and drive Miller home to City Center so he can get in his Sunday night spin class, whatever the hell that is.  Tomorrow's a new week!

Outside, several of the Shackled floated above the White House, watching Trump's dwindling inner circle of loyal advisers trickle out of the black SUVs, shell-shocked from his praise of the U.S. Coast Guard's "branding" and the need to speed up tax cuts for millionaires in response to Hurricane Irma.  Was there any way to steal the man's soul back from Satan?

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COMING UP:       Barbara Hellmeister commemorates the
death anniversary of her first (demonically deformed) child.

Monday, September 04, 2017

Condoleezza Rice and the Antifa?

The Fairmont Hotel doorman offered to hail a taxi for Condoleezza Rice, but she decided to walk to the Heurich Society meeting in the Dupont Circle Brewmaster's Castle.  With sunglasses and combat boots on, she could walk almost anywhere without getting recognized--even DC, where she was once a National Security Adviser, then Secretary of State.  The weather was fine, and she liked the sound of her boots clomping on the sidewalk.  It had only taken a few months of the Trump Administration for her to go back to being just another black woman out on the streets.  At her Stanford University job she was still respected and admired, but out on the streets was a different matter.  She had experimented with different types of clothing, makeup, shoes, and bags, but they made no difference.:  nobody recognized her except as a black woman.  There were now Stanford shops she no longer went into because the clerks followed her too closely.  There were cafes she no longer entered because they were haunts of the neo-Nazis who stared at her in an ugly way she had not known since leaving Alabama all those years ago.  And she had been forced to use Lyft drivers when hailing taxis became unreliable.

Rice had phoned Trump after his Charlottesville remarks to urge him to make a forceful condemnation of Nazis, the Ku Klux Klan, and all white nationalists, but he had angrily told her that he already did.  She urged him not to pardon Sheriff Joe Arpaio, that it would signal to unprincipled police officers everywhere that they could willfully target and do violence to people of color with no consequences, but he had retorted that Arpaio had only been doing what needed to be done to keep bad hombres out of Arizona.  Rice had then pleaded with Trump to appoint more diplomats to negotiate with North Korea, telling him that his escalating threats of retaliation were putting American troops, South Koreans, and Japanese citizens in grave danger, but he had angrily replied to her about how many more votes he had won than Bush, and that the globalist wing of the Republican Party was dead.

But none of that had unnerved her as much as the staged photo of him awkwardly lifting up and kissing a black girl.  The look on his face was the look of a boy forced to eat broccoli, and he looked eager to get it over with and drop her down again.  Then there was the gleeful smile of Melania, pretending she had married him because he did things like this.  And also what appeared to be the face of an apprehensive aide or local official holding his breath, waiting to see what Trump would do next:  like that episode of "The Simpsons" when political candidate "Mr. Burns" was being urged to eat the three-eyed fish because there was nothing wrong with eating fish from the lake next to his nuclear power plant, and Mr. Burns slowly lifted the forkful of vile flesh towards his mouth while a campaign adviser could be seen encouraging him to bite it, and in the end Mr. Burns did...then violently spit it out.

The ghost of Condoleezza Rice's late pet, Pippin, had already discovered her presence back in DC, and was frantically meowing and rubbing up against her, but Rice was oblivious to the spectral feline, absorbed in thoughts about Cville2DC and the end of DACA.  The United States had never hemorrhaged Soft Power so rapidly:  there was literally nothing the U.S. could now lecture other countries about, let alone inspire them on.

Now The Gopper Ghost and his spectral canine pack had discovered Rice was in town, and were crowding all around her as she made her way down M Street.  The hissing Ghost Pippin leaped up to sit on Rice's head as the Samoyed (Ghost Anatoly) started bark-whispering at Rice about the work he was doing with Ghost Henry to counter Russia's cyber war.  Odd thoughts started popping into Rice's head, and the grimace on her face caused a passerby to move over to the far edge of sidewalk.  I know that look, thought Rice:  I need to get away from that angry/crazy black woman.  Ghost Anatoly continued whispering to Rice about the Ghost CIA operations, their sporadic incursions into the Russian Embassy and chancery buildings, and their success in persuading Rex Tillerson to order several Russian consulates closed in retaliation for the expulsion of scores of American diplomats from Moscow.  Ghost Anatoly told her that Ghost Henry wanted to tap her KGB expertise to plan their next operation.

No, thought Rice, shaking her head, trying to clear out the odd thoughts bombarding her brain.  Focus on existential threat.  She had already been recruited to donate money to a secret Federal Reserve Board SuperPAC, and to sit on the board of a nonprofit trying to rescue Qatar from the Saudi-led blockade and boycott.  Career diplomats bailing out of the malfunctioning State Department had called her to complain about the tone-deafness of Rex Tillerson, while the increasingly Walter E. Kurtzian Assistant Deputy Administrator for Carnage had called her to ask how to crack the whip and get more work out of the remaining worker bees.

Ghost Anatoly nipped at her ankles, and she stumbled a bit, looking around in confusion.  Russia! Ghost Anatoly shouted at her.

"I know about Russia!" exclaimed Rice, and now more people were moving to the far side of the sidewalk as she passed them by.  She realized she was talking out loud and reined herself in.  Focus, discipline, existential threat, relatives in Alabama emailing her to say their voter registrations were cancelled and their churches vandalized with swastikas.

Finally, she was at the Brewmaster's Castle and walked up the stairs to the third floor conference where the Heurich Society members were chatting about the pennant race and waiting for her to dial in by video conferencing.

"Secretary Rice!" exclaimed Captain Tyler Glockmann.  "What a wonderful surprise!  We've had some promising developments this week at the Defense Intelligence Agency."

"That's nice," Rice said, sitting down without acknowledging the dropped jaws of most of the members--who had not seen her in person for quite a long time.  "I want you to stay on mission, Captain Glockmann, but I need to redirect some of our other resources to a new project, which I am calling Project Tuxedo."

"Is this about the Kennedy Center Honors?" asked the international investment banker.  "Trump isn't even going, so I'd rather not make my wife boycott them:  she loves Gloria Estefan."

Rice cast him a withering look.  "No, tuxedo, as in black and white, as in white alone is not a good look in this great country of ours."

"Uh-huh," nodded the banker, not liking where this was going.

"Couldn't agree more!" said the international arms merchant, who was also not comfortable with where this was going.

Rice looked over at a former FBI agent.  "I need you to hire some Antifa militia members in various states."

"Antifa?!" exclaimed the former FBI agent.  "They've just been labeled domestic terrorists!"  (Ghost Pippin jumped up to scratch his neck, and he reached back in surprise.)

"Which is why we need to professionalize their ranks, sharpen their focus, concentrate their efforts, keep law enforcement off of them, and make sure they have the right weapons to do what needs to be done in this country."

Now the jaws were dropping again, since many of the Heurich Society members knew how ruthless she had been during the invasion of Iraq and subsequent months of extracting (faulty) intelligence from tortured prisoners.  "What are you saying?" asked a former member of the CIA.

"I'm saying my greatest enemy is within.  If you don't agree with that, then you can vote in a new Chair for the Heurich Society.  I believe Dick Cheney is still available, and he certainly doesn't share my concerns."

Several members rushed to reassure her that she still had their confidence, and nobody wanted Cheney back.  "But are you sure about this?" asked the treasurer.  "It might just escalate the violence on many sides."

"Many sides?!" yelled Rice, jumping to her feet.

"That's not what I meant!" replied the treasurer.  "In many places!"

"I will do what needs to be done, with or without you!" Rice answered.  She used to be proud of rising to the top of organizations populated by white men, but it suddenly felt like a millstone around her neck.

"Absolutely!" said the former FBI agent.  "Hey, I hate those skinheads!  When I was a kid, they attacked my Jewish dentist.  Who the Hell attacks dentists?"

"Sure," said Rice, sarcastically, "do this for the Jewish people."

"And your people," he replied, more quietly.

"So, uh, I'm still working on Russia and intelligence gathering against Trump's crime network, and stuff like that, right?" interrupted Captain Glockmann (who was impersonating his deceased twin brother because Rice had personally appealed to him to be a patriot).

"Yes," Rice answered (causing Ghost Anatoly to exhale in relief), "you have enough difficulties with maintaining your cover at DIA.  Others can handle Project Tuxedo.  And anybody who's uncomfortable approaching the Antifa are welcome to go undercover in the Klan for intelligence-gathering.  Who's volunteering?"

Outside the window, a catbird flew off to report this unexpected development to Ardua of the Potomac, imitating the sound of a police siren as she flew through the air.

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COMING UP:       The diary of White House
security guard Randy "Bubba" Blaylock.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Spectral Pee

"He needs you to do another mission for him," said temporal lobe epileptic "John Doe" (who was still telling everybody he was an autistic shaman, though he was really an amnesiac conduit).

"I know that!" replied Angela de la Paz.  "He didn't need to send you to tell me."  (Angela could now hear directly from the ghost of Henry Samuelson when she was in the Dreamtime.)

"I like your boat," said John.

"It's not mine," said Angela, looking at him on the dock without inviting him aboard the Singapore Surprise houseboat she shared with Dulles Samuelson.

"Ghost Henry doesn't think you should be living with his son."

"Does he want us to get married?" asked Angela, sarcastically.

"He wants you to do another mission," replied John.  "Do you have any crabcakes?"

"No," sighed Angela, suddenly thinking of all the kindnesses Lynnette Wong had showed her when she was young and very troubled.  "I just made pupusas, if you want one of those."

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's Salvadoran," she said, turning to reenter the houseboat.  "But I'm not doing any more missions for Ghost Henry.  He needs to return to Purgatory and clean up his soul."

"Wow, that's heavy!" said John, following her down into the kitchen.  "He said he has too much left to do on Earth.  Did you know he's teaming up with the ghost of Anatoly Malenkov to counter Trump's attempts to give cyber intelligence to Vladimir Putin?"

"Who's that?" Angela asked, handing him a plate.

"A murdered Russian diplomat!  He's inhabiting a Samoyed, but the dog also died, so it's like a ghost inside a ghost."

Angela shook her head, wishing Dulles would get home.  "I only do missions when I have a vision."

"You do missions for that Chinese spy," John retorted.

"Only when I want the money and it's not an evil mission."

"Ghost Henry is not evil!  He's a patriot!"

"Yeah, people are throwing that word around a lot lately," Angela said.  (It seemed a thousand years ago when Henry Samuelson plucked her out of Columbia Heights and sent her to Kansas for training and plastic surgery to become a super spy, 500 years ago she was an active combatant in the Middle East--where violence and refugee flight still showed no end in sight.)

"But he is!" insisted John.  "The Ghost CIA succeeded in getting Steven Bannon off the National Security Council and out of the White House!  Then they got Sebastian Gorka out."

"Dulles says Gorka had to leave after making Tiffany Trump uncomfortable."

"Well, the Russian ambassador is gone because of them!  Trump won't listen to the real CIA, but the Ghost CIA moved out of Langley and took up residence in Trump International Hotel where they are whispering in everybody's ears!  It's not just lobbyists in there, you know."

"Yes, I know," sighed Angela, who had liberated three Bulgarian and seven Moldovan trafficking victims from the Russian suite there in the past three months.

"Ghost Henry said you would agree with him on this mission:  all he's asking is for you to--"

"I know what he's asking," interrupted Angela.  "I also know Trump is not my mission.  He sold his soul a long time ago, and is just a shell now."

"What?!"

"Someone else has to remove him from power.  Lynnette told me the most prominent psychiatrists in the country have written to Congress about how unstable Trump is, how he's inflaming racial unrest, how he shouldn't have the nuclear football.  This is a test of democracy:  that's what Dulles says.  I was given a gift, but not for that."

John was so upset at the idea of Trump's having sold his soul to Satan that he fell into a TLE seizure.  Angela took John's hand, looked for him in the Dreamtime, spoke gently to him there, and then he came back.

"I like this food," John said, forgetting why he was here.

"I'll get you another one," said Angela, who had also seen, and ignored, Ghost Henry there.

Meanwhile, over at Trump International Hotel, the Ghost CIA had managed to get several of the vicious Trump-cover issues of Der Spiegel and Stern distributed, persuaded three lobbyists their wives would leave them if they did not renounce all ties to the Trump Administration, tripped Eric Trump twice, and played Pied Piper with a whole battalion of cockroaches.

It's not enough, moaned the ghost of Anatoly Malenkov (the Samoyed), lifting his leg to urinate spectral pee into Stephen Miller's beer glass.  It's never enough.

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COMING UP:      
Condoleezza Rice has a private race riot!

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Pretty Stupid

"Jared, they stole your luggage!  They stole your watch!  They stole your shoes!  Your children are already DEAD!"

Jared Kushner screamed "Nana!" and woke up, nearly giving himself a hernia when the seat belt restrained him from jumping up from his airplane seat.

"Was it the--"

"Gaaaa!" hollered Jared, startled by the sight of his bleach-blond wife.  (Dream Nana hated Ivanka Trump.)

"Honey!" said Ivanka, stroking his wrist.  "Did you have that dream again?"  (She never said "Holocaust survivor" out loud.)

He shook his head.  "This one was different," Jared whispered.  He could still see Sebastian Gorka lighting the oven, and Steve Bannon laughing as his grandmother was pushed towards it by Stephen Miller.

"Everything alright sir?" asked a looming Secret Service agent, taking advantage of the opportunity to look down Ivanka's shirt and examine her cleavage.  "Your children heard screaming."

Jared and Ivanka glanced over to the cluster of seats where their nanny was trying to distract the Kushner children with "Make America Great Again!" coloring books (made in China).

"Daddy had a dream about the recalcitrance of Qatar in not accepting the wisdom of Saudi hegemony in the Middle East as the only possible road to lasting peace," Ivanka called out to her children, with the same fake smile she employed for people like Angela Merkel and that black gardener who always smelled sweaty when he delivered her daily bouquet of White House roses.

The nanny was accustomed to her employers' insistence on talking to their toddlers as adults, but she was not accustomed to hearing a reply like the one Arabella issued, a Chinese folk saying she uttered in Mandarin:  "A bear chasing skunks will have no honey in the winter cave."

"We'll be home soon!" Ivanka said, blowing kisses to her children.

Back in DC, the Jordanian embassy was already buzzing about Jared Kushner's return visit to the Middle East--which had already been planned as a quiet working trip, but which was completely overlooked by a media consumed with the tragedy in Charlottesville and its epic fallout.  King Abdullah II bin Al-Hussein had tried to do with Kushner what had completely failed in two prior meetings with Donald Trump:  explain that it was a very small minority of takfiri jihadists (approximately two percent of Sunni Muslims) who were driving the violent extremism, while most Muslims believe in peaceful respect for the two earlier Biblical faiths:  Judaism and Christianity.

"I have spoken at length with the king," said the Jordanian ambassador, drumming his fingers on the conference table around which sat his top deputies.  "Mr. Kushner judges the countries in the region by two things:  their historic response to American investors and their posture towards the Trump Administration."

"By 'American investors' you mean?"

"This is interpreted primarily as where have Kushner and Trump family members been allowed to do deals," replied the ambassador.

"Were they blocked in Qatar?"

"Not precisely, but they are sorely compromised by a juggernaut of Saudi cronyism.  Israel is now turning a blind eye to Saudi human rights violations and the continued degradation of women to have an ally against Iran."

"So is Israel guiding the Trump Administration now?  Because Kushner is Jewish?"

"Jewish?!" laughed the Jordanian ambassador.  "Kosher, maybe, but I have never known a Jew like him.  His grandparents survived a Nazi concentration camp, and he has no problem with Nazis marching in American cities!  In any case, it is clearly Saudi Arabia who is guiding the Trump Administration in the Middle East now."

"So what is Kushner's plan for the Middle East?"

The ambassador shook his head.  "The total capitulation of Qatar."

"The Saudis want their massive oil reserve:  even a child can see this!"

"That child cannot see it!" cried the ambassador, his voice rising.  "There are American troops in Qatar, and also in Turkey--which is flying food into Qatar.  It is all madness!  It is conceivable that Iran and Jordan will actually be the only legitimately functioning Middle East democracies within a year.  The 'war on terror'--as defined by the Saudis, the Israelis, and Trump--will lead to increased bloodshed, more curtailing of journalists and dissidents, isolated zones of heavily guarded wealth interspersing vast swaths of turbulent slums and deserts."

"And Syria?"

"A de-populated country already, mostly bombed into ruins, propped up by Russian aid."

"What is Kushner's plan for Syria?  Kushner was sent to the Middle East to--"

"There is no plan to change anything.  Soon the Trump Administration will declare Isis defeated, but the jihad has already expanded outside of the original Isis territory."

"And Jordan?"

The ambassador looked at the ceiling for a moment.  "Jordan will pray."

Prayers (silent) were also underway a few miles south, at the Camelot Society meeting in the library of the Federal Reserve Board.

"Nobody's seen a successful Nazi economy since 1940!" said Obi Wan woman.

"Don't you dare say it!" cried Italian economist Luciano Talaverdi Yellen (whose marriage to Helen Yellen had only caused confusion for him at work, not career advancement).

"We have to be prepared for this!" declared Janet Yellen's deputy.  "The Trump Administration has signaled its support for white supremacist fascists, the debt ceiling is about to be breached, emergency measures--"

"NO!" declared Luciano, jumping to his feet.  "If we become a fascist state, it will only invite invasion!"

"That's what you're going with?" asked Obi Wan woman.

"It's not a joke!" insisted Luciano.  "It doesn't matter if the trains run on time and industrial production increases if we are only going to have a coalition of allies invade us through Mexico to close the Mexican and Muslim concentration camps!  It will not be a sustainable economy, whatever Carl Icahn says!"

"Wow," said Janet Yellen's deputy.  "Nobody's going to invade the U.S.:  let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"No, we do need to get ahead of ourselves!" retorted Obi Wan woman.  "Where are the grown-ups right now?  The charities are pulling their galas out of Mar-a-Lago, the business leaders are pulling out of Trump's advisory councils, Steve Bannon has gone from the National Security Council to working again for Breitbart--whose biggest story this week--THIS WEEK!!--was about arresting Floridians for public sex on the beach--"

"Could we get back on point?" interrupted Janet Yellen's deputy.

"I am on point!" insisted Obi Wan woman.  "Opinion polls show historic levels of distrust and disdain for every branch of government AND the media.  We need to step up as the responsible party to shape the economic path forward."

"That is not the way the Fed works!" replied Luciano, slumping back down in his chair.

"Well, who else?" asked Obi Wan woman.

"But people don't trust banks, either," said Janet Yellen's deputy.  "That's why we avoid fanfare about our quarterly meetings--the less the average American knows about the Federal Reserve Board's involvement in their lives, the better."

"I think we should do what everybody else does to anonymously advance their socioeconomic agenda," said Obi Wan woman.  "I think we should set up a SuperPAC!"

Over at the White House, private bodyguard Randy (Bubba) Blaylock had turned down an offer to follow Steve Bannon to Los Angeles and was now assigned to adviser Sebastian Gorka--a Nazi whose death threats had increased 5,000 percent since Charlottesville.  Now Bubba's grandfather had fought Nazis in World War II, but that was a long time ago, and he was pretty sure Gorka had just gotten a bad rep.  That's why Bubba was surprised at what Gorka said when he stopped by to welcome new Georgetown Law student Tiffany Trump to the East Wing:  "What a beautiful white specimen you are!  We must find you an excellent husband, and I hope you have at least ten children!"  Tiffany laughed nervously, and looked at the Secret Service woman stationed nearby, who abruptly stepped in front of Tiffany and suggested Gorka probably had something more important to be doing.  Bubba burst out laughing, Gorka glared at him, and the two headed back to the West Wing.

She is pretty, said Ghost Regina.

Pretty stupid! retorted her twin brother, Ghost Ferguson.

"Reggie, Fergie!" cried the gardener, Bridge.  "Don't you mess with her!"

But the spectral pre-schoolers had not found Barron very amusing, so they were very interested in this one.

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COMING UP:     
What's happening with the Ghost CIA!?

Sunday, August 13, 2017

American Girl

Barbara Hellmeister was back from her weekend visit to Charlottesville, disappointed she had failed to find a new Nazi lover and partner to help her raise her unborn Hitler-DNA-infused Donald Trump clone.  Her pregnancy would start showing soon, and then it would be too late.  She crawled into her perch in the bridgeman's quarters of the 14th Street Bridge--which always had a calming, comforting effect on her, despite the semi-squalor.  (She didn't know that this feeling came from the demon Ardua lurking in the Potomac below her.)  She counted the cash she had made selling chemical weapons to white supremacists, and examined a couple Nazi artifacts she had picked up.  (Her personal collection, inherited from her Nazi grandfather, had mostly perished in the blaze she had set several years earlier.)  Since the closing of the White House science office, she had not held a lucrative position.  She was still on the FBI's most-wanted list, and it would be far too risky to return to the CIA.  She pressed her hand to her stomach, wondering at her own decision not to follow one of the neo-Nazi groups back to Georgia or Alabama.  It was true that most of them were stupid, couldn't even spell Charlottesville properly on Twitter, had more Celtic blood than Aryan, and had only managed to kill one person--a white woman!--but somehow none of those things really mattered in comparison to the inexplicable draw she felt pulling her back here.  Her phone buzzed, and she was surprised to see a text message from Ricky Chesterfield, a KKK car mechanic from South Carolina who had decided to look her up in DC before heading home.  She smiled at his message asking if she wanted to "have some fun" at the Holocaust Museum.  Do I ever!

Over at the Justice Department, Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions had happily put in motion a civil rights investigation into the white supremacist murder in Charlottesville (since the victim was white and no civil rights violation would be found).  Now, with that public relations coup behind him, he was eager to get back to prosecuting government leaks and deporting oncology nurses for the crime of being born in Mexico.  "Hawk!"

"Yes, sir, General Sessions, sir!" cried DOJ attorney Atticus Hawk, jumping to his feet and saluting.

"At ease!" replied Sessions, shutting the office door behind him before sitting down next to Hawk's desk.  "How's the leak investigation going?"

"Well, sir," began Hawk, sitting back down and shoving his taco salad away from his papers, "we've narrowed it down to about fifty suspects in the CIA, a hundred in the White House, two-hundred at the Pentagon--"

"TWO-HUNDRED!?"

"Well, statistically speaking, that's actually a pretty small number considering how many people work at the Pentagon."

"TWO-HUNDRED!?  It's the trans-sexers, isn't it?!"

"The trans?  Um, we're not examining that, uh, factor."

"We have enemies on all sides, son!"

"Don't I know it?!" declared Hawk, who was regretting his lunch choice and desperately wanting to use the bathroom.  "We did identify one DOJ cleaning woman deported a couple weeks ago who told some Mueller grand jury stories to an Associated Press reporter in Guadalajara."  (This was a complete lie:  Hawk was responsible for most of the leaks about Robert Mueller.)

"Guadalajara!" exclaimed Sessions, instinctively recoiling in disgust from the Spanish name.

"Well, the reporter has a British passport, and I assume you don't want us to bring the woman back for questioning?  She claims she was deported in a case of mistaken identity."

"What happened when you questioned those pesky reporters from the Post and the Times and the Buzzkill?"

"Buzzfeed?  Well, sir, General, their lawyers all sent protest letters citing the First Amendment."

"And you let that stop you!?" cried Sessions, getting red in the face.  "The God-damned First Amendment doesn't protect traitors!"

"Well, sir, there's no proof of treason--"

"I told you to get me the proof!"

"It's a chicken and an egg thing," replied Hawk.

"What?!  You a country boy all of the sudden, telling me about poultry?!"

"Um--"

"They publish government secrets, they need to tell us who leaked 'em!" hollered Sessions.

"We did trace some of the leaks to Barron," whispered Hawk, "but you don't want us to haul him in here, do you?"

"Bannon?!  YES, haul him in here!"

"Barron, sir, the kid."  (Sessions shook his head in confusion.)  "Melania's son, Barron."

"Get me those reporters, damn it!" declared the Attorney General, before storming out of Hawk's office.

I didn't get to tell him our suspects for the "Game of Thrones" leak, Hawk thought to himself.

Not far away, FBI agent Dulles Samuelson was, in fact, delivering a sealed envelope of material from Atticus Hawk to a member of the Special Prosecutor's team.  The woman nodded silently and was quickly on her way.  Samuelson walked quickly into a different corridor before slowing down his pace and exhaling deeply.  It was absolutely astonishing to him that Donald Trump was still in office, that there was still no law enforcement against him, that the bullying Trump had personally aborted the years-long planning for construction of a new FBI building to show his displeasure with the investigation, that the President of the United States had thanked Putin for expelling U.S. diplomats...then gave a wink and a nod to a white supremacist rally responsible for murder.  Samuelson heard whispers of things here and there--how important it was to build a slam-dunk case and not make anything public before all possible criminal conspirators were nailed--but serving as an officer investigating and arresting small-fry criminals every week seemed more and more surreal to him.  He walked into his office to finish up a drug ring report, thinking about Angela de la Paz--who had stopped talking about the supernatural world and thrown herself into espionage for Charles Wu again.  Hawk had still only seen her kill a couple of demons, but he knew it was always on her mind.  She might be talking about North Korea or the undercover agent in the Russian suite of Trump International Hotel, but he could always see in her eyes that intense glow indicating how tuned in she was to what was happening just across the natural/supernatural divide.  When he had first learned of this, he had considered Angela's unique abilities to fight evil a gift; now he understood what a weight it was on her, the massive presence of evil in this town.  The whole town was full of "fire and fury" now, and there seemed no way it could end well.

Over at George Washington University Hospital, Dr. Khalid Mohammad cried in relief as his laboring wife Yasmin gave birth to their first child.  He shook his head when offered the scalpel to cut the umbilical cord, not interested in taking his eyes off Yasmin cradling the baby girl.  "I want to name her Charlotte," whispered Yasmin, "or Heather".

Khalid laughed at the idea of giving their daughter a non-Muslim name, but nodded.  "Charlotte Heather Mohammad," he said.  "An American girl."

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COMING UP:     Jared fixes the Middle East!

Sunday, August 06, 2017

Pravda!

"Finally, some sun coming out!" exclaimed Texas Congressman Zeke "Slick" Hicks, pulling his captain's hat lower over his eyes.  "Just as we were heading back to D.C.!"  He idled the motor of the newly acquired Molotov Cocktail (a gift from Exxon) and headed back to the cooler to grab another beer.  "Man, I wish I was deep-sea fishing in the Gulf instead of chugging up the Chesapeake!"

"Why did you stop the boat?" whined Congressman Devin Nunes.  "I don't wanna miss my flight to California!"

"Aw, don't get your shrimp nets in a tangle!" replied the Chairman of the secret Russia Caucus.  "I just wanna look at the blue sky for a minute!"

"Blue sky," muttered Wisconsin Congressman Paul Ryan under his breath, rolling down his shirt sleeves.  (The Speaker of the House had to avoid direct sun since becoming a zombie earlier in the year.)

"Can we go over the talking points again?" asked Rep. Nunes.  "I still don't understand how I'm supposed to explain to my constituents why we increased sanctions on Russia even though Russiagate is a big fat nothing burger."

"We're just doing what the intelligence community recommended," said the Speaker of the House.  "But none of it is connected to Trump ...or to us, for that matter."

"Well, what if my constituents see it differently?" continued Nunes.  "Mueller's got the second grand jury now, somebody leaked that phone call where Trump complained to the Australian prime minister that Putin was more pleasant to talk to, somebody leaked that Trump was involved in Junior's bogus statement on the Russian adoptions meeting, Trump complained about having to sign the Russia sanctions bill--"

"We've gone over this!" said Rep. Hicks (who was perfectly capable of denying to his dying breath being in over his head).  "Plausible deniability!  Limited liability corporations!  We've done everything very carefully, and there's no way that Manafort will squeal because, well, you know."

"He'd be whacked by the Russian mob!" laughed the Speaker of the House, a little more light-headed than usual with the sunlight affecting the maggots in his brain.

"It's not funny!" protested the sunbathing Representative from Florida (who was in denial about skin cancer, sea-level rise, and her re-election odds if voter suppression efforts failed in her District).  "You can't just laugh it off, Paul!  We need to stay in agreement on these talking points!  I don't want some guy named Vitaly showing up at my door when push comes to shove."  (Actually, she did have some fantasies about a young, handsome "Vitaly" getting physical with her, but that's in a different blog....)

"The Russia bot Twitter trolls are cranking out more #MAGA Tweets than anybody else," said Rep. Hicks.  "They're also in the top ten for Tweeting "fakenews" and "SethRich"--they've got our backs, and we've got theirs, and Exxon hasn't given up hope of reversing those sanctions later and drilling in Russia.  The way I see it, Mueller's gonna nab a couple little low-lifes from the campaign, the New York A.G. is gonna nab a couple of Russian money-launderers, and the Republican voters will come roaring back to vindicate Trump, like a tornado zipping across Interstate 10!"

"Damned straight!" exclaimed the Speaker of the House.

"Well, at least we still have Obamacare," sighed Devin Nunes.  "I won't have to take questions about repeal and replace anymore."

The smile faded from Rep. Ryan's face, and he started fantasizing about ripping the Californian's head off and chowing down on his brains right now.

Back in D.C., Captain Tyler Glockmann rolled his wheelchair into the upper floor meeting room of the Brewmaster's Castle.  Today he was the first one in for the Heurich Society Meeting, though he had already spoken to Condoleezza Rice every morning and every night this week.  He grabbed a muffin from the tray that butler Han Li had left out, dreading the bad news he would have to deliver today:  the Joint Chief of Staff would go to the mat against Trump on transgender service members, but nothing else...at least, not yet.  He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about his brother--the real, deceased Captain Tyler Glockmann.  Did you serve your country?  Am I serving my country?  The god-damned President of the United States had just launched his own propaganda news channel, which would declare any indictment against the entire criminal enterprise a lie, but I am lying every day I'm at the Defense Intelligence Agency.  Means justify the end.  What is the end?  He took a swallow of lemonade.  It was clear to everybody at the Defense Intelligence Agency that the old KGB agent had played a very, very long game, and it was far, far from over.

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't, am I right?" asked the treasurer, walking into the conference room.

"Sir?"

"Take the shot," he replied with false cheerfulness.  "Of course, there's no need for that--he could just be smothered in his sleep.  But then what?  The barbarians would be at the gate with their home-made AK47s squaring off against the Pentagon.  The brass have to stand down, sit back in the name of democracy while it rots from the inside.  Is this chocolate chip or raisin?"  Glockmann shook his head.  "Next year we're either gonna look like Venezuela or Russia, and Russia would be better, don't you think?"

"Venezuela, actually," said the international arms merchant, who had just sat down.  "I'm making a ton of money selling weapons down there!"

"Would you sell them here if there's a civil war?" asked Glockmann.

"There already is, Captain!  And the Heurich Society never loses in any war!"

Not far away, junior partner Bridezilla was hosting her largest ever Russia practice reception at Prince and Prowling, up on the roof deck, with a harpist sitting under a tent ready to begin the sunset serenade music.  Her boyfriend ("Esperantu Edward") had helped her pick up a few Russian words over the last few months, and she was fairly certain people were whispering about Mueller's grand juries and the New York RICO investigation, but she was uncertain what exactly they were saying.  She smiled with false serenity as she moved among the guests, pleased that she had brought millions in dollars of business to the law firm but fully aware that the government practice division was raking in ten times that amount doing unlisted support work for the Justice Department's Trump-related litigation defense teams.  She still suspected Edward might be a spy of some sort, but everything about DC had become so surreal that it scarcely mattered anymore.

"When are you two going to get married?" asked an importer, taking Bridezilla by the arm and pointing to Esperantu Edward.

Bridezilla looked down in surprise at her ring finger, which was empty.  How long has this been empty?  When did I meet Edward?  What will happen to us?

"Well?" laughed the importer.  "He would do anything for you!"

In fact, Edward was now deeply enmeshed in the Russian resistance to Vladimir Putin, and the more clients he brought to her at Prince and Prowling, the more dangerous it was becoming for her.

"Would he?" she smiled.

Down in Southwest, the secret Russia Caucus--willfully ignorant their new boat was loaded with hidden state-of-the-art Soviet listening devices--was pulling the Molotov Cocktail into its new pier slip--right next to the Singapore Surprise.  Ten feet below, Ardua of the Potomac knew nothing about geopolitics, but the demon did know evil hubris when she saw it.

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 COMING UP:     Out, damned leak!