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, October 15, 2017

Let them eat cake!

It was another emergency meeting of the Federal Reserve Board Camelot Society.

"If Trump blows up the health insurance market, it's game over!" wailed Obi Wan Woman.

"Don't panic!" cried Janet Yellen's representative.  "We have tools at our disposal.  We got through the Great Recession, and we will get through this.

"We got through the Great Recession?!" scoffed Obi Wan Woman.  "What you mean is some very large banks got through it, and AIG survived, and a lot of Americans went into foreclosure and bankruptcy."

"It would have been far worse without us," said Italian economist Luciano Talaverdi Yellen (distantly related by marriage to Janet Yellen, but still toiling in obscurity at FRB despite his legal name change).

"Exactly," said Janet Yellen's representative.  "We need to formulate a drastic plan."

"Well, if you're going to take away people's health insurance, you might as well just kill them," said Luciano.  (Several people seated around the library Round Table gasped.)  "No, I mean it!" said Luciano.  "Sick people with nothing to lose will simply start bombing everything.  The fascists in Italy did not anticipate that, and so the communists--"

"We don't have time to talk about post-war Italy!" cried Obi Wan Woman (who disliked Luciano ever since he got married and stopped having sex with her on this table).

"Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it," he retorted.

"Italy is a mess!" countered Obi Wan Woman.

"Shut up, both of you!" exclaimed Janet Yellen's representative.  "Unpaid medical bills lead to bankruptcies, and the country cannot afford another large-scale disruption of system liquidity.  Senator Rand Paul is doing this precisely because he hates the Federal Reserve Board and wants to trick us into propping up health insurance companies.  We must do it in secret."

"But that is why he hates us!" protested Luciano.  "The secret influence over the economy!"

"That's why it needs to be ultra-secret, so he doesn't have a clue!  If you need to work with Heurich Society, you're authorized.  Now get her a plan!"

"The Heurich Society?!" protested Obi Wan Woman.  "It was probably their idea for Trump to promote fiscal responsibility by condemning three million people to live in the Stone Age on Puerto Rico so FEMA can spend all its money on the Republican hurricane victims in Texas and Florida!"

Meanwhile, up in Cleveland Park, triple agent Charles Wu would listen to his tape of the Camelot Society meeting later because he was hosting his daughter's birthday party in his backyard.

"Mrs. H-C has been a wonderful nanny and governess, but Delia's getting older now, and I'm not doing enough," said Charles Wu, in a rather uncharacteristic moment of weakness.

Lynnette Wong said nothing for a minute as she watched the birthday girl race back into the backyard bouncy castle under the doting eye of Prudence Higgety-Cheshire.  "She's a happy and healthy child," she finally said.

"She's in kindergarten, and her female role models are Mrs. H-C, Liv next door, Angela, you, and Dora the Explorer."

"That's fine!" said Lynnette.

"She doesn't understand Liv's work, or what Angela really does."

"She understands my work:  I sell herbs in a Chinatown shop to help people feel better.  And we're business partners.  What you're really worried about is she doesn't understand your work, and you can't introduce her to most of the people you work with."

Charles turned to look at Lynnette, then turned back to keep gazing at the bouncy castle.  They had dated briefly, then gone back to being business partners with unspoken issues between them:  her Taiwanese roots, his Hong Kong roots, her political outspokenness, his inability to steer her off being suspicious about his actual activities since moving to the U.S.  And yet, instead of remaining circumspect with her, he always found himself craving her encouragement and approval.  "She's just not my little princess anymore.  She's turning into an actual person.  One minute she's asking me for a Barbie dream house, and the next minute she's asking me why Harvey Weinstein was mean to those girls!  Except she said his name as 'Harvey Weiner Schnitzel.'"  (Lynnette burst our laughing.)  "We had just been to Cafe' Mozart."

"She knows how to turn on a television and a computer," said Lynnette.  "You need to be able to discuss things with her."

"Why's it so difficult?"

"Maybe the real question should be why the first decade of your adult life came so easy to you?  Your over-abundance of chi!  You know what was difficult?  When I had to answer Angela's questions at age fourteen about why she had to have a dead mother, an absent father, a monstrous uncle, and an extremely ill grandmother."  (They both turned to look at Angela de la Paz, who was always glad to subsume her own October birthday celebration into Buffy Cordelia's.  Her boyfriend was walking her into the Wu backyard with his arm around her, and the normally somber young woman was laughing.)  "Life is pain, which your chi kept you insulated from for a long time.  Now your chi is flowing to your daughter, as it should."  (He turned his head to look at Lynette.)  "Did you think hiring an English nanny would allow you to go on with the same life path you had before?"

"No, but...."  (He turned back to stare at the bouncy castle, feeling guilty he had been about to ask Lynnette for help mentoring his own daughter.  He sighed and turned back to Lynnette.)  "You would tell me if I were a bad father, wouldn't you?"

"Yes.  The demon is back in the river:  what are you doing about it?"

"Angela says there's nothing we can do about it right now."

"She's said more than that," replied Lynnette.  (Charles nodded.  Angela had been pressuring him about his more questionable espionage activities since the day he hired her.)  "Listen to her:  nobody can protect Delia from evil better than Angela."

The two turned to look back at Angela, who had just picked up Lucas Cigemeier--the boy she had given up for adoption when she was a teenager and the baby's father had been killed in a military operation in the Middle East.  Felix and Liv Cigemeier were happy to share the toddler with Angela, who never asked too much.  (They had no idea that Angela visited Lucas in the Dreamtime every night.)

"She's doing better," said Lynnette.  "Dulles has been good for her."

"He better be," said Charles, remembering the man's father, former CIA agent Henry Samuelson, who had hounded triple agent Charles Wu, and was probably rolling over in his grave now that Dulles had joined the FBI.

"He knows about her gift, and doesn't try to exploit it," said Lynnette.

"I don't exploit it!" Charles said, guiltily.

"You make a lot of money off it," said Lynnette.

"Believe me, Angela vetoes anything and everything she wants to veto!"  Charles was still uncertain how much Lynnette actually knew about his spy life.  "I listen to her!"

They watched as Delia ran over to welcome Angela to her party and get a toss in the air from Dulles.

"Dark forces have always preyed on you, Charles, because of all your chi," said Lynnette.  "You are lucky to have Angela watching over Delia, but you also can't forget that."

"Did Angela tell you she sought out Donald Trump in the Dreamtime and discovered his soul is gone?"

Lynnette shivered.  "Only light can conquer darkness."

Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac inhaled and laughed in pleasure as she sensed Donald Trump and his evil entourage returning from the golf weekend and drawing closer to the White House...where Character Counts Week was about to launch.

****************************************************************   
COMING UP:    
CIA Director Mike Pompeo gets to know the Cursed Rolex!

Saturday, October 07, 2017

Death Spiral

Charles and David Koch sipped former Senator Evermore Breadman's aged bourbon amiably.  It was the sort of liquor millionaires drank and, as billionaires, they were accustomed to far better, but this was adequate for a closed-door meeting at Ardua's favorite law firm, Prince and Prowling.

"As you know," began Breadman, "our lobbying efforts were quite successful in the House of Representatives, where the tax bill passed easily."

"Senators are not as easily swayed," said C. Koch.  "They are subject to the wrath of the fully enfranchised voter."

"The fully enfranchised voter is certainly a problem," replied Breadman, "and I concede that gerrymandering and Koch Brothers donations have an out-sized effect in the House as compared to the Senate, but we are still optimistic that the Senate can do this."

"Can or will?" asked D. Koch.

"It's too early to say," said Breadman, feeling his intestines churning.

"Will we win the gerrymandering case at the Supreme Court?" pivoted C. Koch, referring to oral arguments heard this week in Gill v. Whitford.  "If Kennedy jumps or, God forbid, Roberts himself--"

"Pyrrhic victory at best," declared Breadman.  "They would simply send it back to Wisconsin for an ordered re-drawing of the maps, which would take time, and then the new maps would probably be re-litigated."

"But the precedent could upend matters in the South, right?" asked D. Koch.  "Resurrect the Voting Rights Act?"

"Don't get too far ahead of yourself," cautioned Breadman (who had already written up an alternative five-year action plan for Prince and Prowling's government practice, contemplating a seismic shift back to Democrat majorities).  "It's best to take these things a few months at a time."

"A few months?!" scoffed C. Koch.  "We have spent decades building up our influence in Washington!  We are at the peak of our power!  Why aren't we seeing more results!?"

"Well, sir, I think if you look at the regulatory level, your businesses are already benefiting tremendously from non-enforcement of the Clean Water Act, RCRA, and the Fair Labor Standards Act.  The U.S. has rejected the climate change treaty, which was one of your pet projects, and--"

"That's all fine and dandy, but we want the damned tax cut!" interrupted D. Koch.

"I think what would help with that," said Bridezilla (startling the Koch Brothers into turning around to see her sitting on the leather couch behind them), "would be for you to make a detailed statement about how you will reinvest that money you save into your community."

"How long has she been there?" demanded C. Koch, turning back to Breadman.

"She's been here the whole time," said Breadman, annoyed that, instead of wearing a red dress, Bridezilla had blended into his couch with black jeans and a black silk blouse.

"What is that thing?" asked D. Koch, pointing to her lap.

"This is Flower Girl and Maid of Honor," the junior partner replied, petting her miniature conjoined twin guinea pigs.  "I used to call them Thelma and Louise, but I'm at a happier place now."

D. Koch turned back with raised eyebrows to Breadman, who quickly said, "she has outstanding contacts on the Hill.  She was instrumental in getting passage of the Pentagon budget."

"For instance," continued Bridezilla, causing the Koch Brothers to crane their necks around again, "you could write an op-ed about how the government should get out of the arts funding business and let philanthropists like you fund the art your community actually wants."

"I'm not sure--" began C. Koch.

"But why stop there?  Explain how health insurance companies should not be forced to provide contraception, but billionaires like you, if your tax bill were lighter, could donate condoms in your community."

"Donate condoms?!" asked D. Koch.

"Sure!" exclaimed Bridezilla.  "Either that or more maternity wards.  You could also write an op-ed about how you love coal miners so much that you are going to give some of your tax refund to them, and you can do it more efficiently than the government could even if they were allowed to end coal subsidies and give renewable energy a level playing field in coal country."

"What she's trying to say--" interrupted Breadman, but he was quickly talked over by Bridezilla.

"You just have to explain the trickle-down so people get it.  It's billionaires with more money in their pockets that can really accomplish things:  everybody knows that!  By the way, are either of you single?  I have a steady boyfriend, but I think he might be a spy.  My ex was a spy, and I really don't want to go down that road again."

"What is going on here?!" demanded C. Koch.

"She was just about to tell you our strategy for persuading Senators Collins and Murkowsky to support the tax bill," said former Senator Evermore Breadman.

"It involves your private jet," said Bridezilla, "a few Russians I know, and videotape."

"Go on," said the Koch Brothers in unison, starting to feel hypnotized by the sight of Bridezilla's steady stroke along the spine shared by Flower Girl and Maid of Honor.

Breadman exhaled deeply and smiled at the inexplicable charm of Bridezilla...and another $300,000 of legal fees likely to pour in from the Koch Brothers in October.

Meanwhile, the U.S. State Department had a different agenda:  preventing nuclear war with North Korea while Secretary of State Rex Tillerson continued his death spiral.

"I am not the one who leaked the 'f-ing moron' comment!" insisted C. Coe Phant for the tenth time.

"It was either you or somebody you know!" retorted the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Carnage.  "I told you to get me a name, or it's your name I'm serving up on a platter!"

"You wouldn't dare!" hissed C. Coe Phant.  "I am doing the work of five different reassigned or laid-off employees, not to mention personally mixing your smoothies, picking up your dry cleaning, renting comfort dogs--"

"Shut up!  That has nothing to do with this!"

"If you fire me, who's going to keep bribing the North Korean Ambassador with Little Debbie cupcakes, Moose Munch, and pure cane alcohol?  Who's going to keep Tillerson from demolishing the entire Africa division and replacing it with a team dedicated to turning Puerto Rico into a foreign country?  Who's going to supply you with a new porn tape six days a week?"

"Who leaked the 'f-ing moron' comment?!" screamed the ADAfC.

"It was probably the Bloodsucker!" exclaimed C. Coe Phant.  "You want me to confirm that for you?" he added with a sneer.

The ADAfC turned pale at the mention of former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and shook his head vigorously.  "No, no!  Would she do that?  Why would she do that?!"

"Why does anybody in this town do anything?!" wailed C. Coe Phant, who had been sleep-deprived for months.  "We're all gonna die!"

"How many do you think will die?" asked Joey Bent Oak, a few miles away in upper Georgetown.

His adoptive father, Coast Guard officer Marcos Vazquez, had finally returned from two weeks in his native Puerto Rico for the birth of his daughter.  He and his wife had named her "Isabela" for his decimated hometown, and "Justice" for everything else.  Marcos just shook his head and continued trying to assemble a rainbow and unicorn mobile while Golden Fawn slept under the close eye of her grandmother and Isabela Justice was walked around the block by his mother.

"Will abuela stay here forever now?  She can't go back to Puerto Rico ever, can she?"

Marcos shook his head again.  He was worried that Joey would get less attention from his adoptive abuela now that she had a flesh and blood granddaughter.  He was worried that the strain on his wife's body would bring the breast cancer back a third time.  He was worried that his daughter's dark skin and mixed heritage would make her life very hard in Trump's America.  He was worried that his island looked like a nuclear bomb had been dropped on it, but Republicans just wanted their precious tax cut for billionaire campaign donors.  He was worried that people like Bill O'Reilly thought 600 innocent people's getting shot by a lunatic machine-gunner was the price to be paid for "freedom".

"I think things will get better," said Joey.  "They can't get worse, right?"

Meanwhile, over at CIA headquarters, Director Mike Pompeo stumbled across the evidence related to the rogue undercover operation at the White House--which normally he would have gotten furious about except for the fact he was very distracted by a little voice inside his head telling him to take that Rolex and put it on.  Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac smiled.

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COMING UP:    Let them eat cake!

Sunday, October 01, 2017

Over the Edge

It had been a very long week for Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotamayor.  It seemed decades had passed since she was first appointed by President Barack Obama, she thought, as she swiped her fob and entered the office.  She needed to catch up on her work after so many emails, calls, and texts all week concerning relief efforts in Puerto Rico.  Even now there were a few relatives in a remote rural village that nobody had made contact with.  The sinking feeling inside her was growing by the day:  the sense that she was no longer a Justice in the greatest democracy in the world but the last remnant of checks and balances standing before the country slid towards fascism.  It had taken every bit of self-restraint she possessed not to tear into Neil Gorsuch after he had returned Thursday from a wildly inappropriate conservative think tank luncheon at Trump International Hotel--the very hotel which was the subject of unprecedented Constitutional litigation under the Emoluments Clause!--to complain vehemently about the delayed start due to "those damned protesters at the hotel--they're constantly attacking everything that makes America great!"

"Wasn't the name of your talk 'Defending Freedom?'" Ruth Bader Ginsburg had asked.  "Those protesters are concerned about checks and balances--three branches of government.  You shouldn't have campaigned with McConnell in Kentucky or gone to Trump's Hotel."

"I didn't surrender MY freedoms when I came here!" Gorsuch had retorted.  "I still have free speech and freedom of association!  You are always speaking your mind about Trump!"

"I speak up when the independent judiciary and rule of law are attacked.  You are surrendering the independence of the judiciary!"

Only the arrival of Chief Justice John Roberts had cut short the argument.  Justice Sotamayor had left the room, feeling sick to her stomach.  Trump was pushing tax cuts for the wealthy all week--even arguing that it was vital for Puerto Rico!  Mi gente!  It was surreal.  And now the Supreme Court was set to hear important cases on immigration, gerrymandering, the Constitution--and she knew that Gorsuch would decide every case without bothering to engage in even a show of careful, reasoned analysis.  It could become a kangaroo court at best, a rubber stamp for the Trump Presidency at worst.  Would John Roberts rise above it?  Could he?

Meanwhile, triple agent Charles Wu's chartered plane was landing back in DC after delivering supplies to several remote villages that Angela de la Paz had seen in her visions about Puerto Rico.  He watched Liv Cigemeier close her eyes nervously just before the plane touched down, then exhale and open her eyes after the safe landing.  She smiled at him, grateful that he had heeded her plea to broaden his philanthropic efforts beyond International Development Machine funding and to a desperate U.S. Territory.  Wu smiled back at Liv, who still had no idea that his IDM funding had been motivated by more than philanthropy.  This trip was actually one of the most philanthropic things he had ever done with his money, and though not thrilled about it, it could hardly be avoided after he was accosted by Liv's pleas, Angela's visions, his English nanny's exhortations, and the questions his young daughter had posed a couple days earlier:  "Where is San Juan? Why are they dying?  Why is the President being mean to that mayor?"  His governess had denied deliberately allowing Delia to see Mrs. Prudence Higgety-Cheshire's Twitter feed, but the damage had been done.  Now Charles could return to his daughter and show her photos of children holding the toys and stuffed animals she had solemnly given him to take to Puerto Rico.  He didn't know what was more disconcerting:  the idea of his daughter's growing up or how much she had changed him.

And now Charles Wu had to turn back to the North Korean problem, on which he was being pressed for intelligence by all his contacts in Beijing, London, and Washington.  Apricot Lily and Camisole Silk had traveled between the two Koreas several times, and there was nothing that could be done:  subterfuge, espionage, assassination were all unworkable options.  Trump was apparently so emasculated by a year of criticism--the likes of which he had never witnessed in his whole narcissistic life--that he would launch nuclear weapons to avoid spending one hour of his life being diplomatic.

"Is she okay?" asked Liv, gesturing at Angela, who was still seated with her eyes closed after they had already gotten up from their seats.

"I'll stay with her--go ahead," he replied.  Liv hugged him--another new development that would once have seemed out of place in his life--and deplaned.  Charles motioned to the flight attendant not to be concerned, and sat down beside Angela while the crew bustled about.  "Where are you now?" he whispered, even though he really did not want to know.

Over at the White House, the never harmonious ghosts had become more argumentative than they had been in many years.  While modern Ghost Dennis and Ghost Henry continued to call for calm, others who had once been enslaved in the White House were livid at the rise of white supremacy, and Puerto Rico had pushed them over the edge.

"Black people who speak Spanish:  it's his worst nightmare!"

"I say we torch the place!"

"Andrew Jackson was a saint compared to this guy!"

But members of The Shackled were also present--

"Andrew Jackson committed genocide against the Cherokee."

"The truth is that he's weak:  another Obamacare repeal failed, investigative journalists forced out a kleptocrat Cabinet Secretary, Javanka shot themselves in their own feet again with emails, of all things!"

"I'll try talking to him again," added Ghost Dennis, but a chorus of boos quickly drowned him out.

"He thinks you're Nelson Rockefeller!  You've never convinced him to do anything!"

"You're doing more harm than good!"

"All this negative energy is doing him more harm than good!" pleaded The Shackled.  "You cannot become part of the problem!"

"How naive are you?!"

Just then all the ghosts noticed the twin pre-schoolers staring at them, Regina and Ferguson.  Still young at heart, they did not understand a lot of the politics, but their mama did not like the Trump family and, despite having disappointed her many times while still alive, they were very happy to stand up for the White House butler now that they were dead.  "Tiffany is trying to do homework!"  "Barron keeps turning up the TV to annoy her!"  "Then she complains to her dad!"  "Then he complains to Melania!"  "Then Melania goes to tell Barron to turn it down!"  "Then he turns it up again, and it all starts again--except he's not really turning it up!"  "It's us!"

The twins waited for applause and, getting none, ran out of the attic and back downstairs, where the gardener Bridge half-heartedly tried to corral them with a weak "Reggie! Fergie!"  But he was having a hard time these days maintaining his principles about spectral mayhem in the White House, sighed and let them go.

Out in Lafayette Park, conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann was sitting nervously on a bench, carefully watching the sky above the White House to see if this would be the night the alien overlords would come for their puppet king.

Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac felt Charles Wu's car crossing the bridge, sensed his soul tipping, and did not like it....

**************************************************************** 
COMING UP:  
Prince and Prowling clients want tax cuts!  

Sunday, September 24, 2017

A gypsy, a dotard, and a zombie walk into a bar....

It had been an interesting week for the Reiki Triplets.  Cal, Maggie, and Sassy (Calcium, Magnesium, and Sassafras) had learnt that they had been submitted for a high-level background check in order to render reiki services to VIPs.  They had learned this when Melania Trump had arrived for a one p.m. appointment mid-week (which had been phoned in for "Gypsy").  The Secret Service had cleared out their entire Capitol Hill house, including Sassy's super annoyed musician husband (roused from a sound sleep) and Justice Department attorney Atticus Hawk (who was hustled out before he could pay for his just completed reiki session).  Melania told the Reiki Triplets that her husband was too jealous to allow her to get any type of touch massage, but she had read many interesting Yelp reviews for them ("transcendental!" "divine!" "surreal vision of Siamese triplet ghosts dancing above me!"), so she wanted to give it a try.  Melania relaxed quickly under the influence of their aura, the jasmine aromatherapy, and the smooth pebbles placed in each of her palms.  She told them how unhappy she was tramping around the White House vegetable garden in sneakers and a plaid ("plaid, like a lumberjack!") shirt for the photo op her publicist had talked her into with those "street urchins" (how she described African-American children).  "Why am I picking vegetables like a slave from long ago?"

"Oh, honey," Maggie replied, "it's good to put your hands on growing, green leaves!"

"Thank them for how they will nourish you," added Sassy.

"Smell the soil and inhale the freshly made oxygen," said Cal.

"But those sweaty street urchins are so stinky!  I only like to smell sweat in bed."  (She was talking about her two lovers, not her husband.)

"Um, okay,' said Maggie, "but next time just put some really strong-smelling hairspray on, and that's what you'll smell."

"Oh, no," interjected Cal, "don't be recommending chemicals!"

"Well, if it helps Melania spend time in the garden--"

"I am First Lady!  You cannot call me by name!"

"Honey, it is dehumanizing to refer to you like an artificial construct!" said Sassy.  "Your name is personal and empowering!  We send you self-affirming energy just by saying it!"

"Oh, well, alright.  When I meet Prince Harry at Invictus, should I call him Harry?"

"Only if you mean it," said Cal.

Then on Friday, Secretary of State Rex Tillerson had shown up.  (This appointment had been phoned in as "John Wayne".)  "I don't like people to touch me," said Tillerson.  "But a little bird had suggested to me I try this reiki thing."  (The "little bird" had been Ghost Dennis, the Reiki Triplets' deceased father, who lived at the White House.)

"We won't touch you at all," said Sassy, joining hands with her identical sisters around the table.

"Nothing's working," said Tillerson.

"Deep breaths," said Maggie.

"He didn't listen to us!" exclaimed Tillerson.  "We told him not to make personal attacks on Un, but he did anyway!'

"He is full of negative energy," said Cal.

"He's a dotard!" replied Tillerson.  "That damned Rocket Man got it right!  A dotard and a barking dog!"

"With our energy, you can go back to see the President and give him some of this healing power."

"Then he went off on Venezuela," continued Tillerson, "and he thought what he said was so clever that people would clap for it!  He just stood there for twenty seconds of silence, looking around for the applause that never came!"

"He craves adulation," replied Sassy, "but you can--"

"Well, he didn't get it!" interrupted Tillerson.  "So he heads to Alabama for another white supremacist rally to get the damned applause!  I think it's because he's never had a wife that loved him."

"Hmm," all three said in unison.

"Women are capable of great love," said Cal, "but they need nurturing to grow and flower."

"Nurturing?!" laughed Tillerson.  "He's just nurturing his bank account!  I mean, I get it, I love money, but I also ran Exxon because I believe that God gave us petroleum to use it!"

"God also gave us brains to use," said Maggie, motioning her sisters to hover their hands above Tillerson's head.  "Are you using yours?"

Tillerson felt insulted and was about to jump up in protest when he saw what appeared to be three men fused together, doing aerial somersaults near the ceiling.  "What the?"

"That's it," said Sassy, who knew he was seeing the Siamese triplet ghosts now.  "Free your mind."

Today, Congressman Paul Ryan was the one under Secret Service protection, speeding over to see the Reiki Triplets.  Ever since becoming a zombie, the Speaker of the House had been getting more and more resistance from his regular Thai masseuse--who somehow always seemed too busy to schedule him in.  Even when he had grown suspicious and had his scheduler phone him in as "Peter Rand", "Clyde Hyde", or "Bob Weisenheimer", somehow when he showed up, the receptionist would suddenly say, "Oh, she just went home sick!  Migraine!  Nobody else available!"  So--desperate for something, anything--he had relented to trying out this reiki thing suggested by his scheduler.  (He did like to try to stay hip with what the millennials were into.)  His neck felt like every #taketheknee guy in the NFL was kneeling on Ryan's shoulders.  His spine felt like Hurricane Maria had pulverized him, not Puerto Rico.  His adrenal glands felt like those bitches Senator Collins and Senator Murkowsky were stabbing him in the back instead of repealing Obamacare.  And the tax cut push felt like--

The SUV door opened, and Congressman Ryan stepped out.  He walked past the front yard fountain, bird bath, and Saint Francis statute, then into the entrance for the reiki studio.  The Reiki Triplets were standing there to greet their third (still unknown) VIP client of the week, but wrinkled up their noses at the stench of his zombie brain as soon as he entered the room.

"No, no, no, no!" they all started muttering in unison.

"What's the problem!?" barked a Secret Service officer.

"What, you don't know?" asked Cal.

"They don't know," said Sassy.

"Know what?!" he demanded.

"Well," began Maggie, looking around.

"We can't help him," said Sassy.

"What?!" exclaimed the Speaker of the House and his guards.

"Well, he's a zombie," said Sassy.

"Damned Antifa niggers!" yelled Ryan.  "No offense, Stanley," he added, smiling at the one whose name was actually Stephen.

"Damned zombie!" exclaimed Stephen, punching Congressman Ryan in the stomach.

The other officer drew his gun on Stephen, ordered him down on the ground, then hauled Ryan out safely to the SUV.

"It's alright, son," said Cal.  "You can get up now."

"I really blew it this time," said Stephen, standing up.

"You come in and get on the table," said Maggie.  "You'll feel better soon."

****************************************************************
COMING UP:        
Supreme Court Justice (not!) defending freedom!

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 him.  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.