Washington Horror Blog

SEMI-FICTIONAL CHRONICLE of the EVIL THAT INFECTS WASHINGTON, D.C. To read Prologue and Character Guide, please see www.washingtonhorrorblog.com, updated 12/26/2015. Follow Washington Water Woman on Twitter @HorrorDC ....

Monday, October 24, 2016

Speak up!

Prince and Prowling junior partner Felix Cigemeier was sitting through the first criminal deposition of his legal career.  The government attorney was deposing the Trump International Hotel's head of housekeeping, who had been summoned to clean up the pig shit dropped by the drone illegally operated by Cigemeier's (and the ACLU's) client, defendant Glenn Michael Beckmann, onto the Old Post Office Pavilion Bell Tower as a political protest on 9/11.  So far she had testified (with the aid of a Spanish interpreter) that: (1) the drone had frightened a few employees, (2) it had taken seventy-five minutes to clean up the manure, (3) she was expected to keep everything 100% clean all the time under threat of deportation, (4) Donald Trump had never been in the Bell Tower, (5) Ivanka Trump had never been in the Bell Tower, and (6) about three guests visited the Bell Tower each day.

Now it was Cigemeier's turn to question the witness.

Q:  "Were there employees who enjoyed seeing that drone dump pig manure there?"
A:  "Yes, most of the employees were delighted!"

(The prosecutor objected this was irrelevant to the illegality of the drone operation.)

Q:  "Don't you have to clean the Bell Tower every day, anyway?"
A:  "Yes, pigeons are always pooping there."

Q:  "How many undocumented workers are on the cleaning staff?"
A:  "All of us, but that nice man gave me immunity to testify!"  (She was pointing to the prosecutor.)

Q:  "Are you absolutely certain that Donald Trump has never been in the Bell Tower?"
A:  "Oh, yes!  Too windy for his hair.  But Eric Trump has gone up many times with a silent gun to shoot pigeons."

Q:  "And you're absolutely certain that Ivanka Trump has never been in the Bell Tower, either?"
A:  "Oh, yes!  But the nanny takes Ivanka's baby up frequently for fresh air and to dangle the baby."
Q:  "Dangle the baby?!"
A:  "Oh, yes!  Like Michael Jackson--this is how celebrity baby likes it."

Q:  "Are you surprised how few guests enjoy the Bell Tower?  It was a very popular attraction for tourists and locals before getting privatized.  Only a few a day?"
A:  "Guests are angry that tower visit costs extra $500.  But I go up for free every day to clean!"  (She was smiling.)

Q:  "Did Donald Trump ever grope you?"

The prosecutor interjected hotly to put an objection on the record, but the head of housekeeping was then directed to answer the question.

A:  "No, I'm too short and ugly.  He likes groping Magali, Juanita, Rosa, Carolina, Victoria--"

"Stop!" exclaimed the prosecutor, jumping to his feet.

"You can't stop her!" retorted Cigemeier.

"I can if I'm dropping the charges!"

With that, the prosecutor directed the videographer to close up shop, and they all started filing out of the Prince and Prowling conference room.  Cigemeier stopped the head of hotel housekeeping before she left to ask her if she wanted to sue Trump, but she declined after he told her he could not offer her immunity.

Not far away, another Trump-related dispute was underway in the upper floor conference room of the Brewmaster's Castle, where the Heurich Society was in its third session in two weeks.

"You went too far, Condi!" exclaimed Chairman Dick Cheney, glowering at the speaker phone.  "Donald Trump is the Republican nominee--"

"Donald Trump is a piece of shit who would probably be poisoned his first day in office by the kitchen staff!" retorted Condoleezza Rice.

"We can control him!  If HRC is in there--"

"You CANNOT control him!  Your male ego is even more delusional than his is!"

As the argument continued, the ghost of Henry Samuelson would have died of shock if he had not already been dead.  He got more pleasure listening to those two screaming at each other than in anything else that had happened since his death!

"He will put fossil fuels back where they belong--as the centerpiece of domestic and foreign policy!" barked Cheney.

"He will make abject disgust the centerpiece of domestic and foreign policy!" snarled Rice.

"Since when do you care about how popular an American President is?"

"Since when did you decide that only people with dicks have balls?"


By now, Ghost Henry was laughing his head off, even as the other members of the Heurich Society were taking a dim view of the proceedings.

"Look," said the investment banker, standing up.  "Several of us took an emergency vote and decided it's time for you to step down, Dick."  (He had really only discussed this with two other people, but he was gambling that nobody would risk any accountability by speaking up one way or another.)

"How dare you?!" screamed Cheney (who had actually murdered the previous Chair to get this position).  "Who do you think you're dealing with?!"

"After your last heart incident," said the member of the CIA, "we had a special modification put into your pacemaker.  At this point, you need to do what we are asking, which is go quietly."

Cheney's eyes bulged out of his sockets.  "You wouldn't dare!"  He looked around the table, but was met with only icy stares.

"You'll all regret this!" Cheney said, overturning his coffee cup and grabbing his satchel to leave.

That's what he said the first time we kicked him out! thought Ghost Henry.  (But would Ghost Henry think it enough vengeance for Cheney's assassination of his daughter?)

Further north, triple agent Charles Wu was generously tipping his (highly informative) Nigerian taxi driver before returning home for an early family dinner.  He frowned at the giant, somewhat dilapidated octopus stuck to the front of his roof.  "What the--?"

"Daddy!" squealed his daughter, Buffy Cordelia, racing out the front door to greet him.  "We made it into a spider for Halloween!"

Little Delia was clearly still high from yesterday's spectacular fifth birthday party.  "Did you?"  He looked into the doorway to glare at his English nanny, but she was wisely staying out of view.  "When I agreed to bring it home, I didn't agree to displaying it on the roof!"

She gave him her best little-girl-sad face and started cooing at him in Chinese, which she knew made him melt.

"Alright, alright!" he said, afraid of what he might find indoors.  It was the first--and last--time he would ever agree to a joint kiddie party for his little girl.  When little Delia had first made friends with a young Chinese girl, Charles had thought it fantastic for her!  Then when he discovered they shared an October birthday, he had agreed to a joint party.  That's when he discovered that the Chinese-Brazilian-now-American mother was a psycho who would take his $300 party supply contribution and use it to make the most garish, over the top, hideous display of handmade "ocean dream" paraphernalia ever taped, stapled, and glue-gunned to a Rock Creek Park pavilion in the history of the National Park Service.

("Not Momzilla!" neighbor Liv Cigemeier had cried in dismay yesterday, upon arriving at the party site to find her loathed coworker was the one who had actually put together the party.  "Oh, Charles!  I would have warned you if I had known!")

"We're changing my mermaid costume to a death-ray worm costume!" Delia suddenly said, pulling her father forward by the hand.

"That sounds disgusting!"  He looked at Mrs. Prudence Higgety-Cheshire to see if some type of early senility was setting in, but she was serenely sitting on the family room sofa sewing.

"It was my idea," said Angela de la Paz, sitting on the other side of the room with a paintbrush in her hand.  "Delia had a d-r-o-w-n-i-n-g d-r-e-a-m at nap time."

"What did I have?" asked Delia.

"And how is this an improvement?" asked Charles.

"It will scare monsters away on Halloween!" said Angela.  "I would have thought that obvious!"

"No, not obvious!  What souvenir did you take home?" asked Charles to Angela, who had turned 22 this month and always joined in for the October birthday party.

"I would like to say that I took home the d-e-m-o-n that I extracted from that crazy woman, but, unfortunately, it's all her."  She smiled and looked at Delia, who was now sitting on the sofa inspecting her nanny's costume stitches.  "If you want, I can make an act of persuasion for Momzilla to avoid socializing with your--"

"Yes, do it! smiled Charles.  "I'll give you another birthday bonus!  Still, I'd rather have you dealing with Trump," he added, hopefully, but she shook her head.  He still did not understand exactly how and when his prized agent chose to use her supernatural gift.  If Donald Trump were not pure evil, who was?

"I think democracy will work out just fine," smiled Angela.

Back at Prince and Prowling, Felix Cigemeier was being chewed out by client Glenn Michael Beckmann, who was devastated he would not be able to testify at trial about all his reasons for using a drone to dump pig shit on Trump's local tower.  "It was my free speech!" wailed Beckmann, who was almost in tears.

"Mr. Beckmann, this is a good result!  You could have gone to prison!"

"It's a terrible result!" exclaimed the ACLU lawyer who had hired Prince and Prowling's drone expert to take Beckmann's case.  "Donald Trump said today he would curtail the First amendment--that there's already too much free speech!"

"Well, there's certainly an excess coming from his mouth," replied Cigemeier.

"This is not funny!" she cried, patting Beckmann on the hand.  "The First Amendment is under assault!  We wanted to make a stand!"

"First of all, he's not going to win the election.  Secondly, the President of the United States is not the President of Russia."

"Russia probably killed my Darja!" wailed Beckmann.

"What?" asked Cigemeier.

"Never mind!" huffed the ACLU attorney, who would have been thrilled out of her mind to get the publicity a Beckmann trial would have received.  "We will pursue other options!"

"Other options for getting Mr. Beckmann arrested?" Cigemeier asked incredulously, as the two sailed out of his office.

Across the street, Ghost Dennis was whispering Lame Duck ideas into the ear of President Obama, who was humming loudly to try not to hear that creepy voice.

Contingency plans for civil war!

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Too Ugly to be Assaulted by Mr. Trump--

--but not too ugly to get out of working all weekend, Washington Water Woman hopes to get back to blogging soon!

Sunday, October 09, 2016

Digging In

"He's a rapist!"

"You're a rapist!"

"We don't even talk like that in West Virginia!" insisted Ernest Ironman, sick of his Nazi lover's support for Donald Trump.

"You chained me up!" retorted Barbara Hellmeister, who was obsessed that Trump shared a common ancestor with Adolf Hitler.

"How many times do I have to apologize for that?!"

"Apologize to our child!"


"I wanted Eichmann genes, and you passed on hillbilly swill!" snarled Barbara.

"Are you two even registered to vote?" asked Kevin ("Monkey") Mundy, walking cautiously past them to retrieve another beer.  (Monkey had recently married a 14-year-old, but that was not statutory rape in Virginia.)

The two (who were not registered to vote) ignored him and continued arguing.

Monkey went into the bunker baby room (secretly constructed thirty feet below the 9th green at Trump National Golf Club) to check on his young bride, who had volunteered to change the baby's diaper just to get away from the bickering.  He found her standing four feet away from the diaper table.  "Brittani, what are you doing?"

"I'm hoping the freak will roll off, hit its head, and die," she said without looking up at him.


"He has a green face and a scaly tail!"

"I told you, there was a bunch of in-breeding in West Virginia, and sometimes these birth defects just happen!  We have to act like we don't notice!"

"It's not human!"

"Sure it is!"

"I don't wanna come here anymore!  You can't even pan for gold in the pond when the golfers are out on a nice day like this!"

"But I love coming here!"  The DC Water employee scratched his wrist under the cursed Rolex which had first given him the crazed obsession to pan for gold and diamonds.  There was no place more exciting for him than the Trump pond (inhabited by the demon Ardua).

"We never hang out with my friends!"

"Your friends are in high school!  Are you gonna change that diaper or what?"

"You change it!  I want a divorce!"

Hidden in one of the exit tunnels, Angela de la Paz and the Warrior had been listening in on bunker conversations for hours.  As the sun began to set, they headed back out to inspect the fugitive demon.

"What do you think?" asked The Warrior, who was over 300 years old but did not possess Angela's supernatural gift for fighting evil.

"It doesn't have a soul," she said.  She had already known this from looking for the baby in the DreamTime before even coming out here, but the Warrior's careful monitoring of the people here under the influence of Ardua had convinced her it was time to pay a visit.

"Will you kill it?" he asked.

She sighed.  "I'm worried what effect that would have on the parents."

The Warrior contemplated this for a few minutes as they drew closer to Ardua's presence.  "The demon is growing large again," he said.  "I think it is feeding on their hatreds and pouring evil into that baby."

Angela sat down to take her shoes off and stick her feet in the pond.  The old Prophecy had predicted she would kill Ardua one day, but she had not been able to do it yet.  The new Prophecy was elusive.  "It was feeding on the Trump poison before they even arrived.  Now they are all feeding on each other."

"What will you do?" asked the Warrior again.

"Wait for the Election," Angela said, much to his surprise.

Several miles away, triple agent Charles Wu was trying really hard to understand what was going on with this election, but his SuperPAC strategist, Bridezilla, was constantly distracted by her new boyfriend and their mutual hobby.  "In China, saving face is extremely important," said Wu.  "My business colleagues are shocked at how many scandals Trump survived, and yet his ship is now sinking because of vulgar comments he made over ten years ago!?"

"I told you if we dangled enough money out there, somebody would come up with a good video!" she said, smiling as she watched Ed expertly installing miniature sconces to adorn the windows of the dollhouse living room where her conjoined guinea pigs slept.

"You sure did!" nodded Wu, wondering how much longer he had to watch this before she would serve dinner.  When he had introduced "Esperantu Edward" to Bridezilla as a special thank-you for how hard she had been working the past few weeks, it was with the idea that the miniaturist would simply offer her some ideas for Thelma and Louise's (and the human dolls' on the second floor) home, but he had been shocked that one of the espionage world's most amusing spies would spark her romantic interest.  "But why would Republicans abandon him now?  You can't tell me that John McCain is more concerned about this than the nuclear football!"

"No political cover," said Bridezilla, rubbing her hand on Ed's lower back.

"Mike Pence thinks raped women can't get pregnant, but Republicans--"

"Pence never used vulgar words."

"Trump's been vulgar for decades!"

"He crossed a line in that video.  It can't be defended."

"I don't understand where the line is," pleaded the man who had once considered himself one of the politically savviest foreigners in Washington.

"That's what you have me for!" smiled Bridezilla.  Then Ed said something to her in Esperantu, and they both laughed as Charles Wu shook his head in bewilderment.

Across the Potomac in Georgetown, the Seekers were eating delivery pizza after another grueling session of deprogramming a Trump cultist--the third this week.

"Why isn't this getting easier?" asked the Methodist minister.

"They're digging in their heels," said the Jewish rabbi.

"Our work is more important than ever," said the Jesuit theologian.

"He's right," said the Muslim iman.  "It's when people lose hope that they are most easily swayed into violence."

"But nobody has killed for Trump yet," said the Hindu guru.

"Not that we know of," said the Greek Orthodox priest, crossing himself.

"We have five more requests for this week," said the Jesuit.  "I think we should divide into two or three groups.  We all know what we're doing now."

"Do we?" asked the Unitarian minister, biting her lip.

A mile away, the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope was working into the night at his State Department office, tearing his hair out that domestic political chaos was encouraging nuclear saber-rattling in Russia and North Korea, and even more violence in the Middle East.  The U.S. was nobody's sheriff now.

Sunday, October 02, 2016

Undercover Trump Adventures

"I see," said psychiatrist Ermann Esse, listening carefully to a Virginia campaign headquarters volunteer talk about how important it was for Donald Trump to win the Presidency.

"He stands up for the little people who have been ignored by Washington!" he said.

"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.

"He supports the troops!"

"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.

"He exposes all the liars and hypocrites!"

"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.

"Why do you keep saying that?!"

"I am affirming what you have perceived," said the shrink.

The campaign volunteer looked at Dr. Esse, puzzled.  "Are you going to volunteer, or what?"

"Immediately," said the shrink, slowly tilting his head from left to right to see if the volunteer would follow the light reflecting off his eyeglass lenses.  "Please relax:  I am here to help."

"Please relax," said the Thai masseuse, several miles away in Dupont Circle.  She pressed her knees into Congressman Paul Ryan's tense buttocks, and he let out his customary grunt.  She dug her thumbs into his lower back, which had actually gotten tighter since she started working on him months ago.  "Deep breath."

"How am I supposed to know the Saudi Arabia 9/11 litigation bill might cause retaliatory litigation against our troops overseas?  GA!"

"How?" parroted the masseuse, pressing her thumbs into his adrenal glands.

"I'm not a lawyer!  The lawyers didn't warn me that the White House lawyers warned them!  OOF!"

"Lawyers," parroted the masseuse, digging in under his shoulder blades.

"And what about Senator McConnell?  He has more experienced, higher-paid lawyers, doesn't he?  AARGH!"

"Higher pay," parroted the masseuse, holding his spine down with her right heel as she pulled both his arms backwards, away from their sockets.

The Speaker of the House cried with relief that her knees had finally come out of his buttocks.  "And now the people complaining about another Continuing Resolution say I'm incapable of delivering a real budget!" he sobbed.  "MAN ALIVE!"

"Budget," parroted the masseuse, who had roughly rolled him over onto his back and was pressing his legs up against his chest.

"How can anything change when the wealthiest people in the country avoid paying taxes?  What am I supposed to do?  How can I explain to people why Donald Trump won't release his tax returns?!  CRIKEY!"

"Tell him Trump work for CIA," she said, trying to be helpful while she forcibly lifted him into a yoga pose which put his body weight on the vertebrae between his shoulder blades.

"CIA?" parroted the Speaker of the House, growing pale in spite of the blood rushing to his head.

A couple miles to the south, Angela de la Paz was taking advantage of the sunshine to sit on the deck of Dulles Samuelson's houseboat, Singapore Surprise.  "How's FBI training going?" she asked.

"I can't talk about it!" he smiled.

"Right, right," she said, smiling back.  "I have ways of making your talk!"

"I know you do!" he laughed.  "Shooting guns, learning about terrorism, that sort of thing."

"Do they still do other stuff?  Mafia?  Bank fraud?"

"Oh, sure!  We covered all the other stuff the first week."

"They do realize that terrorists aren't the only ones killing innocent people?"

"Uh, some of them do.  Honestly, I think they just give us more training on terrorism because they still don't know what really works--so we need to learn how to use every single tool in the toolbox."

"Weapon in the weapon box," she retorted.

"It's not all about weapons," he smiled.  "And, hey, some of us don't have mojo like you do!"  (She smiled sadly, uncomfortable talking about her supernatural ability to kill telekinetically.)  "Speaking of which, I have to admire your restraint not going after Donald Trump.  I mean, there's a new reason almost daily."

"Hijole," she said softly.  "Charles was trying to convince me that Trump might, in fact, be evil enough to warrant the special treatment."

"You could check it out, couldn't you?"

Angela looked out on the Potomac River from their Southwest mooring.  "I finally decided to look for him in the Dreamtime," she said.  "I told Charles I thought Trump was just a reprehensible human being, not a demon or anything."  She hesitated.

"Well?" asked Dulles impatiently.

"I couldn't find him in the Dreamtime," she said.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"I'm not sure.  I think it might mean he has no soul."  They were both silent for a minute.  "I've been praying about it."

"But if he has no soul, then you can--"

"I'm not sure," she said uneasily.  "I just don't understand why I haven't been given a vision about him.  I tried to ask abuela and other people in the Dreamtime, but nobody had an answer to give me.  Then last night I had a dream that Trump was Judas.  I woke up really freaked out.  Because nobody was supposed to stop Judas, right?  Because he had a purpose?"

Dulles stared at her for a moment.  "God help us." 

Back at Trump's Virginia campaign headquarters, psychiatrist Ermann Esse was trying to hypnotize his way to the top.  So far he had ended one man's cigarette addiction, convinced one woman to end her affair with a married GOP pollster, and convinced a slightly plump teenager that The Wall was really about keeping Alicia Machado and other chubby Latinas out of the country.  Unfortunately, none of this was helping him hypnotize his way to the top, per CIA orders.

"How can I help you?" asked a volunteer, as the shrink approached a different table, holding a "Make America Great" baseball cap in his hand.  (Dr. Esse had rejected the National Rifle Association t-shirt provided by his CIA handler.)

"No, sir!" said Esse, sitting down,  "I'm here to help you!"  Esse didn't bother with any conversation beyond that, quickly jumping right to the hypnotic effect of tilting his head back and forth.  He saw the man immediately start watching the swaying light reflected off Esse's eyeglasses.  "I need you to gather all your friends at my hotel room this evening," he began, and was gratified to see the volunteer nod his head yes.  "You're going to tell them that you have a tape of Trump admitting he's a child molester."

"Everybody knows that," said the volunteer flatly.  "But Hillary has molested more."

 Dr. Esse took a deep breath.  Maybe I should just hypnotize them into not voting? he thought to himself.

Ten feet below him, the real estate demons inhabiting the basement of Trump's Virginia headquarters frowned in displeasure.

The Ardua-Aryan baby at Trump National Golf Club!

Sunday, September 25, 2016

What Trump is spawning....

It was an absolutely gorgeous day out at Trump National Golf Course--perfect weather to bring out hordes of wheelers and dealers to play 18 rounds.  This also meant that Barbara Hellmeister--a wanted fugitive--was stuck in the secret underground bunker to deliver her baby.

"PUSH!" hollered her mate and fellow Nazi, Ernest Ironman.

Barbara slapped him.  "Don't yell at me!"

They had been arguing for months about whether Donald Trump's Hitler DNA made him a worthy political heir to Der Fuhrer, and this childbirth was not going to be easy.

"You need to push harder!" insisted Ernest, grandson of Adolf Eichmann.  (He believed the family education he had received about Nazi politics made him best qualified to deem Trump a failed fascist because of his suspicious dealings with Russia.)

"I have done ALL the work for this baby, and all you do is yell!" retorted Barbara, whose Nazi grandfather's notebook had guided her scientific research and helped her both identify Trump's DNA strand from Hitler's family and predict the genetic superiority expected from their own baby.  "Get me more cookies!"

"I'll get them!" interjected teenage bride Brittani, freaking out ever since her husband, Kevin ("Monkey") Mundy, had told her to help out with the birth while he examined the walls of the bunker for signs of gold veins.  She bolted for the kitchen to get another plate full of butter, pecan, chocolate, and walnut cookies; she also grabbed another cold beer for Ernest.

"You shouldn't be eating while you're in labor!" protested Ernest, again, but this time he took a step back to avoid getting slapped.

"I've been in labor for eight hours, and I'm hungry!"

"Are you hungry?" asked realtor Calico Johnson, offering a plate of ladyfingers to Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts.  It was another meeting of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (DC Chapter) at Dick Cheney's house, a few miles away from Trump National Golf Club.

"Hungry?!" exclaimed Roberts.  "I've been nauseous since I saw the haters erupt on Twitter during my speech at the grand opening of the Museum of African American History!"  (Johnson shook his head in sympathy.)  "They berated me for coming--said I had no right to speak about the Civil Rights movement because I had [air quotes] gutted the Voting Rights Act!"

Prince and Prowling junior partner Bridezilla tut-tutted.  "They would have berated you if you had not gone!" she said.  "It was a no-win situation."

"We don't need the VRA anymore!" exclaimed Roberts.  "The museum alone proves that!"

"And Oprah!" piped in a member of N.U.T.T.Y (Nannies United to Take y-Chromosomes).  [She was currently writing a young adult novel about a heroic nanny with secret superpowers who kills the she-beast masquerading as a mother, saves the children, and marries the father.]

"Indeed," said Judge Sowell Ame of the D.C. Superior Court (still uncertain how these N.U.T.T.Y. women were allowed into S.E.A.).  "I tell these fools all the time, 'if you don't wanna lose the vote, stop becoming felons!'  It's very easy to blame other people for your problems."  (Judge Ame had sentenced three D.C. residents to prison just this past week for possession of marijuana, interpreting D.C.'s "legalization" of marijuana to apply only in the Northwest quadrant.)

"Let's talk about something more pleasant," said former Vice-President Dick Cheney, motioning to Johnson to get the champagne out of the ice bucket.  "We need to toast Boehner's new job with Reynolds tobacco!"

"Hear, hear!" said Roberts.

"Who can forget how he once handed out tobacco industry campaign checks on the House floor?" commented Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi (with a note of sarcasm that went undetected because of his Italian accent).

"Ha, ha!" laughed the former Speaker of the House.  "Remember when I repented publicly about that later?"

"But nobody gave back their checks!" said Roberts, to more boisterous laughter.  "Hey, that's what Citizens United was all about, am I right?!"  (He had a twinkle in his eye.)

"Could I be serious for a minute?" asked Taleverdi.  "We really need to do something about Donald Trump."

"Why?" asked Cheney.  "He's closing in on Hillary in the polls--he has a good shot at winning!"

"Wait, what?!" exclaimed Talaverdi.  "No respectable Republicans are voting for Trump!  They are all endorsing Hillary!"

"Who said Cheney is a respectable Republican?" laughed a former member of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) Court.  (She had started drinking during the Uber drive over to Cheney's house.)

"What?!" exclaimed Cheney, getting red in the face.

"Please calm down, Dick!" said Bridezilla.  "If you have another heart attack, Lynn won't let you attend these meetings anymore."

"We have to do something," said Talaverdi.  "His election would usher in a fascist era none of you can possibly imagine the way I can, having grown up listening to family horror stories about Mussolini!"

"Aw, come on, Luciano!" retorted Cheney.  "He would be a weak President--blocked by Congress, ignored by the intelligence community, and sidelined by the Pentagon."

"But might he possibly tarnish our country's image in the eyes of the world?" asked Bridezilla gently [never letting on she was actively working for a secret SuperPAC to defeat Trump].

"I'm with her," said Boehner, to a few gasps.  "No, not with her!  I mean, I'm with her!"  (He pointed to Bridezilla.)  "My company wants to increase tobacco exports, so we can't be starting trade wars!"

"And the House?" added Bridezilla, coyly.

"Yes, yes!" agreed Boehner.  "And the House!  Electing Trump might lead to Democrats' taking control of Congress!"

"Who the Hell cares about Congress?!" declared Cheney.

"You were once a Congressman--" began Bridezilla, before being interrupted.

"The CIA and NSA and Pentagon secret slush fund are all we need to control power!" exclaimed Cheney.

"Who's 'we?'" asked the member of N.U.T.T.Y., and the former member of the FISA court burst out laughing again.

Over in Washington, triple agent Charles Wu was not laughing about Donald Trump.

"It's not really my thing," said his special agent, Angela de la Paz, looking in wonder at the brocaded gown of a 17th century Italian noblewoman.

Charles Wu glanced over his shoulder at his young daughter, running up and down the marble stairs instead of taking in culture during her first visit to the National Museum of Women in the Arts.  "I'm at my wit's ends," confided Charles, who was exceedingly unaccustomed to that feeling.

"You know I'm not happy about Donald Trump," replied Angela, "but my gifts are not in that field, and I have a lot of other things going on."

"But the reporter bought your story of mutant rats in the subway tunnels, didn't he?"

"I don't think so.  Anyway, I've got other worries."

"The international order could unravel in a major way!" said Wu.  "I'm talking Europe faltering, Russia ascending, China pushing up against India and Russia.  Pakistan is convinced that Trump would drop a nuclear bomb on them!"

"You used to have it all figured out," said Angela, gently.  "Handing secrets to England, or Beijing, or Hong Kong--"

"That was simple," he said.

"It wasn't simple," said Angela.

"But I understood what I was doing.  There was a small set of variables.  The variables started growing when I brought the State Department into the mix, and now they are growing exponentially."

They followed Buffy Cordelia and her English governess up the staircase to the 18th century paintings.  "I have these gifts to fight evil," said Angela, smiling at little Delia's wide-eyed wonder at the enormous chandeliers.

"What if Trump were evil?' asked Charles.  (Angela smiled, but shook her head.)  "No, seriously," Charles said.  Look, I understand there are ghosts and demons out there, but couldn't you just get close enough to him to find out?"

"I think he's just a reprehensible human being with a lot of money, appealing to haters who think--"

"What if he's not?" asked Wu.

Back at Trump National Golf Club, the moment had arrived!  Barbara Hellmeister wailed loudly and pushed her baby into the waiting arms of Ernest Ironman.  She waited for Ernest to carry over the baby and place it into her arms--the baby she knew would be an Aryan genetic masterpiece!--but he just kept staring down at it.  Barbara could hear the baby's cries, so she knew it was alive.  "Ernest?"  She weakly sat up to get a look while Brittani, who had been holding Barbara's hand during the last stage of labor, fainted to the floor.  Barbara strained to sit up higher until she saw her baby--which had a green face and a long, scaly tail.

Out in the golf course pond, the demon Ardua smiled with pleasure.

Dr. Ermann Esse's undercover adventures in Trump Nation!

Sunday, September 18, 2016

House of Dreams

Bridezilla was carefully reading Dana Milbank's Washington Post description of the furnishings in the cheapest (!) room for rent in the new Trump hotel:  Italian bed linens, French table linens, Chinese duvet, Korean TV, Indian towels, Japanese bone china, Italian cutlery, Malaysian telephones, Swiss refrigerator, German coffee cups, Canadian toiletries, and Chinese everything-else.  "Huh," said the Prince and Prowling junior partner to herself.  She shook her head.  It was all wrong!  Not just because of the 100% political hypocrisy involved in importing every manufactured product, but the choices were all wrong!  "It should be French bed linens, Irish table linens, Swiss duvet, Japanese TV, Egyptian towels, Chinese bone china, British cutlery, Korean telephones, German refrigerator, Italian coffee cups, and Norwegian toiletries!  Doesn't everybody know these things?"  She looked at Thelma and Louise--her conjoined Guinea pigs--and shook her head again.  "Don't worry!  Your home will be much classier!"

Over at Prince and Prowling, another junior partner also had Trump's new hotel on his mind:  Felix Cigemeier.  Tasked with developing the law firm's drone practice, he had built up a respectable reputation as Washington's legal expert on federal and common law relevant to drone enthusiasts.  But this had all been about sales contracts, rental contracts, and simple advice up until the day the American Civil Liberties Union had walked into his office and asked him to defend Glenn Michael Beckmann's free speech right to use a drone to dump protest pig shit on the hotel bell tower.  (The ACLU had first asked Goode Peepz law firm to do it, but they simply knew too little about drone law.)  Felix had tried to get out of it by pointing out to Prince and Prowling's managing attorney that he had never done a criminal defense case before, but Felix had been told in no uncertain terms that P&P's reputation as the nation's preeminent drone expert was at stake.  (What Felix did not know was that Prince and Prowling had already taken drastic action to avoid a New Jersey gangster's request that P&P set up a SuperPAC dedicated to defeating any Republican who had dissed Donald Trump.)

"I think you should consider the plea deal offered to you," said Felix to Beckmann, who was sitting in a guest chair sporting a Hunter and Gatherer Society hunting cap, a "Dump Trump" t-shirt featuring a stylized depiction of the pig manure vandalism, camouflage pants, and star-spangled suspenders.

"Mr. Cigemeier," began the ACLU attorney, sitting in the other guest chair [she had decided early on to treat this case with absolute seriousness, so it was always "Mr. Cigemeier" and "Mr. Beckmann"], "that seems premature."

"The federal authorities have been monitoring him continuously since he blogged about overthrowing the Federal Reserve Board--"

"His 'Serial Predator' piece was protected first speech," she retorted.

"Yes, but people have heard him bragging about [he paused to look fearfully at Beckmann] killing various people."


"There is a pattern of behavior which does not incline the federal authorities to go easy, and it was a clearly illegal act."

"Protected free speech!"

"He used a drone, first of all, and he vandalized private property, second of all."

"I'm familiar with the facts."

"The drone was illegally operated," said Felix.

"We have put up a lot of money for this defense," said the ACLU attorney.  "Your managing partner assured me you would take it to trial if necessary."

"If necessary, yes, but I am advising you against it."

Beckmann finally spoke.  "That pig shit was the only made-in-America product you'll find in that den of thieves and harlots financed by Saudi petrodollars and Russian Bitcoin!  I did him a favor, big dumbass with the bimbos and expensive suits and conspiracy to murder more Supreme Court Justices!"  ("What?!")  "My daddy served in Vietnam while he was getting blow jobs in Times Square!  I served in Iraq while he was cheating hard-working Americans in his casinos!  He's a disgrace to real patriots, sir, and his hotel is an abomination!"

"Well, all that may be true," began Felix [not all of that was true, but some was], "but those are not the kinds of things that can be raised as defenses.  Can I get you some more coffee while you two discuss it?"

"Nothing to discuss!" Beckmann said.

"Mr. Beckmann will not take the deal," said the ACLU attorney.

Is this really happening? thought Felix as he walked the two out.

Is this really happening? thought Dubious McGinty, as he walked into the Southwest Plaza apartment a city social worker had talked him into taking.  The Vietnam Veteran had been living in the Bridgeman's Quarters of the 14th Street Bridge as long as he could remember, keeping watch over the demon Ardua, but she had been vanquished for a long time now.  The ducks and river rats were no longer infected with evil, ravens were nesting and raising babies, and the pink dolphins were frolicking freely.  He hadn't looked at a mirror in years, but his rheumatism was reminding him daily how old he had now become.  He had made a pretty cozy nest for himself over the years out over the water, but now that things had calmed down in the Potomac, he was no longer so averse to the idea of spending a winter in a heated indoor place.

"Most of this is from A Wider Circle," the social worker said, pointing around to the secondhand bed, recliner, TV stand, and kitchen table.  "We got some linens and kitchen things from GoodWill."  (She had insisted most of his things were too hygienically compromised to bring with him.)

"But what will I eat?" he asked in sincere perplexity after years spent making daily forays to raid public garbage cans and dumpsters.

"We've stocked some food to get you started, and we put in a standing Peapod order to deliver food a couple times a week until you decide on doing something different.  We talked about this--remember?  Your military pension and Social Security payments were piling up for awhile when you weren't claiming them, so you're in good financial shape."  (He looked at her dubiously.)  "Do you remember when we set up the bank account last week?  There are deposits in it now, and automatic debits for rent, electricity, and Peapod."

She was going over some other details about who had Power of Attorney over his money and social programs he could attend, but he was overwhelmed and no longer hearing anything she said.

"I'll phone you tomorrow, alright?  I've gotta go."

And then she was gone.  He had a vague recollection of somebody who was supposed to come visit him this evening, but now he wasn't sure.  He went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, saw a cockroach, and got an uneasy feeling about this place.

Out in Potomac Manors, real estate mogul Calico Johnson was finally letting go of the small but expensive menagerie he had acquired since he first developed a crush on former neighbor "Basia Karbusky".  He watched the show horse Ninja get loaded onto a horse trailer.  Originally purchased for $14,000, she and her accoutrements were departing for $10,000; he had probably lost the other $4,000 in supplies and veterinarian treatment, though he hoped to start recouping this after converting the heated barn into a rental apartment.  Of course, it had not been heated for Ninja but for the persnickety geriatric cow MegaMoo.  He had inherited the cow for free after Basia burnt down her estate and fled, but he had been paying for MegaMoo ever since in treatments for bovine narcolepsy, arthritis, irritable bowel syndrome, and dissociative identity disorder--not to mention endless hay when MegaMoo did not feel like grazing on the acres of grass, which was 90% of the time.  He had almost sold her to a butcher but, ultimately, through an odd mixture of guilt and malice, had offered her to an animal sanctuary--where her legendarily thunderous mooing could wreak havoc on other people's bucolic lifestyles.  MegaMoo was still staring at him in disbelief as she worked her way into the trailer, and he turned away.  Donald Trump didn't put his stamp on the world through animal husbandry! he reminded himself.  I'm a real estate developer!

Back at Bridezilla's apartment, she was lost in concentration on the enormous Tudor style dollhouse she had purchased to house Thelma and Louise.  (It was an idea borne from her recent visit to the dollhouse exhibit at the National Building Museum.)  She knew the conjoined twins would never be on the upper floors, so she was applying her finest and most delicate touches up there for the dollhouse's human occupants:  a beautiful, professional, accomplished and graceful mother of young twins.  (Her back story was that the children's father had been murdered by a coalition of his jilted lovers, but she had not yet settled on the manner of death.)  But Bridezilla also wanted her guinea pigs to sleep and frolic in style below, so the parlor had primrose wallpaper and plum velvet curtains above the cushioned cedar chip bed, and the kitchen had Italian marble bases under the stainless steel water and food bowls.  The side yard held an exercise wheel for the pig twins and a miniature swing set for the human twins.

"I finally have a dream house," Bridezilla sighed, going back to the Internet to look up miniature books to stock the mahogany bookcases with.

COMING UP:  The Trump National Golf Club baby!

Sunday, September 11, 2016

It all stinks!

Triple agent Charles Wu was in the back seat of the taxi, listening to his Ethiopian driver's latest intelligence on Somalia.  Wu was thinking two things:  (1) his clients were not interested in paying for this when much bigger balls were in play, and (2) he was not catching any of those balls.  Have I become incompetent?  He looked out the window as they drove past Embassy Row, fighting back his greatest fear:  that his little daughter had made him soft.  Plenty of people have children without becoming soft!  Why him?!  Or could it be worse than that?  Was he becoming old?  He was treating the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope to lunch at the Four Seasons--not to pump him for State Department secrets but to explain Wu's failure to deliver China success stories on President Obama's recent trip to Asia.  There was a time a State Department meeting meant buying secrets from C. Coe Phant in a Foggy Bottom dive bar, or even meeting directly with the Secretary of State to discuss Project R.O.D.H.A.M.; now it was he and the ADAfH commiserating over the tempestuous state of international affairs.  The driver pulled up to the Georgetown hotel and waited patiently for Wu's $200 tip.  Wu walked into the lobby and saw that the ADAfH was already waiting for him, having finished the annual trip to the Pentagon 9/11 remembrance ceremony.  They shook hands silently.

A few miles to the east, Congress was back in session, and so was the Bicameral Anti-Zombie Caucus.

"We have to reconsider that he might be a zombie!" exclaimed Congressman Herrmark.

"Just because Dick Cheney writes an op-ed about 9/11 that tries to shift blame for Iraq to Obama does not mean he's undead!" replied Senator Rand Paul.  "It's completely consistent with the attitudes he's always espoused!"

"The man should have keeled over from a heart attack years ago!" insisted Congressman Herrmark.  "I think he's still secretly running the Senate--through the Zombie Caucus!"

"We've never gotten close enough to Cheney to find out," said the Representative from Florida, "and we need to focus our energies on thwarting Zombie Caucus riders and getting Zika funding."

"Your theory that Hurricane Hermine has spread Zika all over Florida, and that Zika is going to create zombies, is just not supported by the facts," said a Representative from Connecticut.

"That's easy for you to say!" she retorted.  "All you have to worry about in Connecticut is Lyme disease, and we know that doesn't create zombies!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," interjected Congressman Herrmark's Chief of Staff, Ann Bishis, "if I could have your attention for a minute, the Zombie Caucus is a perennial concern whoever is leading it, and we need to step up our efforts to identify likely elected and staff members.  If you could direct your attention to the monitor, I'm going to pull up a live camera feed from one of our new spy drones."  ("Spy drones?!")  "Only the size of a fly, they can get close to almost anybody, even follow them into bathrooms and secret meeting places.  They can eavesdrop on conversations, take photos of documents and screenshots, and witness anybody removing makeup or clothing which covers rotten flesh."

"And people snickered at my earmark to get these built in Montana!" declared the Representative from the gold and silver state.

"They melted in the Iraqi heat," said an Indiana Representative.

"What if they get captured?" asked Senator Paul.

"If they get swatted, they crumple into parts so tiny that nobody realizes what they really are."

"But what if they get captured?" repeated Senator Paul.

Bishis cleared her throat, uneasy about challenging him.  "I don't think people try to capture flies."

"They do if they suspect spy drones!" insisted Senator Paul.  "And smart people always suspect spy drones!  Honestly, I'm not comfortable with this at all!  Once again we're being asked to give up civil liberties for questionable efforts to improve national security!"

"Senator!" exclaimed Congressman Herrmark.  "Zombies have no civil liberties!"

"People should be presumed innocent until proven Zombie!" declared Senator Rand.  "That's what America stands for!"

Downtown, Glenn Michael Beckmann was exercising (he would argue) a civil liberty of his own--and using a drone to do it.  This was no tiny insect-like drone, no:  this was a 100-pound drone winging its way rapidly from Beckmann's Southwest Plaza balcony to the Trump Plaza Hotel.  His militia members had tried to tell him that private drones were illegal in Washington (and sure suicide so close to the White House), but Beckmann would have none of it.  "The so-called 'man of the people' is charging $800/night to stay in this den of casino thieves and hotel harlots financed by Saudi petrodollars!" he had written in his blog leading up to the hotel's opening.  (He had actually written it in code on his fake lifestyle blog as "The so-called 'trumpet douche bags' are going for $800/case, even though you're rolling the dice and getting black crude as lubrication!")

Semi-satisfied that Gretchen Carlson had extracted a huge financial settlement from the Fox News suits, Beckmann had returned his focus to going after Donald Trump a few days ago.  "Fly, baby, fly!" he cried in delight as his drone receded in the distance.  A few of his followers were decamped near the monstrosity of capitalism run amok and would send Beckmann cellphone video as soon as they spotted the drone delivering its payload. "Here it comes!" said the text message on Beckmann's phone, and then a minute later, the triumphant moment:  forty pounds of pig manure sprayed all over the Old Post Office Pavilion bell tower.

"That's for stealing the people's 360-degree view of downtown Washington!" hollered Beckmann, shaking his fist in the direction of the Trump Plaza Hotel.  "And performing a lobotomy on Melania!" he added.  (He had recently blogged about this.)  "And spying for Russia!"  (He had not blogged about this because the lamestream media was already covering it!  Amazing!)  "And telling the 9/11 hijackers to crash into the World Trade Center instead of your tower!"  (He had recently blogged about this, though it was a little more speculative than his usual conspiracy theories.)  "And for giving a bad name to crazy people!  I don't need to be further stigmatized, you mental health bigot!"  At this point he realized there were some people in the parking lot looking up at him and taking cellphone videos, so he ran back into his apartment.

Over at Redskins headquarters, Golden Fawn was tilting at her own windmill--namely, the anachronistic existence of the Washington Redskins Original Americans Foundation.  After a period of resistance, the National Museum of the American Indian employee had accepted a seat on the Foundation this summer, and had quickly made waves.  She sat down in the conference room in her usual braids and traditional clothing, and waited patiently for the agenda item she had requested.  At long last, the Chairman let her speak.

"I cannot tell you how deeply disappointed I am that this Foundation refused to help the Standing Rock Sioux in their fight against the oil pipeline threatening their water and sacred sites," she began.

"As our attorney told you on the conference call, they have no rights to those sacred sites," said the Chairman.

"You mean federal courts have ruled against them, as they did from the beginning and now continue to do because traditional jurisprudence means repeating the same mistakes over and over and over again in the name of 'precedent.'"

"The Sioux already have their victory," said another member of the Foundation board, whom Golden Fawn quickly unnerved with her black-eyed stare.

"You think a temporary reprieve by President Obama--a reprieve I and others secured by vigorous lobbying--will keep their water and sacred sites safe from oil spills?  You're more naive than I thought."

"There is a process that needs to play out," said the Chairman.  "This Foundation is not about encouraging civil disobedience."

"If this Foundation is not about protecting water and sacred sites, it is not about protecting the life of any tribe in this country.  You really think handing out blankets is enough?"

"That is uncalled for!" exclaimed a Cherokee member from Oklahoma, who had gotten a huge cash payment and business incentives to sit on this board.  "This is a charitable foundation, not a political action coalition."

"This Foundation is a spiritual failure," Golden Fawn said, but nobody replied to her.  She looked at the Chairman to see if he would expel her, but he simply opened the next item of business on the agenda.

Back at the Four Seasons, Charles Wu was trying to explain how his plane to Beijing had arrived late, and there were mix-ups about meeting times, and he had not had the usual amount of time to smooth a path for visiting Americans, and there was really nothing he could do about the man-made islands....And then came the ice pick.

"What have you done for us, lately?" asked the exasperated Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope.  "I'm a very busy man.  I'm supposed to be pulling Turkey back into NATO's orbit, for God's sake!  Turkey, who thinks making peace with Russia is a better idea than making peace with the Kurds!  Russia, in case you haven't noticed, has returned our country to a Cold War footing.  Oh, and I have a permanent headache about the damned Clinton email server.   And Iraq and Syria are Hell on Earth, and somehow the U.S. gets the blame.  And what are you doing for us in Asia, exactly?  Because, Obama's visit was not very good."

Charles Wu felt a rumble in his intestines he had not felt since the surge of puberty testosterone had turned him into a virile young man.  It was true, he knew!  He had done nothing for the U.S. lately!  He had juggled Beijing, Hong Kong, and Britain for years, but somewhere along the line, instead of selling secrets about his current home, the United States, he had become somebody expected to deliver for the United States.  He couldn't just tell the State Department secrets about Beijing if they were bad news, no!  Wu was supposed to fix things!

"Well," Wu began, a little desperate, "I do have intelligence for you about recent communications between China and Pakistan."

"Great!  That's great," said the ADAfH sarcastically, reaching for the bread basket.  "Can't wait to hear it!"

A couple miles away at Adams Morgan Day, Angela de la Paz was licking ice cream and telling Dulles Samuelson she had no memory of 9/11.  (She had still been a young child at that time.)

Dulles replied, "my dad was never the same after that.  He was one of the ones scapegoated and forced into retirement from the CIA--and that's actually when he told us for the first time he had been in the CIA."

Angela shook her head in sympathy--not for Henry Samuelson's career but for the effect on his kids.  "People didn't talk about it much where I grew up.  They had other things to worry about getting killed by--they still do."  She suddenly remembered saving somebody in a Columbia Heights alley, and meeting the man who would become the father of the baby she later gave away after his death.  "It all stinks," she said.

"I got accepted into the FBI," Dulles said suddenly, and then he searched her face for a reaction, but got the same sad smile he usually did.

COMING UP:  House of Dreams!