Washington Horror Blog

SEMI-FICTIONAL CHRONICLE of the EVIL THAT INFECTS WASHINGTON, D.C. To read Prologue and Character Guide, please see www.washingtonhorrorblog.com, updated 6/6//2017. Follow Washington Water Woman on Twitter @HorrorDC ....

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Scandinavian Dreams

Donald Rumsfeld was being strapped to a small, wooden boat. The warriors poured seal blubber over him, then touched him with the lit torch. They pushed him out to sea, and he burst into flames. They wailed and chanted the Viking funeral goodbye.

Rumsfeld sat up screaming. His sleeping aides awoke completely disoriented and tried to jump out of their airplane seats only to be yanked back by their lap belts. "It's OK," said the personal assistant. "He just had a nightmare." His nightmares were always about himself--never about anybody else. The whole time he was in Iraq, he kept wondering if one of the soldiers would try to kill him. One more week....One more week....

Back in Washington, Bob Gates was sneering at a report from Oslo on the Nobel peace prize ceremony, where the Grameen Bank founder had said that eradicating poverty was the only way to combat terrorism. Yeah, dream on, Gandhi.

Over at the Watergate, Condoleezza Rice was lying back in her red leather chair, sipping her gingko genius smoothie, listening to the Norwegian jazz CD she had picked up from her in cognito visit to the Kennedy Center Thursday night. She stared at the photo of the haunted pianist, Tord Gustavsen. Something about him reminded her of....She got up and walked over to the piano. She lifted the smooth lid, polished on Friday by her maid Juanita. She began stroking the keys, trying to accompany what she was listening to. She closed her eyes as her fingers sought the right keys. She was remembering a warm spring night in college, junior year...that pianist....

Nearby, Ardua seethed in the frigid waters of the Potomac. She did not like what she was feeling from the Watergate. She called upon Thor to bring down the hammer. The phone rang in Rice's apartment, interrupting her reverie. It was former Senator Evermore Breadman: they needed to talk about Rumsfeld's exit. Rice closed the piano back up, turned off the CD player, and headed back to the red leather chair, the phone cradled under her ear as she picked up her nearby pad. She always liked talking to Breadman--he never let her down, and he knew she was in charge. Ardua smiled.

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