Sinking Monuments
Charles Wu was strolling along the Jefferson Memorial, hoping to get lucky and find another expensive bauble lost by a tourist. Since delivering the Rolex to former Senator Evermore Breadman, Wu had made quite a large number of interesting and powerful acquaintances. On the other hand, the delivery of a bugged Persian cat to Condoleezza Rice had yielded very few insights other than the Secretary of State's propensity to sing opera in the shower, and Pippin's surprising proximity to the shower when that singing was occurring. Wu stopped to examine the settlement cracks and other signs that the memorial was sinking into the Tidal Basin--only Americans would be brash enough to think they could build lasting monuments to democracy on swampland. Wu didn't know what was really pulling the monument down.
Fifty feet below him, Ardua was still sucking the last vestiges of life out of the rotting corpse of the meth addict washed down in the basin the night before, even though the Shackled had succeeded in guiding the young man's ghost away from Ardua in time. Ardua tossed the shell of human life aside angrily, making the pilings under Thomas shake again.
Several miles north, Sebastian L'Arche was leaving Dupont Circle after the dog show. He had won a first prize ribbon for the meth addict's dog, all the while cursing his "friend" for not returning Sebastian's calls for two days. Seb had given the guy the dog, done the dog training for free, entered the dog in the contest to give the guy something positive to focus on, and what thanks did Seb get? Seb headed off to Southwest Plaza to try again to catch the guy at home.
Over at the deceased meth addict's apartment, the mice and roaches were enjoying themselves immensely, given a safe haven by the city's worst management company--and it would be at least a couple of months before anybody would figure out the tenant was not coming back. Two floors up, Marcos Vasquez was in the hallway, learning from Golden Fawn how Judge Melvin Wright had tossed the tenant association lawsuit out, and what options the tenants had left. Marcos was only half-listening, looking at the hair stubble peaking out of the bandana wrapped around Golden Fawn's bald head. She looked very, very, very tired. Golden Fawn was barely thinking about the news she was repeating to him, looking at his Coast Guard insignia and wondering if he would think her crazy to ask him if he had seen any strange activity in the Potomac. They both returned to their own apartments and thought about Ardua by themselves.
Several miles to the northwest, Judge Melvin Wright was being carjacked in upper Georgetown by a crackhead. He felt the whack of the pistol-whip on his head, stumbled sideways then forward, and finally crashed down as his luxury car sped away. Three different families out for their evening baby carriage strolls passed him by in disgust, believing him to be a passed-out homeless drunk. A short time later, former Senator Evermore Breadman pulled into the empty parking space. He got out of his luxury car, doubled over in pain, vomited into the tree box, then turned to walk towards his dinner party. There was a man in his way, bleeding from the head. Breadman bent down to check for a pulse, a cursed Rolex shimmering on his wrist. He pulled his cell phone out to call 911.
Several miles to the east, Atticus Hawk was burning the midnight oil at the Department of Justice: he needed to have new memos ready Monday morning on both Colin Powell's Guantanamo speech and Ali al-Marri's Fourth Circuit victory. After being pulled into the successful rally for Alberto Gonzales, Hawk had hoped to be promoted away from this legal minutia and drudgery. He took a break to pull up "Cops" on the internet--it was very soothing to watch criminals being slapped around legitimately. Maybe those enemy combatants were all going to commit suicide or be released from Guantanamo before the Supreme Court ever really examined any of these memos. He stared at the cops on his computer monitor and suddenly remembered a visit from Officer Friendly to his elementary school many years ago. "Call 911 if you need help!"
A few miles north, Charles Wu stopped in to check his wiretaps before hitting the bars--nothing new. He played back the only interesting tape he had gotten from Pippin's embedded listening device--the tape on which he could hear Condoleezza Rice explaining over the phone that Bush could agree to global warming action now because he was not the one whose Administration would have to implement it. No surprise there. He listened carefully now to the next bit--something about "Hamas and the terrorist haven", but then Pippin had wandered away from the Secretary of State (or vice versa?), and the sound had trailed off a bit...and yet, and yet... it really sounded like "World War Three"...and a laugh.
Fifty feet below him, Ardua was still sucking the last vestiges of life out of the rotting corpse of the meth addict washed down in the basin the night before, even though the Shackled had succeeded in guiding the young man's ghost away from Ardua in time. Ardua tossed the shell of human life aside angrily, making the pilings under Thomas shake again.
Several miles north, Sebastian L'Arche was leaving Dupont Circle after the dog show. He had won a first prize ribbon for the meth addict's dog, all the while cursing his "friend" for not returning Sebastian's calls for two days. Seb had given the guy the dog, done the dog training for free, entered the dog in the contest to give the guy something positive to focus on, and what thanks did Seb get? Seb headed off to Southwest Plaza to try again to catch the guy at home.
Over at the deceased meth addict's apartment, the mice and roaches were enjoying themselves immensely, given a safe haven by the city's worst management company--and it would be at least a couple of months before anybody would figure out the tenant was not coming back. Two floors up, Marcos Vasquez was in the hallway, learning from Golden Fawn how Judge Melvin Wright had tossed the tenant association lawsuit out, and what options the tenants had left. Marcos was only half-listening, looking at the hair stubble peaking out of the bandana wrapped around Golden Fawn's bald head. She looked very, very, very tired. Golden Fawn was barely thinking about the news she was repeating to him, looking at his Coast Guard insignia and wondering if he would think her crazy to ask him if he had seen any strange activity in the Potomac. They both returned to their own apartments and thought about Ardua by themselves.
Several miles to the northwest, Judge Melvin Wright was being carjacked in upper Georgetown by a crackhead. He felt the whack of the pistol-whip on his head, stumbled sideways then forward, and finally crashed down as his luxury car sped away. Three different families out for their evening baby carriage strolls passed him by in disgust, believing him to be a passed-out homeless drunk. A short time later, former Senator Evermore Breadman pulled into the empty parking space. He got out of his luxury car, doubled over in pain, vomited into the tree box, then turned to walk towards his dinner party. There was a man in his way, bleeding from the head. Breadman bent down to check for a pulse, a cursed Rolex shimmering on his wrist. He pulled his cell phone out to call 911.
Several miles to the east, Atticus Hawk was burning the midnight oil at the Department of Justice: he needed to have new memos ready Monday morning on both Colin Powell's Guantanamo speech and Ali al-Marri's Fourth Circuit victory. After being pulled into the successful rally for Alberto Gonzales, Hawk had hoped to be promoted away from this legal minutia and drudgery. He took a break to pull up "Cops" on the internet--it was very soothing to watch criminals being slapped around legitimately. Maybe those enemy combatants were all going to commit suicide or be released from Guantanamo before the Supreme Court ever really examined any of these memos. He stared at the cops on his computer monitor and suddenly remembered a visit from Officer Friendly to his elementary school many years ago. "Call 911 if you need help!"
A few miles north, Charles Wu stopped in to check his wiretaps before hitting the bars--nothing new. He played back the only interesting tape he had gotten from Pippin's embedded listening device--the tape on which he could hear Condoleezza Rice explaining over the phone that Bush could agree to global warming action now because he was not the one whose Administration would have to implement it. No surprise there. He listened carefully now to the next bit--something about "Hamas and the terrorist haven", but then Pippin had wandered away from the Secretary of State (or vice versa?), and the sound had trailed off a bit...and yet, and yet... it really sounded like "World War Three"...and a laugh.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 8:02 PM
1 Comments:
You have a definite voice... a good blend of fantasy/mythology with an ability to keep in interesting narrative going. I'd probably appreciate it more if I followed the politics more.
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