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 ....

Monday, August 02, 2010

Resurfacing (Part One)

Laura Moreno took a deep breath and re-entered the Prince and Prowling workroom after her long exile at the rented office space in Silver Spring. Then she wrinkled her nose, quickly regretting the deep breath. She put her things down and looked around for the source(s) of the odor. Suspect #1: moldy pizza crusts in a forgotten pizza box on the center table. Suspect #2: a heap of musty clothing and stinky shoes shoved onto two shelves with a hand-written note reading "Dress for Success". Suspect #3: another dead rodent trapped in the ceiling. She walked around sniffing it out. No. She looked down: the third smell was coming from the blood stain nobody had ever cleaned out of the carpet. She took the pizza box and the stinky shoes to the kitchen trash and returned with plastic bags for the donated clothing. Then she searched her boxed-up personal belongings until she found the air freshener; she sprayed it liberally around the room, then headed to the CVS to find the strongest carpet cleaner they had.

A few miles to the south, Glenn Michael Beckmann (erroneously) cursed out the Pakistani taxi driver for over-charging his fare from National Airport. "You should be in Guantanamo," he screamed, as the man quickly drove away. Beckmann had just made $20,000 in three weeks by conducting training sessions for anti-immigrant militias in Arizona. Always aim for the head: if you shoot them anywhere else, they have a chance to scream. Show no mercy for women and children: terrorists always hide behind women and children, and the terrorists are such scumbags that the women and children are better off dead, anyway. Do not trust the Arizona state troopers: they are completely infiltrated by the ACLU and the feminazis. Beckmann was very pleased with himself: he was becoming a nationally recognized leader and sought-after speaker among Oath Keepers, Birthers, Patriots, and Skinheads. He didn't notice that all the elevators were shut down again at Southwest Plaza because he always took the stairs--even with two heavy suitcases--because you never want to be trapped in a box under any circumstance. He entered the stairwell, shoved aside the man in the wheelchair who was fondling his private parts [actually just trying to adjust his urine bag in private while waiting for an elevator to get fixed] and headed up the stairs.

A few miles to the north, Liv Cigemeier and Momzilla were enjoying a joint baby shower at International Development Machine. Momzilla, in fact, had not been to work in months, claiming a hostile workplace (for no valid reason) and a high-risk pregnancy (a complete lie). It had infuriated her to be invited to share a baby shower with Liv, but since Momzilla was expecting twins, she knew she would get at least twice as many gifts. [Alas, this expectation would prove to be wrong (causing real distress to her womb), but for now she was eating a cupcake and basking in the attention as well as could be expected while some of the people were actually cooing and fussing over Liv.] Liv, who actually was experiencing some complications in her pregnancy, sat uncomfortably in the conference room chair, smiling pleasantly but eager to return to her cubicle, where she could kick off her shoes and put her feet up. She had been sleeping eleven hours/night until the baby got too large for her to be comfortable anymore, and her fatigue and blood problems would not allow her to work much longer. Liv's boss smiled at her and passed her a gift to open, seeing (thankfully) that she was not going to be comfortable enough to play any of the silly baby shower games his assistant had planned. Momzilla finally realized that her long absence may have been a strategic blunder--did their boss now like Liv?! "The doctor said I'm doing much better now!" Momzilla abruptly called out (much to the surprise of her husband, who had been told in no uncertain terms that he had to take time off from his White House job to drive her to and from this baby shower). "He said I could work from home. You can give me a project before I leave," she said to their boss, then smiled. Liv continued opening her first gift in silence.

A mile away, the Rahm Emanuel wannabe was in a White House men's room, crying muffled sobs into a wad of paper towels after having just learned that his August vacation was canceled until he finished screening political appointees. "But that's not fair!" he had managed to cry out before being silenced with the stoniest death stare he had ever seen in the West Wing (and he had seen quite a few). It's not my fault, he now sobbed silently to his wad of paper towels. I was working on health care, and financial reform, and that damned oil spill! He stifled his sobs as another gentleman came in to do his business. JC Penny black leather. (He knew who it was--identifying people from the size and make of their shoes as seen beneath a partition wall was one of his gifts--not that he ever used it for illicit purposes--no, only for knowing whether to rush his business and take advantage of a joint hand-washing opportunity or delay his business and avoid the same. Right now, he was delaying his business no matter who it was.) The man finally finished, and the Rahm Emanuel wannabe resumed sobbing into his wad of paper towels. It's not my fault! Anybody can find a Supreme Court nominee--they always give me the hardest ones!

Back at Prince and Prowling, Laura Moreno was in the ladies room washing her hands. Behind her, another occupant of the ladies room was flushing a toilet for the tenth time in a row. Laura exchanged glances with the hand-washer beside her, but she simply rolled her eyes. After they exited, Moreno asked if it was a bulimic. "Honey, nobody can throw up ten times in a row, day after day after day. It's one of those OCD things--she just can't stop flushin'. It's a cryin' shame." The woman walked away, and Moreno stared back at the ladies room door. She quietly pushed the door back open to peer at the shoes under the partition--green crocodile leather pumps. Bridezilla?! An obsessive-compulsive disorder? FLUSH!

Over in the river, Ardua of the Potomac just laughed at the hundreds of extra gallons of water being pumped through daily, and rose up near the surface to see what else was happening.

COMING UP NEXT: Resurfacing Part Two--catch up on Angela de la Paz, Charles Wu, the financial wars, and much else!


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