The Promised Land

The Poseidon Auxiliary of the Old Dominion Boat Club pushed off from the Alexandria dock for its Thanksgiving cruise. Ann Bishis and her Greek cousins huddled by themselves near the back, invoking their spirit animals and tossing laurel leaves into the Potomac River to pray to Hera, Glaucos and other gods for the welfare of Greece. They were glad for a break from working for Congressman Herrmark, who had become doubly morose with the decline of political perks and the loss of Mia. They had been surprised when he had said he was visiting his parents for Thanksgiving without taking his twin bodyguards, Nick and Costas, but the season's death threats were less focused now on hydrofracking and more focused on race and class. The twins were starting to worry he might start thinking he no longer needed bodyguards, though Bishis assured her cousins that their boss valued the twins for much more than that. (For instance, when they hand-delivered letters to federal agency chiefs or Cabinet Secretaries outlining how Congressman Herrmark thought certain programs should be allocating spending in his home state, the twins' bulging muscles, sneering smiles, and broken English always made an impression that petite Ann Bishis in an off-the-rack suit just could not.) "Well, we do have a lot to be thankful for this year," said Bishis, and her cousins nodded silently. "If more people would honor the gods, Greece would return to its glory days," she added, and her cousins nodded again. Then the three turned to look at the front of the boat, where most of the members were gathered with a Greek Orthodox priest who was leading them in a prayer of thanksgiving before their meal began. He felt the eyes of the heathens upon him, but he did not look up.

Another boat pushed off from the dock of the Old Dominion Boat Club--a yacht rented by Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (D.C. Chapter) for their own Thanksgiving cruise. (The yacht was actually owned by member Calico Johnson, but he saw no reason to tell them that or decline the payment they made to the LLC he used to own the yacht and manage its rentals.) Dick Cheney had already claimed the most comfortable seat on deck, unaware that nobody had been hired to take his drink order or bring food to him. Representative John Boehner saw his opportunity, piled up two plates of low-cholesterol food, balanced two beers under his arm, and headed over to sit next to the former Vice-President. (Cheney groaned when he saw what was happening.) Calico Johnson watched with annoyance as Luciano Talaverdi dropped a bottle of pinot grigio on the deck--both scratching it and staining it red. Judge Sowell Ame couldn't help but smile at attorney Bridezilla, whose latest privilege log had prompted the opposition to file a motion with phrases like "byzantine labyrinth", "insult to intelligence", "everything but the kitchen sink", and "gypsies, tramps and thieves". Bridezilla smiled back, consciously trying to reassert the feminine wiles she had misplaced after months of body-building and testosterone-laced supplements from her personal trainer; she loaded up her plate with nothing but yams because they were packed with estrogen, and sat down daintily next to Luciano Talaverdi, who (unfortunately for her) had no trouble seeing the hair stubble on her chin in the bright sunlight and, consequently, felt a little nauseous and had to look away.

"Now, I know that some of us are in the one percent, and some of us are not," said millionaire realtor Calico Johnson, raising his glass for the first toast, "but we ALL have much to be thankful for this year. We've made a lot of progress. For example, I know that Dick has stopped feeling entitled to be the go-to analyst on Republican debate performances, even though nobody knows better than he does that there are much more important traits to highlight than obvious stupidity. And I no longer feel entitled to live in my home in peace and tranquility, because my neighbor has a right to have a loudly mooing cow, and if I want the neighbor (and I do!), I need to accept the cow! Even Bridezilla has made progress because she no longer struggles with her sense of entitlement about becoming a partner at Prince and Prowling." ("That's because I am a partner now.") "Oh. Well, you did deserve it, so your sense of entitlement was correct! A toast for Bridezilla!" And they all raised their glasses to her--though most of them thought her pink eye shadow, yellow chiffon pantsuit with ruffles on the sleeves and ankles, and lace-covered spike-heeled boots looked like something more suited to a drag queen than a law partner. "Now I have a surprise for you: some new members!" And with that, he rang a bell, and a half-dozen young women emerged from below deck, smiling with excitement. "The newest members of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous!" proclaimed Johnson, who then led the group in applause--not telling them he had recruited the group from N.U.T.T.Y. (Nannies United to Take Y-chromosomes) because he knew they were desperate to marry rich, and he was doing them a favor by helping them expand their search beyond their immediate places of employment. Boehner blushed, Cheney's pacemaker sputtered, Ame adjusted his crotch, and Talaverdi stood up quickly to zoom in on the most attractive one.

High above the river, Dubious McGinty looked out on the boaters from his perch in the watchman's quarters of the 14th Street bridge. It was a sunny day, and there weren't going to be a lot more good boating days before spring. He could smell the river duck cooking on a spit over an open fire (sometimes he had to kill the ones possessed by evil), and Perry Winkle would be coming by soon with some rolls and a sweet potato pie. They had been planning their little Thanksgiving get-together for a few weeks, but McGinty knew the Washington Post "Metro" reporter would be glad for a chance to ask McGinty for his reaction to Congressional plans to fight the deficit by cutting veteran benefits--because "nobody understands better than Veterans" the need for sacrifice. "Yeah," mumbled McGinty, "we understand it just fine." He spit over the rail. "You keep your $600 billion for more tanks and airplanes and putting soldiers in Australia 'cause God knows we can't have a continent without U.S. soldiers, and after we're used up and don't die properly on a battlefield, we'll just die quietly back here." He spit again. "I blame you!" he screamed down at the demon chuckling under the Potomac. "It's evil, and they write their neat little letters on neat little Congressional stationery, and they talk about reducing the deficit, and they're just evil! Cause it ain't right." He opened his fly and urinated down on Ardua of the Potomac. "Us old-timers know how to take care of ourselves, but these young'uns commin' out of Iraq and Afghanistan, hell, what are they supposed to do?"

"That's not what you were supposed to do!" said Henry Samuelson to Angela de la Paz, who was also glaring at the demon in the river from her perch in a Georgetown restaurant. "You think we don't know you left Libya to go back to Egypt? We're not paying you to run around freeing prisoners from Bedouin tribes in the Sinai peninsula!"

"Well, I couldn't just sit in Libya guarding oil interests! It's boring and stupid!"

"Look, missy," said Samuelson, who knew what Project Cinderella was capable of, "if you want to do extra-curricular activities, you need to keep it a lot quieter! 'She-whose-gaze-must-be-avoided returns to Egypt, slaughters half a dozen Bedouin slave-drivers, castrates a dozen rapists, and guides 600 African refugees across the desert to the promised land flowing with milk and honey?!' We do not WANT that kind of publicity!"

"It's not like I'm in the Washington Post or something," replied Angela, pushing her food aimlessly around the plate.

"In certain circles you are front-page news--even if they don't know your name or have a photo of you! And in cahoots with Project R.O.D.H.A.M. no less! The Heurich Society is this close to cutting you off! I don't want that to happen," said Samuelson.

"Do they wanna kill me?" asked Angela, turning her gaze to Samuelson.

"Just go back to Libya, alright?" said Samuelson. "I'll double your pay."

"Cool," said Angela flatly, and she got up to leave. "Thanks for lunch." She walked out of the restaurant and down to the pier. "Was it pointless, Ardua?" she whispered.

Ardua of the Potomac shuddered and burrowed deep into the mud--away from the sunlight and away from the girl.