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, November 27, 2011

World at War

Chloe Cleavage sipped her Starbucks cinnamon latte and made moon eyes at "Pierre", an Occupy DCer who still wouldn't tell her his real name even after three dates. Pierre stood for everything she was against, but most of what he said just went in one ear and out the other: she just loved the sound of his bedroom voice, and the scruffiness of his bed-head hair, and the deepness of his eyes, and the stubble on his face, and the way his butt looked in faded jeans. For his part, Pierre did so much talking that he really did not know much about Cleavage, but was operating with certain assumptions and presumptions that were enough. (He knew she worked at a powerful law firm, and if he could convert her, it would be a tremendous victory for the movement!) He was also hoping she would invite him to her apartment for a shower and sex (and his assumption and presumption in this particular detail was spot on). "The police are the co-opted blue-collar collaborators which ensure protection of the moneyed minority. That's why it was so important in Egypt to win them over." (This is what Cleavage heard: "police"..."money"..."Egypt", which made no sense, but she sighed anyway, and Pierre continued.)

At the next table over, a man complimented his metrosexual friend on his sweater, and the metrosexual replied, "I'm wearing it because it cost me $200."

"Do you like mine better?" asked Pierre, turning to the men at the other table. "I'll trade you right now. Straight barter: we both get something we want, no involvement of the capitalist leech system."

"Go ahead and take off your sweater," whispered Cleavage in encouragement (and anticipation), but the metrosexual and his friend got up without a word and took a table further away.

"Gay fascists," muttered Pierre, "totally co-opted, unaware how much the ruling class--just like the Nazis--loathes them."

"Mmmm," said Cleavage, who heard: "gay" and "Nazis", which made no sense, so she picked up her spoon and licked it provocatively.

Over at Prince and Prowling, contract attorney Laura Moreno was trying to cover for Chloe Cleavage, who was supposed to have arrived an hour earlier. Retired partner Wolfgang Prowling was trying to wrap up Operation Koch so that he could return to the retirement he had reluctantly left to get his namesake law firm's public relations practice back on track. He had wheelchaired himself into the workroom to check on Moreno's progress in reviewing and highlighting Stephen Colbert's Anonymous Shell Corporation filing papers. He rummaged through her desk things as she pulled up database images for Prowling to look at. "Is this your timesheet?" he demanded, gruffly. (She nodded.) "How can you put 8 hours for every day? That's preposterous!" ("That's a standard workday," she protested.) "Hmmmpphh! Nobody's gonna believe that! You need to put 7 hours one day, then 9 hours the next--that's the sort of thing a client wants to see! Of course, it should really be 10 hours one day, then 11 the next, but at least you came in today, which is more than I can say about that girl with the low-cut sweaters. Is this your name?" (Moreno nodded.) "What kind of name is that?" demanded Prowling, pointing at her surname on the timesheet. ("Sicilian," she said.) "Sicilian!? Hmmmpphh! You don't look Sicilian!" ("Well, my mother's side--") "I was there in World War Two! Hmmpphhh! Black hair--lots of black hair! They came from Phoenicia and Greece and Tunisia, you know." ("There were also some Norman invaders and--") "Black hair! All the black hairs are in the mafia or Al Qaeda. You don't look like that!" ("My great-grandfather, Wolfgang, was from Bavaria," she finally managed to blurt out.) "Wolfgang?! You don't say?! Hmmpphhh! You've got a real Axis Powers thing going here, don't you! Ha, ha, ha, ha! But even Hitler didn't want his people mixing with those Dagos!" (Moreno now regretted her feeble intent to win over Wolfgang Prowling, and drew his attention to what she had pulled up on the computer.)

Back in Occupy DC territory, Glenn Michael Beckmann and a couple of his Hunter-Gatherer Society lieutenants were doing some more reconnaissance. It had been slow going, since they were only inclined to go out to McPherson Square when the weather was warm. In addition, Beckmann's lieutenants found the pronouncements and instructions of HGS President, Sarah Palin, as passed along by Beckmann, a little vague and confusing. They had been plotting a large-scale massacre of Occupy DC for a few weeks now, but it was important both to make sure that no innocent bystanders were hurt when it happened and that the carnage delivered a clear message from HGS. Still, the lieutenants were starting to wonder if Beckmann was really speaking for Sarah Palin, because it just seemed that she would have wanted bold and decisive action by now.

"What about anthrax?" asked the first lieutenant. "That would be super easy, and make headlines all over the world."

"That's cowardly!" exclaimed the second lieutenant. "We're hunters, not poisoners!"

"Well, there are police there all the time! I'm not doing anything that's gonna get me arrested. It's got to be in secret," said the first lieutenant.

"Look!" exclaimed Beckmann. "President Palin wants more intel first! She's not totally sure that all these people are against hunting and gathering! If Wall Street collapses, we'd have a lot more hunting and gathering going on."

"But they're communists," protested the first lieutenant.

"Some are anarchists, some are other things," said Beckmann, whose foggy brain was having trouble remembering his last conversation with President Palin. "That's why we need to gather more intel!"

The second lieutenant sighed and suggested they take a break to go hunt some deer.

A couple miles to the west, Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton was seated on the Albert Einstein sculpture, disguised in Georgetown University sweats, sunglasses, and a Hoya baseball cap. Charles Wu was seated next to her, assuring Clinton that Project R.O.D.H.A.M. had not been involved in feeding NATO the intelligence which had led to the air strike on two-dozen Pakistani soldiers.

"Was it Angela de la Paz?" asked Clinton.

"It appears so, though there is no direct proof or explanation," said Wu.

Clinton was silent for a couple of minutes. "I'm starting to wonder if this is a loose cannon we just can't afford to have out there."

"She's accomplished some things nobody else could," said Wu.

"I know, but she's too naive! It doesn't matter to her that Pakistan has the bomb," said Clinton. "It's like she's taking it one battle at a time, with no thought about the possibility of escalating to World War III."

"She's just a teenager," said Wu.

"Exactly!" said Clinton.

"I know I told you we can't recruit her into Project R.O.D.H.A.M., but let me try to meet with her myself--give her some extra education that the Heurich Society overlooked."

"Alright," said Clinton, getting up to go.

Wu watched the Secretary of State walk back towards C Street and wondered how on Earth he could come through for her now--after all, he was not entirely certain that World War III had not already begun. He suddenly noticed a flock of starlings watching him, and he kicked a pebble at them to make them disperse.

Not far away, Ardua of the Potomac waited impatiently for the starlings to come and report on the most enigmatic man in Washington--forever balanced on the cusp of good and evil.

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