So much hatred, so little time

Dizzy entered the Shops at 2000 Penn, sat down on the third bench in the commons area, and set down his trumpet case. He checked his Rolex for the time and glanced at the locked inner doorway to Cleary Gottlieb. He opened his case, pulled out his trumpet, and started to play an original composition. A few minutes later, an associate approached the door, pausing to toss a quarter into the open case before pressing his key card to the electronic reader; the associate kept a wide berth of the presumably smelly homeless man, therefore failing to see the hand written note in the trumpet case reading "Dreary Rot Dweeb must die!".

At the other end of the Shops at 2000 Penn, Charles Wu was feigning interest in the St. Patrick's Day card collection at CVS while his mole at Cleary Gottlieb spilled the beans on the law firm's lobbying efforts against new Iran sanctions. (Luis was a son of a bitch who was happy to stab his own client in the back in order to make some quick cash on the side.) Wu carefully put back a maniacal leprechaun card packed with ten fifty-dollar bills directly in front of Luis. Luis picked it up and exited the greeting card section, whistling "Teenage Dream" and thinking about the woman that scorned his advances and how funny it was that she never knew he spit into her water bottle several times a day. He extracted the cash, shoved it into his back pocket, dumped the leprechaun card on the bread shelf, and headed over to the magazine section to pick out something raunchy.

A mile to the north, the Heurich Society also had Cleary Gottlieb on their mind. "The project has been compromised!" Chairman Henry Samuelson exclaimed, glaring in particular at the former Heurich Society chair. "I warned you not to trust anybody at Leery Pot Plebe: they're a bunch of bleeding-heart, hippie liberals in alpaca clothing!"

"Henry, really! You're the one that's always saying there's nothing more valuable to us than a hypocritical liberal!"

"They're too tight with the Democrats!" hollered Samuelson.

"He's no Democrat, and the only things he's tight with are his Versace skinny jeans and the skinny billfold he keeps in them!" yelled back the former chair.

"You can cover it with Versace, but it's still an asshole!" retorted Samuelson (though he had no idea what "Versace" was).

"Gentlemen!" It was Condoleezza Rice's voice crackling over the speakerphone. "It's over and done with! Your rage is wholly disproportional to the amount of damage he might do. Could we please channel your anger in a more fruitful direction?"

The two men glared at the speakerphone, reunited in their hatred of the Bloodsucker, while the Brewmaster Castle butler nervously hovered outside the meeting room with a fresh pot of coffee. "I'm taking him out!" whispered Samuelson, his hand momentarily over the speakerphone microphone.

Back on Pennsylvania Avenue, Chloe Cleavage would have kissed Samuelson on the mouth had she known he was planning to kill the person who had gotten Pierre fired from Cleary Gottlieb one day after he started there as a legal assistant. (I'm telling you: the guy lied about me! He recognized me from Occupy DC and made up some shit about me to get me fired. I didn't do anything wrong!) She shoved aside her Prince and Prowling coffee mug and added "new bedroom carpeting" to her list of things she was planning to buy after Pierre was gainfully employed and no longer crashing in her condo. She shoved the list back into her bag, wishing that stress would reduce Pierre's magnificent libido--the only thing stopping her from tossing him out on his cute butt.

A block away, a very weary Hillary Clinton was meeting with the White House Chief of Staff and National Security Director, International Women's Day already fading from her mind. "I have no more diplomatic options left: if you can't rein in the soldiers in Afghanistan, you need to pull them out."

"There have been slaughters on both sides," said the N.S.D.

"Save your talking points for your speechwriter!" replied the Secretary of State. "If our reason for being in Afghanistan is to trade slaughters, we have no reason to be in Afghanistan!"

"And you can save the sermons for somebody else!" retorted the N.S.D.

"He opened fired on women and children that were asleep!" Clinton exclaimed. "If the Army can't keep sociopaths out of the ranks--"

"How DARE you! You think they're sociopaths when they arrive there? The goddamn place makes 'em that way!"

"All the more reason to pull out! The U.S. is accomplishing NOTHING in Afghanistan!"

The Chief of Staff finally threw up both hands, and the two quieted down. "I will convey your sentiments to the President," he said quietly. "But you have GOT to deal with the situation we are facing RIGHT NOW!"

Ten minutes later, Clinton was motoring down Pennsylvania Avenue, too tired to return to the State Department. At the 20th Street stoplight, she looked over at the Cleary Gottlieb law firm--which had unwittingly produced half a dozen Project R.O.D.H.A.M. operatives in Afghanistan in the past two years, and wittingly sent thousands of dollars of campaign contributions to President Obama. Friends don't matter anymore, she thought. SuperPACs and killing machines are our destiny.

Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac was celebrating International Woman's Day by searching for embryos of feminine anger and fertilizing them to grow into full-size parasites of hatred--just like what happened with Angela de la Paz.