Watered Down

Charles Wu walked slowly around the front yard of his new Cleveland Park home, doing one more inspection with his security consultant. The spy had told the real estate agent that price was no concern--just find me a house with a tall fence. It was, in fact, a lovely house, but Wu's eyes were currently inspecting the security cameras, the windows, the doors, and the tiny little bushes and rows of flowers put in to replace all the high shrubbery that could have hidden assailants. For himself? No, he had never feared anything for himself--but baby Delia was another matter! The agent tried to jimmy a basement window, immediately causing the alarm to sound, and Wu nodded with satisfaction. Then the agent again showed him how to turn off the alarm with the portable device, and they went back inside to conclude their business.

Ten minutes later, Wu was pacing alone through the interior, furnished almost entirely from an estate sale held the previous weekend in Maryland. He knew he had overpaid for some of the imported Chinese antiques, but he didn't care--they were beautiful, and fitting for his daughter. He walked up the stairs to the second floor, circled the large hallway, and returned downstairs to circle the entire first floor again. The feng shui is really good. And then he did one final inspection of the distillery room--the need for which was what had prompted the house purchase in the first place. The machinery was guaranteed to distill and recover a maximum of ninety gallons of water per hour, and distilled water was the only water that his Delia would henceforth drink and bathe in. A baby is 80% water. The shock of the words still rang in his ears. It was not just the pollution in the Potomac River, or even the drug residuals which were turning fish into hermaphrodites: Wu had always felt there was something seriously wrong with the Potomac River, and he was not going to let it constitute his little girl.

Several miles to the north, Ardua of the Potomac was bored with the Cherry Blossom Festival, bored with the White House, bored with Congress, bored with international intrigue, bored with violent robberies and murders, bored with her whole life. She had wreaked thousands of years of terror in this place--slowly at first, but then with increasing strength and fury as the human population multiplied all her around her. But she wanted more. She stretched her tentacles past the Tidal Basin and deep into the Chesapeake Bay. Ardua of the Atlantic, she whispered to herself. Piracy, Noreasters, the Bermuda Triangle, another Titanic, oil spills, and [she shivered with delight] HURRICANES. Like many demons, she longed to possess and kill the very humans that gave her strength and meaning. Can I do it? A demon had never before possessed an entire ocean, but few had been fed a steady diet of bitterness, hypocrisy, corruption, hatred, and violence like Ardua had been.

Not far away, one of Ardua's favorite people--Dick Cheney--lay recuperating at George Washington University Hospital. Dr. Khalid Mohammad was quietly examining Cheney's chart outside the private room, since everybody understood that the sight of an unfamiliar Muslim might cause Cheney's newly transplanted heart to go into immediate coronary arrest. "Who watered down the IV solution?" he asked the nurse, and Consuela Arroyo explained the request had come from Cheney's personal physician. Dr. Mohammad frowned and reexamined the most recent notations from the nurse, but he knew better than to go up against Cheney's personal physician. "Let's prepare an injection," he said, looking around carefully,"just as a back-up, in case he needs a quick boost." The nurse nodded, relieved that Dr. Mohammad was on duty, since something about the former V.P. rendered all her prayers impotent.

Several miles to the north, Cheney's removed heart was sitting in formaldehyde in Henry Samuelson's apartment--up on the mantelpiece, in a Venetian glass jar, next to his other prized possessions. The former CIA operative had dreamt many times of carving it out with a knife himself, but in the end, it was some skilled surgeons who had done it. No matter, I've got you now! He loved staring it, a glass of scotch in his hand, ruminating over all the different things he might do with it. But alas, old friend, more urgent matters call. He went to the kitchen to get more ice for the scotch, then went into his study to contemplate the Heurich Society's next move in Syria--where President Assad was in his own Game of Thrones with Qatar's gleeful state-owned Al Jazeera, a surprisingly dangerous and audacious propaganda machine. I wish I could send over Angela de la Paz, he thought ruefully, but if I try to give her another lesson about the Shiites and the Sunnis, she might pull a knife on me.

A mile away, high in the restored tower of the National Cathedral, the Seekers were gathered to celebrate the Earthquake recovery, and to discuss yesterday's Reason Rally on the National Mall. "There is one particular Atheist I have grown very concerned about," said the Jesuit priest.

"I know of whom you speak," said the Jewish rabbi.

"The atheism evangelist," said the Baptist preacher.

"She is pointing the way to a world without spirituality, and everything she touches turns to gold!" said the Buddhist monk.

"Why does Allah allow her to prosper so?" said the imam.

"I fear Babylon has risen again," said the Episcopal priest, who was walking around sprinkling holy water on the walls. "We are not living in God's kingdom."

The Seekers exited the now darkened tower, unaware that the holy water had already seeped outside the walls and was dripping down over the gargoyles, washing away the starling excrement.