The eagle has landed...lifelessly.

"This is a bald eagle feather," the Warrior said to Angela de la Paz.  "I picked it up after they were murdered in Maryland."

"Do you know who did it?"

The Warrior shook his head.  "Keep it in your medicine bag," he said, handing her a small pouch he had crafted from buckskin.  "It will lift your spirit."

"Make sure you keep it in the pouch," added Dr. Devi Rajatala, handing them both rakes to help her spread mulch in the Friendship Garden.  "It's illegal to kill a bald eagle, so if somebody sees that--"

"Nobody will see it," said Angela, who was suddenly thinking about the last time she was here at the National Arboretum with her mother.  "Nobody except my baby."

Several miles to the west, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle was in Adams Morgan, questioning patrons at District Nightclub about the knife fight which had put five people in the hospital the night before.

"I think it shows how much Adams Morgan has improved, man," said one patron (whose philosophy for treating New Year's Eve hangovers was to get drunk again as soon as the bars reopened).  "No guns!  Only knives!"

Winkle pretended to record the man's comments, then moved to the next table.  "Were you here last night?"

"It was zombies, man!" said another drunk.  "Wait, not zombies--the other thing."  He looked at his girlfriend for help.

"Possessed people, man," she said.  "Like Emily Rose or something!  Call the Exorcist!"

"What did they do that made you think that?" asked Winkle (who had, in fact, seen a zombie once before in D.C.).

"The eyes, man!" they both said to Winkle in unison.

"The eyes?"

"Yellow," whispered the woman.  "And they were ranting about river rats sent from somebody named Ardua."

Across the river in Arlington, Bridezilla was, herself, enduring a violent rant from former Senator Evermore Breadman--who had shown up unannounced at her apartment door while she and her fiance' were still recovering from their hangovers.  "Did you read this?!" shouted Breadman, shoving a magazine into her hand and marching in.

"I haven't read anything today," she replied.  (This was a lie, since she had already spent an hour reading Tweets about New York society parties and Chirlane McCray's pointy black witch hat.)  She looked down at the article already opened up for her--"Under Contract:  Temporary Attorneys Encounter No-Frills Assignments, Workspaces"--in Washington Lawyer.

"I know the Braggart was interviewed for this article--she took her revenge out on us!  How could the D.C. Bar publish anonymous comments?!  Son, what are you wearing?!"

Buddy Lee Trickham (who felt and acted most days as a Georgetown literature professor should) looked down sheepishly at the pink Lululemon sweatshirt he had slept in the night before, then silently took his coffee to the bedroom.

"Is Prince and Prowling mentioned in this article?" asked Bridezilla.

"No, but everybody will know it's us!"

"Surely they are talking about a number of law firms?"

"I'm telling you, this is going to get back to us!  Now our clients will know we are charging them four times as much as we are paying those temps, and think that we don't even give them enough toilet paper!  Is that an O.S.H.A. violation?"

"I don't think O.S.H.A. applies to law firms," replied Bridezilla, who had sunk down into the couch in a vain attempt to ease her headache.

"Of course it applies to law firms!"

"Everybody is using contract attorneys in D.C.--it's not like it was a secret."

"I want you and Cigemeier to get cracking on this right away.  Damage control!  And fire all the contract attorneys until this blows over.  Hell if we'll let them prove we don't give temps decent wages and working conditions!"

"What about Laura Moreno?  Should I lay her off, too?"

"What are you talking about?  She's not a temp!  She's been at Prince and Prowling for years and years."

"She's a temp," insisted Bridezilla.

"How is that possible?" asked Breadman.

"Are you saying that's an O.S.H.A. violation?"

"Of course not!" retorted Breadman, aghast at her ignorance.  "I'm talking about the other one."

Bridezilla wracked her aching head for other job-killer laws.  "E.P.A.?  Obamacare?"

Breadman--who used to write laws for a living--grabbed a fistful of chocolates from her French crystal Christmas candy dish, scowled at her silently, then stomped out.

Back in the city, Marcos Vazquez's mother, Teresa, was scowling at him as she got into the car for the ride to the airport.

"I don't understand why you won't let us put you in a hotel," he said.

"They should be in a hotel!" retorted his mother.  ("They" referred to Golden Fawn's grandmother and the little boy she had unexpectedly brought with her from the reservation.)  "You know I can't be in a hotel with my rheumatoid arthritis!"

"That doesn't make any sense!" said Vazquez, sliding behind the steering wheel.  "We might ending up adopting this boy!  Why can't you be happy for us?"

"He's not even Catholic!" exclaimed Teresa.

"I'm sure Golden Fawn will let me baptize him--IF we end up adopting him."

"You shouldn't get mixed up with her crazy, alcoholic relatives and their bastard children," said Teresa.  With that, the two sunk into silence.

Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac swallowed some more Eagle feathers and plotted her next violent attack.

************************
COMING UP:  
Heurich Society and Charles Wu challenge Angela's campaign against world damnation.