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 09, 2014

PAC a Punch

Henrietta ("Button") Samuelson looked around at the faces of the Heurich Society members and tried to acknowledge their pain.  "I know we were surprised by the last-minute SuperPAC spending from Qatar, but we still managed to get most of our candidates elected."

"We have never been outspent by Qatar before!" hissed Condoleezza Rice over the speakerphone.  (She rarely made it anymore to the rarefied air of the upper meeting room of the Brewmaster's Castle.)

"Yeah, who's next?" asked the international arms dealer.  "Kuwait?  Oprah?  The Bush clan of the U.S. Virgin Islands?"

"Please, please!" implored Samuelson.  "Qatar actually supported some of the same PACs that we did!  And we still had more direct campaign involvement than they could ever dream of."

"What about Taylor Swift?" asked a former U.S. Congressman.  "Did she outspend us?  I heard she's richer than God now."

"I heard she made a deal with the Devil," said the investment banker, "that her cutesy image with the bangs and schoolgirl skirts is just a charade.  That's why she only wears red lipstick!"

"OK, let's get back on track," said Samuelson, rolling her eyes.  "One thing is clear from the election:  marijuana is a growth industry in this country, and our next frontier of investment and social policy.  The more stoned people are, the easier it is to manipulate them--or bypass them completely."

"That's what I always said in Afghanistan!" said the former CIA agent.  "Worst place ever for a war on drugs."

"So we're all in agreement, then?  Operation Bong Song is underway?"  Samuelson looked around at the faces of the Heurich Society members and saw very little agreement, mixed with a decided inability to unite in opposition against her.

"Absolutely!" said the former CIA agent, who was starting to think of a naughty Taylor Swift role-play he might ask Button Samuelson to do with him later.

Meanwhile, Samuelson's Crimea plan had gone horribly amiss over in Southwest.  (Thank Goodness that the Heurich Society members had stopped paying attention to Crimea, along with the U.S. media!)  Darja was so deep undercover as Glenn Michael Beckmann's Ukrainian mail-order bride that she had forgotten all about (a) having been hired by Henrietta Samuelson, (b) being a Russian masquerading as a Russian-speaking Ukrainian, (c) having a secret agenda to coax Beckmann over to Crimea as a Heurich agent there, and (d) how to build bombs.  And so, under the evil influence of the real estate demon living in the parking garage of Southwest Plaza, and believing there was a beautiful giant cockroach growing in her womb, she was content to spend her days cooking and crocheting.  But Beckmann still had a very busy conspiracy theorist career going, not to mention using Beckmann's Bad Asses (and Beckmann's Floral Cushions) to pay the bills.  And so it was, after an odd series of events involving a fake mail box, fake tax return forms, filings attempted with the fake tax return forms, and public urination, Beckmann found himself on a stolen motorcycle, with the Government Printing Office Police in hot pursuit.  Just when he thought he had shaken them for good, and that they had no idea he had zoomed into the Southwest Plaza parking garage, their GPO cop car came careening down the garage ramp.  Both cop car doors flew open at the same time, and both GPO cops leaned out over their respective doors, with their GPO guns aimed straight at Beckmann.

"Freeze, fraudster!" they yelled in unison.  "Federal agent!"  (Even though they had uncanny timing, they had never thought to pluralize their joint-shout.)

Beckmann crouched behind the motorcycle defiantly.  "Go ahead!  Shoot!  I'm sure you're way too accurate to hit the gas tank!"

The two GPO cops looked at each other, nodded, and began walking slowly and quietly towards Beckmann.  Their buddies from the Capitol Police used to laugh at them when they would stop by The Dubliner for a beer after work, but they always knew that nobody was a greater threat to America than people who had it in for the United States Government Printing Office.

Now, as it so happens, Darja's demonic imaginary pregnancy occasionally gave her cravings which led her to go down to the parking garage to lick tires.  She had heard all the commotion and run out just in time to see that her husband was in danger.  Suddenly, her instincts took over and she remembered what to do:  she reached for the gun in her ankle holster, but then realized she wasn't wearing it.  Alright, she thought, it will have to be kung fu.  She crept quietly through the garage to get closer, then started running over nearby cars to build up speed and come at them from a downward trajectory.  Just as the GPO cops suddenly saw her flying through the air at them, the real estate demon became alarmed that they might actually shoot Darja, so it picked up the motorcycle and flung it at the cops, knocking them over.  Darja landed, grabbed one of the dropped guns, and shot them both dead.

"Are you OK, honey?" she asked, rushing over to check on Beckmann.

"What a woman!" he crowed.  Then he kissed her, and it was weird, because she tasted like burnt rubber.

Back at The Dubliner, Congressman Jacques Javert was buying a round of beer for all the Capitol Police officers off duty.  "I missed y'all!" he boomed.  "I can't believe my campaign manager made me spend a whole month traipsing through those damned swamps shaking hands with Cajun hicks!"

"Congrats on your reelection, Congressman!" shouted one of the boys, raising his glass.  "Louisiana's finest!"

Well, this should do it, though Javert, who had just murdered three oil company executives before they even managed to check into their hotel.  About two-dozen cop eyewitnesses for an alibi!  Those bastards can put all the money they want into my campaign, but ain't nobody gonna make me share hookers with 'em or listen to their b.s. about climate change if I don't wanna!

"Hey, boss, can I try on that Rolex for a minute?" asked one officer, who had already had four whiskeys, and couldn't see straight except for the light reflecting off that beautiful gold.

Javert slapped the officer's hand away from his (cursed) Rolex, and in a low, menacing tone, said, "get back to your beer, boy!"

Down at his feet, a river rat licked his lips and waited eagerly.

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COMING UP:  Cedric gets inspired.

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