We Need to Talk

Perennial Supreme Court clerk Wince just didn't get it.  With several oral arguments already held, and many upcoming arguments scheduled, he still could detect no pattern in what blackmailer "the Tarantula" was asking Justice "Prissy Face" to decide.  With demands to rule against the National Security Agency, securities investors, and mortgage borrowers, but for hijab bans in the workplace, gun rights, and the right to dump contraband fish, the blackmailer seemed to be all over the ideological map.  Now if you knew the Tarantula's employer, triple agent Charles Wu, you would know that some if these demands were for himself,  some for foreign governments, and some for private clients--but Wince did not know any of that.  (His chief suspect was Clarence Thomas, whom he suspected of being a zombie.)

"We need to talk," he finally blurted out to his fiancée, Bridezilla.

She looked up from the internet article she was reading about top global destinations for secret celebrity weddings.  "Look, I know we can't afford a private island, but since we're not going to be paying for any guests, we can afford to splurge a little, can't we?"  She made her martyr pouty face at him, a face he knew all too well.  "If we have to keep it a secret from your boss, I deserve to have a little fun, don't I?"

"Actually, we don't need to hide the engagement anymore.  I'm going to quit my job."

Bridezilla's facial expression changed to horror.  "You're going to quit the Supreme Court??!!"

"I thought you would be happy!  You can plan the wedding of your dreams, now!  I've been there long enough--I should be in the private sector by now.  I need to make more money and--"

"Leave the Supreme Court??!!"  Bridezilla was actually growing pale.

"I don't understand!" exclaimed Wince.  "I thought you would be happy about this."

"But you're doing so much good for society, there!  You have so much influence!"

"I can't anymore--I've lost control of Justice Prissy Face's agenda.  The truth is, I'm being blackmailed.  It's gotta stop."

A few miles away, private investigator Solomon Kane was entering Congressman John Boehner's man-cave bunker.   He accepted a shot of cheap bourbon from the Speaker of the House (who didn't give the good stuff to disappointing people like Kane).  "We need to talk."

"Let me guess," said Boehner, sarcastically.  "You still can't figure out who the Tarantula is."

"Actually, I did," said Kane, quietly.

"What?!" exclaimed Boehner, slamming the bottle down on his bar.  "Who is it?"

"I can't tell you," said Kane, quietly.

Boehner walked around the bar, grabbed Kane roughly by the coat sleeve, and pulled his face close.  "Look, you son of a bitch, I've been paying your expenses since 2013 and--"

"I'll pay you back," said Kane.

"That's not good enough!  How much is he paying you to keep his secret?"

"Nothing," replied Kane.

"Liar!" Boehner exclaimed.  He then tried to imitate a move he'd seen in the movies where you slam the guy's head onto a bar, but Kane was a highly skilled operative who quickly pinned Boehner's arms behind his back, then steered the Speaker of the House over to the leather couch and unceremoniously dumped him therein.

"It's for your own protection," said Kane, who had finally traced the Tarantula to Charles Wu, whom he knew was protected by Wu's mystically gifted agent, Angela de la Paz (whom he loved and feared).  "The Tarantula's boss is untouchable.  There's nothing I can do--there's nothing anybody can do."

"I'm third in line for the Presidency of the United States, and you have the audacity to tell me there's nothing I can do about a god-dammed blackmailer?!"  Boehner's face had turned bright red.

"You can give in to his demands, or you can go public.  But he's too well-protected to take him out."

"Too well-protected?  That's what they thought before the Red Wedding!"

"Sir, that's a television program."

"That's not the point."

"It has dragons--it's not the real world," sighed Kane.

"I wasn't elected to Congress to accept the real world as it was, but to change it!"

"That's debatable," muttered Kane.

"What?!"

"His bodyguard cannot be stopped!  She's psychic!"

"Oh, dragons aren't real, but psychic bodyguards are?!" scoffed Boehner.  (Kane nodded.)  "Then get me one!"

"She's the only one I know," said Kane, pulling a check out of his pocket.  "I'm repaying you the expenses.  Maybe you should just go public with those phone records--"

"Never!" screamed Boehner.

"I'm sorry," said Kane, turning to leave.

"Is it Marco Rubio?  At least tell me if it's Marco Rubio!"

"It's not a politician or government employee," said Kane, walking out.

"Is it Rupert Murdoch?!" shouted Boehner, leaping to his feet, but Kane shut the door behind him.  "Oh, my God," he whimpered, sinking back into the couch.  "Of course!  Nobody can touch Murdoch!"

Over on Capitol Hill, an even greater threat to Boehner was still underground:  the Zombie Caucus.

"We need to talk," said Ann Bishis to Congressman Herrmark, who was not pleased that his chief of staff had called an emergency meeting as soon as he was back in town.  He looked at his twin bodyguards, Nick and Costas (Ann's cousins from Greece), who nodded gravely at him.

"Halliburton's trying to kill me again!?" exclaimed Herrmark.

"No, it's not that," said Bishis.  "Your former chief of staff was a zombie."

"Well, that's not a very nice thing to say!" exclaimed Herrmark, appalled.

"She didn't just vanish.  She was decapitated, and maggots crawled out of her neck.  We were too freaked out to tell you at the time."

Herrmark looked back and forth between Nick, Costas, and Ann several times.  He knew schizophrenia ran in families, and it could emerge suddenly, but it seemed unlikely that it would emerge suddenly in three different people.  "Have you been taking any drugs--and I'm not judging!  I just need to know!  The marijuana or--"

"I went down into the tunnels with my boyfriend and a tracking hound.  We found a secret chamber full of zombies.  They murdered John."  With that, her voice cracked, and her cousins moved to her side to comfort her.

"We have to do something, sir!" said Nick, who (a) hated zombies and (b) had found guarding Herrmark's life a disappointingly boring job so far.

"We've been studying the films," said Costas.  "It won't be easy, but what choice do we have?"

"And they're probably the reason we can't get action on fracking!" whimpered Bishis, appealing to Herrmark's soft spot.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Herrmark.  "There's always been a conspiracy for fracking!  Wait, is Dick Cheney a zombie, too?  Oh, my God, now it all makes sense!"

"Maybe," shrugged Bishis.  "Yeah, that would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"Damned bastards!  They blew up my parents' vacation home!"  (The three nodded at him sympathetically.)

"Tell me what to do!"

Out in the river, Ardua of the Potomac cheered to the return of Congress--especially her zombies....

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COMING UP:  Dick Cheney argues his case for returning to Heurich Society.