The walls close in.
Fearless Leader held aloft the proof of the imminent 2015 hipster invasion of Dupont Down Under: a dead rat covered in glitter. The Freaks gasped at the unnatural sight.
"They are coming!" boomed the voice of Fearless Leader. "They are planning yuppie cocktails and trendy art installments right outside our door!"
Of course, they didn't really have a door, but he was right: the city-sponsored renovation of the Dupont Down Under tunnel space was frighteningly close to completion.
"Maybe that rat slithered through some glitter on P Street, and then fell into a sewer hole."
"No!" exclaimed Fearless Leader. "Somebody was down here, and they were using glitter!" He looked around at the sea of unwashed faces--war veterans, psych unit veterans, teenage runaways, illegal immigrants--and his heart felt for them. "We repelled the 2011 invasion of the Hunter-Gatherer Society! We got rid of that snoopy reporter, Holly Gonightly!" ("She was easy on the eyes." "But way too fat for television.") "The prophetess delivered us from the the methane-fueled explosion of Fat John's Lake! The Beaver has built dam after dam after dam to hold back the city from our secret lair, but we are squeezed down to our final tunnel, in-between the White House bunkers to our south, and the Prince and Prowling bunker review center to the west, and the public wine cellars for wusses being built to our north. We have come to the end of the line, my friends." ("No, no!" "We'll fight to the death!") "No, my friends, there will be no bloodshed! I will lead you to a safe place. Follow me!"
Meanwhile, a different set of walls was closing in on H Street "NoMa" lifestyle guru Giuliana Sunstream. "I don't think you understand who I am!" she cried in a last-ditch, desperate attempt to avoid seeing the FBI holding cell door slam shut in her face. "I'm a celebrity!"
"Oh, what?" exclaimed the guard, pausing for a moment. "Did you say a celebrity?" He spit on the floor of her cell. "Just in case you get thirsty before the Vitamin Water arrives," he said. (clank)
"What did you do with Vegas?" she cried out to nobody listening. "Is he in prison, too? He can't survive prison!" And she started sobbing for her toy Maltese.
It was the worst back-fire of a public event she had ever conducted in her history as a local lifestyle guru and (occasional) celebrity. It had all started innocently enough, with her posting photos of the series of concrete planters filled with nothing but dirt and gravel lining the E Street NW sidewalk between 9th and 10th Streets. She had blogged about what a public eyesore they were, posted online sketches of her ideas for a guerrilla gardening project, then summoned her loyal followers to the pre-dawn site at 5 am. And dozens of them had come! They were armed with camping lanterns, hibiscus and hydrangea bushes, pampas grass, tiger lilies, snapdragons, petunias, creeping vinca, butterfly bushes, native honeysuckle, blueberry bushes, and three different garden gnomes.
"It's gonna be beautiful!" she said, over and over again, directing the people with spades to start digging in the planters at the center of the block first, while another group of people joined forces to move the large water canisters into place.
What Giuliana Sunstream (like many other Washingtonians) did not realize was that the line of empty bomb-proof planters was actually "gracing" the backside of the national FBI headquarters. With no signage, no flowers, and only rare glimpses of FBI security, it was the easiest thing in the world to walk by that prison-like pile of concrete and think it was a sad, sad old office building, with no signs of life--perhaps vacant and up for sale. Only the front of the building proudly proclaimed itself to be the FBI; the back of the building looked like something Donald Trump would lease from the federal government and hire illegal Mexican immigrants to renovate into the world's largest Hooters and snookah bar. (Of course, I'm talking about the kind of illegals who are not rapists--Trump knows what he's doing! But I digress....)
No, Giuliana Sunstream had not realized it was the FBI building, and though there truly was no place in Washington in more desperate need of guerrilla gardening, the FBI guards on duty this morning had not welcomed the sight of a mob approaching their planters before dawn. Though most of the guerrilla gardeners had surrendered peacefully to the battalion of riot-gear-clad black-shirts swarming out of the building to arrest them, little Vegas had made quite a show of yapping at the police dogs. Sunstream's attempt to defend her toy Maltese--coupled with her quick identification as the ringleader of the whole mob--had earned her the worst detention cell, and the slowest processing of the morning.
Giuliana walked dejectedly over to examine the chairs--early 1970s standard issue wooden numbers without wheels--and thought about how the right varnish and throw pillow could really bring out the beautiful maple grain. She ran her hand across the well-worn surfaces. I'll write a blog post about reusing surplus government furniture, she thought, sinking slowly into the chair, completely clueless that she would not be talking to an attorney or posting bail for another 24 hours. She also had no idea that her blog readership would soon double because she had been live-blogging and streaming video of the first minute of the gardening event--and the video stream of the FBI smackdown would soon go viral.
Meanwhile, conspiracy theorist and militia man Glenn Michael Beckmann (Giuliana Sunstream's former flame), had seen her blog posts and shown up this morning to laugh at her gardening party from afar. He had tried to record the police activity to blog about what a degenerate and terrible citizen she was, but had accidentally hit Play instead of Record. He briefly contemplated making an attempt to post bail for her, just to lord it over her and blog about it later, but instead decided he was hungry. He walked off to find some food, then ended up in front of the Old Post Office Pavilion with a second cup of coffee in his hand. On the one hand, he had already been planning to blow up the new Trump hotel because it was an ugly desecration of a patriotic architectural treasure, not to mention a den of thieves financed by Saudi petrodollars. On the other hand, Donald Trump was trumpeting one of Beckmann's favorite causes: hating illegal immigrants! So should he support Trump now? Except that the Washington Post had reported that illegal Mexican immigrants were working construction on the Trump hotel! So maybe he should blow it up anyway, to kill those illegals? He swallowed the last of the coffee. It's so ugly, even in the sunrise! And then Beckmann started thinking about how funny it would be if Trump visited the construction site with his daughter, and a Mexican illegal whistled at her ("ssss! guera!"), and Trump yelled at him "you're fired!", and the Mexican came over and punched Trump in the nose, and told him Ivanka was a whore! Beckmann had a good laugh over that, and reserved judgment on whether he would blow up this public eyesore. (And that's always how you deal with public eyesores, Giuliana: you blow them up!)
Back in the tunnels below DC, Fearless Leader had led the Freaks of Dupont Down Under past the FBI underground bunker, past the Congressional tunnels, and all the way to the edge of a shallow river. "This is it!" he shouted triumphantly, ushering them into the Anacostia River Tunnel Project. The Freaks looked around at the signs of construction everywhere.
"This doesn't look abandoned," somebody called out from the back of the crowd.
"Well, they're still building it!" said Fearless Leader, triumphantly.
"So, it's just temporary?" somebody asked. "We can't really stay here?"
"It's only going to be used for combined sewage/flood overflows. Whenever it's not raining hard, this will be our home!"
"It's going to stink!" somebody complained.
"And it's too far from Dupont Circle!" another complained.
"You know what?" said Fearless Leader. "You people are a bunch of ungrateful whiners! I've got a sister in Pennsylvania. I don't need this crap! You find a better place to live if you don't like this!"
And with that, he headed for the exit. The Freaks of Dupont Down Under shrugged and chose a new Fearless Leader, who promptly made them promises he could not deliver.
The Anacostia river rats were excited about the new wave of humans entering their space, and swam off to report to Ardua of the Potomac.
***************************************************************
COMING UP: Dr. Khalid Mohammad saves a life and makes an enemy.
"They are coming!" boomed the voice of Fearless Leader. "They are planning yuppie cocktails and trendy art installments right outside our door!"
Of course, they didn't really have a door, but he was right: the city-sponsored renovation of the Dupont Down Under tunnel space was frighteningly close to completion.
"Maybe that rat slithered through some glitter on P Street, and then fell into a sewer hole."
"No!" exclaimed Fearless Leader. "Somebody was down here, and they were using glitter!" He looked around at the sea of unwashed faces--war veterans, psych unit veterans, teenage runaways, illegal immigrants--and his heart felt for them. "We repelled the 2011 invasion of the Hunter-Gatherer Society! We got rid of that snoopy reporter, Holly Gonightly!" ("She was easy on the eyes." "But way too fat for television.") "The prophetess delivered us from the the methane-fueled explosion of Fat John's Lake! The Beaver has built dam after dam after dam to hold back the city from our secret lair, but we are squeezed down to our final tunnel, in-between the White House bunkers to our south, and the Prince and Prowling bunker review center to the west, and the public wine cellars for wusses being built to our north. We have come to the end of the line, my friends." ("No, no!" "We'll fight to the death!") "No, my friends, there will be no bloodshed! I will lead you to a safe place. Follow me!"
Meanwhile, a different set of walls was closing in on H Street "NoMa" lifestyle guru Giuliana Sunstream. "I don't think you understand who I am!" she cried in a last-ditch, desperate attempt to avoid seeing the FBI holding cell door slam shut in her face. "I'm a celebrity!"
"Oh, what?" exclaimed the guard, pausing for a moment. "Did you say a celebrity?" He spit on the floor of her cell. "Just in case you get thirsty before the Vitamin Water arrives," he said. (clank)
"What did you do with Vegas?" she cried out to nobody listening. "Is he in prison, too? He can't survive prison!" And she started sobbing for her toy Maltese.
It was the worst back-fire of a public event she had ever conducted in her history as a local lifestyle guru and (occasional) celebrity. It had all started innocently enough, with her posting photos of the series of concrete planters filled with nothing but dirt and gravel lining the E Street NW sidewalk between 9th and 10th Streets. She had blogged about what a public eyesore they were, posted online sketches of her ideas for a guerrilla gardening project, then summoned her loyal followers to the pre-dawn site at 5 am. And dozens of them had come! They were armed with camping lanterns, hibiscus and hydrangea bushes, pampas grass, tiger lilies, snapdragons, petunias, creeping vinca, butterfly bushes, native honeysuckle, blueberry bushes, and three different garden gnomes.
"It's gonna be beautiful!" she said, over and over again, directing the people with spades to start digging in the planters at the center of the block first, while another group of people joined forces to move the large water canisters into place.
What Giuliana Sunstream (like many other Washingtonians) did not realize was that the line of empty bomb-proof planters was actually "gracing" the backside of the national FBI headquarters. With no signage, no flowers, and only rare glimpses of FBI security, it was the easiest thing in the world to walk by that prison-like pile of concrete and think it was a sad, sad old office building, with no signs of life--perhaps vacant and up for sale. Only the front of the building proudly proclaimed itself to be the FBI; the back of the building looked like something Donald Trump would lease from the federal government and hire illegal Mexican immigrants to renovate into the world's largest Hooters and snookah bar. (Of course, I'm talking about the kind of illegals who are not rapists--Trump knows what he's doing! But I digress....)
No, Giuliana Sunstream had not realized it was the FBI building, and though there truly was no place in Washington in more desperate need of guerrilla gardening, the FBI guards on duty this morning had not welcomed the sight of a mob approaching their planters before dawn. Though most of the guerrilla gardeners had surrendered peacefully to the battalion of riot-gear-clad black-shirts swarming out of the building to arrest them, little Vegas had made quite a show of yapping at the police dogs. Sunstream's attempt to defend her toy Maltese--coupled with her quick identification as the ringleader of the whole mob--had earned her the worst detention cell, and the slowest processing of the morning.
Giuliana walked dejectedly over to examine the chairs--early 1970s standard issue wooden numbers without wheels--and thought about how the right varnish and throw pillow could really bring out the beautiful maple grain. She ran her hand across the well-worn surfaces. I'll write a blog post about reusing surplus government furniture, she thought, sinking slowly into the chair, completely clueless that she would not be talking to an attorney or posting bail for another 24 hours. She also had no idea that her blog readership would soon double because she had been live-blogging and streaming video of the first minute of the gardening event--and the video stream of the FBI smackdown would soon go viral.
Meanwhile, conspiracy theorist and militia man Glenn Michael Beckmann (Giuliana Sunstream's former flame), had seen her blog posts and shown up this morning to laugh at her gardening party from afar. He had tried to record the police activity to blog about what a degenerate and terrible citizen she was, but had accidentally hit Play instead of Record. He briefly contemplated making an attempt to post bail for her, just to lord it over her and blog about it later, but instead decided he was hungry. He walked off to find some food, then ended up in front of the Old Post Office Pavilion with a second cup of coffee in his hand. On the one hand, he had already been planning to blow up the new Trump hotel because it was an ugly desecration of a patriotic architectural treasure, not to mention a den of thieves financed by Saudi petrodollars. On the other hand, Donald Trump was trumpeting one of Beckmann's favorite causes: hating illegal immigrants! So should he support Trump now? Except that the Washington Post had reported that illegal Mexican immigrants were working construction on the Trump hotel! So maybe he should blow it up anyway, to kill those illegals? He swallowed the last of the coffee. It's so ugly, even in the sunrise! And then Beckmann started thinking about how funny it would be if Trump visited the construction site with his daughter, and a Mexican illegal whistled at her ("ssss! guera!"), and Trump yelled at him "you're fired!", and the Mexican came over and punched Trump in the nose, and told him Ivanka was a whore! Beckmann had a good laugh over that, and reserved judgment on whether he would blow up this public eyesore. (And that's always how you deal with public eyesores, Giuliana: you blow them up!)
Back in the tunnels below DC, Fearless Leader had led the Freaks of Dupont Down Under past the FBI underground bunker, past the Congressional tunnels, and all the way to the edge of a shallow river. "This is it!" he shouted triumphantly, ushering them into the Anacostia River Tunnel Project. The Freaks looked around at the signs of construction everywhere.
"This doesn't look abandoned," somebody called out from the back of the crowd.
"Well, they're still building it!" said Fearless Leader, triumphantly.
"So, it's just temporary?" somebody asked. "We can't really stay here?"
"It's only going to be used for combined sewage/flood overflows. Whenever it's not raining hard, this will be our home!"
"It's going to stink!" somebody complained.
"And it's too far from Dupont Circle!" another complained.
"You know what?" said Fearless Leader. "You people are a bunch of ungrateful whiners! I've got a sister in Pennsylvania. I don't need this crap! You find a better place to live if you don't like this!"
And with that, he headed for the exit. The Freaks of Dupont Down Under shrugged and chose a new Fearless Leader, who promptly made them promises he could not deliver.
The Anacostia river rats were excited about the new wave of humans entering their space, and swam off to report to Ardua of the Potomac.
***************************************************************
COMING UP: Dr. Khalid Mohammad saves a life and makes an enemy.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 1:16 PM
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