The Bold and the Beautiful

Bo-oz Consulting (the ultra secretive "5G" division of Booz Hamilton) was hosting the senior executives of International Development Machine on a riverboat outing from Georgetown to the Chesapeake Bay.  IDM President Augustus Bush had grown up in the U.S. Virgin Islands clan of the Bush family and was therefore accustomed to surfing, jet skis, and deep-sea fishing in the Caribbean, but the other executives were overjoyed from the free flow of booze and wind in their hair.  After the sandwiches, brownies, and watermelon were consumed, when the first waves of drowsiness were rolling across the participants, economist Fen Do Ping stood up to make his pitch.

"There are 200,000 refugees in Europe," he began.  "Some of them are dying in smugglers' trucks.  These are people risking their lives to start somewhere new, so why not take advantage of that?  We have mapped out a pilot project which will train these refugees to take back Crimea from Russia."  (He saw several jaws drop.)  "Do not underestimate these people!  They made it out of some of the most hellish war zones on Earth, not to mention some of the regions burning up from climate change.  They are desperately pushing their way through Greece, Turkey, and the Balkans for what?  To end up in Northern Europe, impoverished, marginalized, and easy prey for Islamist radicalization.  With our plan, they will be transported across the Black Sea, to land on the Crimean peninsula in amphibious ships."

"Nobody wants to go to Russia," protested Bush.

"That's true," said Ping, "but nobody wants to live in a refugee camp, either.  If we send all 200,000 at once, they will establish their own colony.  Crimea won't be Little Russia anymore:  it will be New Syria."

"Hm, I do like the sound of that," said Bush.  "'New Syria!'  Really rolls off the tongue."

"The Russians will just slaughter them!" the European Director protested.

"That's where you're wrong," said Ping.  "We have done extensive cost-benefit analysis of what it would take for Russia to repel the sudden arrival of 200,000 refugees.  And don't forget there are still native Ukrainians there who would join the refugees to fight off the Russians.  And the Russians can't afford to be seen in a humanitarian crisis of that magnitude--it would cause Chechen Islamists to rise up in a full-scale rebellion the likes of which Russia has never seen.  What we are talking about, ladies and gentlemen, would be the 21st century's first-ever European attack on Russia using refugees.  It shatters all the paradigms."

"It sounds very risky," said Bush.

"That's why we brought this proposal to IDM, first.  We know your team has the guts to push it through."

"They would need massive firepower, and a lot of those 200,000 are women and children," said Bush.

Ping nodded.  "We would certainly need to put in some experienced mercenaries, but those are easy to come by--especially for a shot at invading Russia."

"I really don't see the international donors funding this," said Bush.

"We've already identified a variety of private foundations and international financiers we think would be very interested in funding this program."

"Please tell me they're not neo-Nazis," said the European Director.

"Not as far as I know," said Ping.  "If this pilot program works, we have sixty million total refugees out there in the world today.  We could topple dictatorships in Africa, take Tibet back from China, populate the Arctic Circle to lay claims to the underground petroleum reserves there."

"Whoa, Nelly!" laughed Bush.  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves!"

Back in Washington, conspiracy blogger and militia man Glenn Michael Beckmann had finally put together his plan to blow up the Trump Hotel under construction on Pennsylvania Avenue.  In the end, he had decided he could trust nobody to keep the plan secret (especially members of the Hunter-Gatherer Society, since their President, Sarah Palin, was infatuated with Donald Trump), so he was lugging the explosives by himself in a rolling suitcase on the bus ride up from his Southwest Plaza apartment to the Old Post Office Pavilion.  It would be a shame if his targeted explosives accidentally took down the beautiful old tower along with the Trump-built monstrosity around it, but sometimes you just had to throw the baby out with the bath water!  He got off the bus, then started rolling his suitcase toward the construction site.  He was going to place the explosives on the four corners of the site, then run around the site with his gun to shoot each pile of explosives one at a time.  (Setting timers was too tricky for him.)

After he pulled out the first pile and set it on the northeast corner, the federal agent tailing him yelled, "Freeze, hands in the air!"

"Damn it!" exclaimed Beckmann.  "Where did you come from?"

"Step away from the bag, face down on the pavement--now!"

Beckmann was still a little uncomfortable from getting shot in the shoulder two weeks earlier, so he lay down on his back instead.  "The doctor said I can't sleep on my stomach--it twists my shoulder too much."

"Whatever!"  The federal agent called his supervisor to request the bomb squad, then shook his head at Beckmann.  "How could you think you would get away with this?"

"The guy's a total asshole!" said Beckmann.  "He insulted veterans, insulted Megyn Kelly, uses Russian thugs as bodyguards, and hired raping Mexicans to work on this construction site--which, by the way, is going to be a den of casino thieves and hotel harlots financed by Saudi petrodollars!  We cannot stand idly by while this Joker destroys Gotham!  Where's Batman?  Nowhere!  Where's Glenn Michael Beckmann?  Here, sir!  Ready to do my patriotic duty!"

"Yeah, I didn't like it when he insulted Megyn Kelly, either!" said the federal agent.  "Somebody needs to give that guy a good punch in the mouth!"

"But nobody can get close to him!" exclaimed Beckmann.  "He's got the Russian mob protecting him!"

"Alright, I probably shouldn't do this, but why don't you just leave?  I won't arrest you."

"Can I get my candy bar out of the suitcase first?  It melts if I carry it in my pocket, so I put it in--"

"Leave the suitcase alone!  Go!"

On the other side of the White House, former Senator Evermore Breadman was in the hallway outside his Prince and Prowling office, rearranging his Wall of Me--again.  Putting the photo taken with Donald Trump on the top was the easy part, but how far beneath him should I place the photo taken with Jeb Bush?  Oh, wait, that's not even Jeb--it's that other guy that looks like Jeb.  I do want to keep Marco Rubio and me near the top because he's the only Hispanic I have.  Wait, I forgot Bridezilla took a photo of me with Carlos Slim!  Breadman moved a few pro-Iranian Democratic politicians up because his clients were clamoring to open up markets in Iran, took Joe Lieberman out of his frame, and went to find the photo Bridezilla had printed for him.

Unable to find it, he used his Senior Partner meta-password to log into Bridezilla's cloud account and search for her photo files from the Cuba Practices Group.  Here we go!  He scanned the photo album titles:  Cuban Embassy, U.S. Embassy, Boehner Cuba Caucus....  Ah, this must be it!  He clicked on a file called "Latin Bad Boy" and started looking through the slide show, only to discover it was a series of photos starring a young man who was definitely not Carlos Slim.  Is that____?  He scrolled through a few more, including selfies taken with a scantily clad Bridezilla and the young man on a Cuban beach.  "That's our contract attorney!" he exclaimed out loud.  "She's messing around with the contract attorney!"  He looked up to see if anybody had heard his exclamation, but there was no sound from the hallway.  She took him to Cuba as her translator, then messed around with him!  For a moment, he indignantly thought about pulling up her billing files, but then thought better of it:  as somebody who had been blackmailed himself for such indiscretions, he decided he would save this information for a time when it might become more useful to him.

Several miles to the east, Anacostia's most profitable gun dealer sold another handgun, and another Washingtonian planned another murder for the wee hours of the morning.

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COMING UP:  Reporter Perry Winkle goes for a Pulitzer Prize!