The Pulitzer Prize that the "Washington Post" will never get.

"Metro" reporter Perry Winkle's magnus opus, rejected by his editor at the "Washington Post", with the suggestion it might be time for him to take a sabbatical:

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                            Capitol Hill Ghost Story

It was just another sunny summer afternoon on Capitol Hill.  Birds were singing.  Dogs were barking.  Children were laughing.  And Congressman Jacques Javert was sitting in a front yard zen water fountain, fully clothed, one hand swatting water lilies, the other hand outstretched in a trembling salute to an entity seen only by him.  "I'll show them what it means to have blood coming out of their eyes!" Rep. Javert shouted to nobody in particular.  "Louisiana will rule this nation!"

Inside the house, Capitol Hill's famed Reiki Triplets were holding another healing session in their home studio.  With spring 2015 Yelp reviews of five stars ("blessed and mystical renewal of everything that makes me alive!") segueing to summer 2015 Yelp reviews of one star ("emotional colonoscopy"), the identical triplets were on my list for a coveted interview.  But now I wanted to interview Congressman Javert.

Just then, a pot-bellied pig (see "Petro Pig:  Why hire a human lobbyist when you can just bring the pork?", "Metro", October 18, 2014) came racing out of the house and started grunting at the same invisible presence holding Congressman Javert in a trance.  I was still trying to get the Representative to answer my questions when members of his staff showed up with axes, threatening to decapitate famed animal specialist, Sebastian L'Arche (see "Better than doggy Xanax:  the Dog Whisperer takes the city's most troubled pooches for a walk and returns them to their owners happy and healthy", "Metro", April 5, 2011).  Only with some difficulty did L'Arche convince the staffers he was not a zombie, and the staffers proceeded to discuss whether their boss was.

Just then, two people who I can only identify as Chinatown business partners showed up, and the man--a strikingly handsome, jet-haired man with chiseled features and a hybrid Oxford/Hong Kong accent--also began looking at the invisible presence already holding the attention of Congressman Javert and Petro Pig, and the man began telling us a ghost story.

And then some type of young female exorcist showed up, Congressman Javert's Rolex went flying off his wrist all the way up to the roof of the house, and she pulled the Representative out of the zen water fountain.  She then grabbed at the invisible entity, made motions which appeared to be depositing it into the pond, pulled a flask marked with a cross out of her pocket, and poured a liquid into the the little fountain.

The woman and the staffers then proceeded to lie to the dazed Congressman about what had happened, and refused to be interviewed for this article.

I did finally get my interview with the Reiki Triplets two days ago.  They told me they had discovered a minor carbon monoxide problem in the old house, but it was now corrected.  Yelp reviews are trending to five stars again.

Congressman Javert has not been seen wearing a Rolex since the incident.

Two Hill staffers told me off the record that a secret Anti-Zombie Caucus has been attacking a secret Zombie Caucus since Memorial Day, and that at least twenty zombies have been decapitated.

Edith Markinowitz-Shipley of Walking Dead Tours confirmed that her organization had been planning to investigate the Reiki Triplets Capitol Hill home as a possible new stop in their haunted houses tour, but that reports of supernatural activity there had completely stopped.  When questioned about whether her organization believes that zombies are roaming Capitol Hill, Markinowitz-Shipley stated that zombies are a Hollywood invention with no basis in supernatural reality.  She did, however, state that over a thousand ghosts have been documented in the Capitol, and at least ten in the White House.

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"I think it's real, boss--I do!" insisted Winkle to his editor.  "Look at these photos!  Javert is out of his mind, sitting in the pond--"

"Those could be doctored."

"I've never handed you a doctored photo in my life!" exclaimed Winkle.

"You've been covering crime and homelessness and the seedy underbelly for a long time.  You just need a break."

"I've seen a decapitation myself, boss."  (Winkle's editor shook his head in disbelief.)  "I didn't tell you at the time because I wasn't sure I believed my own eyes at the time.  It was Congressman Herrmark's Chief of Staff--the one that went missing.  His bodyguards took her out on the Potomac, cut her head off, and maggots came out of it.  I hear things, rumors of things, demons."

"Perry--"

"Listen to me!  This is affecting our elected leaders!  We can't just ignore it!"

His editor took a deep breath.  He got this type of story pitch at least once a month, usually from freelancers:  it was simply a convenient way to explain the complexities of power-mad national politics, and the criminal ills of a socially troubled city.  "Go visit your family.  Leave town!  That's an order!  I'm telling H.R. myself that you're on a sabbatical.  Write a ghost story if you want to, but it's not being published here.  Congress is coming back in session, and we'll have plenty of political stories to fill the paper--not to mention the fact that Donald Trump sounds more and more like Hitler every week.  War, refugees, homicides in the city--we've got plenty."

"Alright," said Winkle.  "Call me if you need me."

The editor embraced Winkle warmly, then sat down to re-read the article.  He read it three more times, walked over to the shredder, looked at the shredder for a minute, then pulled out his keys to unlock his filing cabinet and place the article in his X Files.  This would explain a lot.

Inside the cabinet, a five-inch long silverfish started nibbling on the bottom corner of the article.