The New Prophecy
"I don't know where she is," said Angela de la Paz, looking intently at the Potomac River. "I just know that she's gone."
The coalition formed a scant month ago to destroy the demonic Ardua could scarcely believe their ears. Lynnette Wong was hugging her chest, staring at the water. Charles Wu was skipping pebbles while his mother admired his skill. Sebastian L'Arche was holding the Gipper on a long leash as the dog sniffed at the river. Marcos Vazquez had his arm tightly around his fidgety wife, Golden Fawn. The Warrior was sitting close to the shore, sharpening a knife with a leather strap.
"So all this mumbo-jumbo worked?" Sebastian asked.
Angela smiled at the term "mumbo-jumbo". "Well, for now."
"What do you mean?" asked Charles.
"She didn't die--she's just gone."
"But you can go in the Dreamtime and see where she is, right?" asked Golden Fawn.
Angela shook her head. "She's just gone."
"Evil is never gone," said the Warrior, standing up. "Never let your guard down."
"He's right," said Angela. "It takes many forms."
"Not another morality lesson, please!" said Charles playfully, putting his arm around his extraordinary employee, who had kept him safe many times. "Now, lunch in Georgetown on me! Time to celebrate!"
The group started walking up the embankment, except for the Warrior, who caught Angela's arm. "I will look for her," he said, without telling her about the New Prophecy, so they parted and she left him behind.
Over on Capitol Hill, Barbara Hellmeister was evaluating her options. Rescued from zombie captivity/worship by Adolf Eichmann's great-grandson, Ernest Ironman, she had been locked up in the maintenance man's secret chamber below the Capitol for a couple of weeks. Restored by cans of sauerkraut, loaves of rye bread, Rhinelander wine, and Vienna sausages, she was feeling more herself--except she had not seen actual sunlight in over a month. She had no doubt the chocolate bars and new bag of clothes he had brought her indicated she was on the brink of becoming his sex slave if she did not take control of his mind soon and bring out the Aryan greatness within him.
"Ernest," she began, when he reentered the chamber. "I would love to see where you grew up in West Virginia." She had been carefully experimenting with mold spores, wine, and sauerkraut brine to engineer some type of hallucinogenic to weaken his will, and he inhaled it as soon as he approached her. (She had built up her own immunity to it.) "Do you think I will fit in there, wearing this?" she asked with a smile.
He looked at the skinny jeans and tight red sweater she was wearing without a bra, and he saw mountain pinks (creeping phlox) wrapping around her to support her breasts. "Wow!" he said, sitting down. "You're a woodland nymph!"
"Maybe I'm a nymphomaniac!" she said, handing him a glass of wine spiked with a touch of turpentine. "I think those mountains would really make my blood race!"
Ernest contemplated this, while sipping the wine. It had been a long time since he laid a woman down in the grass. Then he remembered it was December. "Too cold in the mountains," he said, shaking his head. "But it's warm today! Maybe I'll take you out to the countryside," he said, deciding that might be nicer than taking her on the cracked leather couch he had salvaged from John Boehner's departure.
Out in Sterling, Virginia, Ardua was resting in a large pond, weakened by her long crawl from the Potomac River through a series of creeks to this quiet body of water. She had dwindled to a tenth of her size from what she was before those meddlesome humans had joined forces to attack her. Once dreaming of becoming large and fierce enough to be called Ardua of the Atlantic, the former Ardua of the Potomac was now Ardua of Trump National Golf Club, doomed to hide quietly with the other bottom feeders dodging stray golf balls. But unlike the other bottom feeders in the waters of Trump National Golf Club, Ardua felt something special here--an evil energy nurtured by the greed, narcissism, and hatred of a man who had no idea that he had inherited Hitler DNA from an experiment done on his father's mother. The demon Ardua had plugged into the neo-Nazi energy of Donald Trump.
"Fore!" shouted Ernest Ironman, now on a serious drug trip. He had parked his pickup truck in the woods near the golf course, and Barbara Hellmeister was trying in vain to quiet him down as they sneaked into the club to throw back golf balls they had picked up outside the wall. "Golf is a waste of God's playground, Mr. Trump!" Ironman shouted, throwing the balls into a nearby pond. "I know a better thing to do with that soft, soft, sand trap!" Hellmeister smiled in spite of herself, getting excited about the dangerous, manipulative fun she could have with a simple man like this.
And Ardua got excited, too....
*****************************************************
COMING UP: The longest night of the year.
The coalition formed a scant month ago to destroy the demonic Ardua could scarcely believe their ears. Lynnette Wong was hugging her chest, staring at the water. Charles Wu was skipping pebbles while his mother admired his skill. Sebastian L'Arche was holding the Gipper on a long leash as the dog sniffed at the river. Marcos Vazquez had his arm tightly around his fidgety wife, Golden Fawn. The Warrior was sitting close to the shore, sharpening a knife with a leather strap.
"So all this mumbo-jumbo worked?" Sebastian asked.
Angela smiled at the term "mumbo-jumbo". "Well, for now."
"What do you mean?" asked Charles.
"She didn't die--she's just gone."
"But you can go in the Dreamtime and see where she is, right?" asked Golden Fawn.
Angela shook her head. "She's just gone."
"Evil is never gone," said the Warrior, standing up. "Never let your guard down."
"He's right," said Angela. "It takes many forms."
"Not another morality lesson, please!" said Charles playfully, putting his arm around his extraordinary employee, who had kept him safe many times. "Now, lunch in Georgetown on me! Time to celebrate!"
The group started walking up the embankment, except for the Warrior, who caught Angela's arm. "I will look for her," he said, without telling her about the New Prophecy, so they parted and she left him behind.
Over on Capitol Hill, Barbara Hellmeister was evaluating her options. Rescued from zombie captivity/worship by Adolf Eichmann's great-grandson, Ernest Ironman, she had been locked up in the maintenance man's secret chamber below the Capitol for a couple of weeks. Restored by cans of sauerkraut, loaves of rye bread, Rhinelander wine, and Vienna sausages, she was feeling more herself--except she had not seen actual sunlight in over a month. She had no doubt the chocolate bars and new bag of clothes he had brought her indicated she was on the brink of becoming his sex slave if she did not take control of his mind soon and bring out the Aryan greatness within him.
"Ernest," she began, when he reentered the chamber. "I would love to see where you grew up in West Virginia." She had been carefully experimenting with mold spores, wine, and sauerkraut brine to engineer some type of hallucinogenic to weaken his will, and he inhaled it as soon as he approached her. (She had built up her own immunity to it.) "Do you think I will fit in there, wearing this?" she asked with a smile.
He looked at the skinny jeans and tight red sweater she was wearing without a bra, and he saw mountain pinks (creeping phlox) wrapping around her to support her breasts. "Wow!" he said, sitting down. "You're a woodland nymph!"
"Maybe I'm a nymphomaniac!" she said, handing him a glass of wine spiked with a touch of turpentine. "I think those mountains would really make my blood race!"
Ernest contemplated this, while sipping the wine. It had been a long time since he laid a woman down in the grass. Then he remembered it was December. "Too cold in the mountains," he said, shaking his head. "But it's warm today! Maybe I'll take you out to the countryside," he said, deciding that might be nicer than taking her on the cracked leather couch he had salvaged from John Boehner's departure.
Out in Sterling, Virginia, Ardua was resting in a large pond, weakened by her long crawl from the Potomac River through a series of creeks to this quiet body of water. She had dwindled to a tenth of her size from what she was before those meddlesome humans had joined forces to attack her. Once dreaming of becoming large and fierce enough to be called Ardua of the Atlantic, the former Ardua of the Potomac was now Ardua of Trump National Golf Club, doomed to hide quietly with the other bottom feeders dodging stray golf balls. But unlike the other bottom feeders in the waters of Trump National Golf Club, Ardua felt something special here--an evil energy nurtured by the greed, narcissism, and hatred of a man who had no idea that he had inherited Hitler DNA from an experiment done on his father's mother. The demon Ardua had plugged into the neo-Nazi energy of Donald Trump.
"Fore!" shouted Ernest Ironman, now on a serious drug trip. He had parked his pickup truck in the woods near the golf course, and Barbara Hellmeister was trying in vain to quiet him down as they sneaked into the club to throw back golf balls they had picked up outside the wall. "Golf is a waste of God's playground, Mr. Trump!" Ironman shouted, throwing the balls into a nearby pond. "I know a better thing to do with that soft, soft, sand trap!" Hellmeister smiled in spite of herself, getting excited about the dangerous, manipulative fun she could have with a simple man like this.
And Ardua got excited, too....
*****************************************************
COMING UP: The longest night of the year.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 1:17 PM
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