Washington Horror Blog

SEMI-FICTIONAL CHRONICLE of the EVIL THAT INFECTS WASHINGTON, D.C. To read Prologue and Character Guide, please see www.washingtonhorrorblog.com, updated 6/6//2017. Follow Washington Water Woman on Twitter @HorrorDC ....

Monday, February 08, 2016

Washingtonians reject Donald Trump's (blind, deaf, and dumb) date with destiny.

It was the first major victory for Charles Wu's ultra secret Super PAC:  the defeat of Donald Trump in the Iowa caucuses.  Wu's first efforts had actually involved using "the Tarantula" to blackmail Trump, but after a steady release of cringe-worthy dirt from Wu without any resultant embarrassment on Trump's part, Wu had concluded that the man was too much of a megalomaniac to be embarrassed about anything!  Trump had no Protestant guilt, no Catholic guilt, no Buddhist guilt, no Jewish guilt, no Scientologist guilt--and certainly no Muslim guilt!  Absolutely blackmail-proof.

It was then that Wu's Super PAC had hired the recently disgraced Bridezilla to go to Iowa and use her Virginia belle charm (and strategic spending) to defeat Trump at any cost.  (It was, of course, Bridezilla's new husband, the Condor, who had suggested to Wu that she was currently being underutilized at Prince and Prowling; also, the Condor needed her out of town for awhile so he could continue his espionage without his new bride becoming suspicious.)

And thus Bridezilla had pushed Ted Cruz over the top, but now what?  Neither Wu, nor his clients in Beijing and Hong Kong, could stomach the possibility of a Ted Cruz gaining control of the U.S. nuclear arsenal.  And Trump's defeat had not driven him out of the race, anyway!  Wu was spying on everybody in D.C., and nobody was really certain they could prevent a November election contest between a socialist and a fascist.  And try as he would, he could not convince Angela de la Paz to use her supernatural powers of persuasion on voters or candidates.  "Maybe democracy is not so great after all," Wu's mother had said to him shortly before flying back to Hong Kong, and he had no answer for her.

"Well, you know how I feel about democracy," said Dick Cheney, squeezing in one more Heurich Society meeting before another possible Snowzilla hit Washington.  The members laughed nervously, most of them surprised that Trump had not already been assassinated.  "All the experts said it would be a cakewalk for Jeb Bush--that Republican voters cannot say 'no' to that family!  Now people are voting like it's a reality show designed for their amusement.  They don't understand how the world works!  Joe Sixpack voter is too stupid to decide our future!"  Several members nodded.  "But we can't push things the way we used to now that the political establishment is too wishy-washy to unite behind an electable candidate!  We have to take things into our own hands before the CIA directs the NSA to take action."

"So what do we do?"

"We need to start voting people off the island--by any means necessary."

Meanwhile, a mile away from the Brewmaster Castle, the Camelot Society was also in secret session at the Federal Reserve Board.  Italian economist Luciano Talaverdi rushed into the library, having just gotten back from his meeting with Sergio Mattarella, the visiting Italian President.  "Have you all read my memo?" he asked, and grim faces nodded all around him.  "My grandparents lived through this," he said, passionately.  "People whipped into frenzies at rallies, believing that law and order and mass deportations of undesirable elements would lead to peace and prosperity.  Or believing that socialism was the answer!  We must defend the free market!"

"But we don't have a free market!" protested Obi Wan Woman.

"People always ask, if you had a time machine and could go back in time to stop Hitler, or Mussolini, or Stalin, what would you do?  We are at this moment now!  We will not be able to come back in time to this moment--we have to do whatever it takes!"

"My God," exclaimed Obi Wan Woman, "we just weaned ourselves off of quantitative easing, and you're talking about very drastic measures!"

"The future tyrants are standing before us now!" cried Talaverdi.  "We must act!"

Over at Southwest Plaza, Glenn Michael Beckmann was watching YouTube videos of Sarah Palin's endorsement of Donald Trump.  "How can this be?" he said aloud, for the fiftieth time.  Sarah Palin, secret President of his beloved Hunter-Gatherer Society, had endorsed the most evil financier who had ever used Saudi petro dollars to build dens of thieves and harlots!  Sarah Palin--grandmother to Beckmann's secret love child with Bristol Palin!  Trump--a man who insulted veterans without ever fighting for his country!  Beckmann had not slept in days--hopped up on psychotropic prescriptions and non-prescriptions, despairing that all he had believed in no longer made sense.  It was then that Ghost Henry revisited him for the first time in a long time.

"Look," said temporal-lobe-epileptic John Doe, preparing to knock on Beckmann's door, "I'm only here because I had a shamanistic vision that Donald Trump is the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler.  But there is NO way I'm on board with assassinating Bernie Sanders!"

"Fine, fine!" grumbled the ghost of Henry Samuelson, leader of the ghost CIA.  "We're agreed that Trump has got to go, and nobody alive in this town has the guts to make it happen!  Either Beckmann eliminates the Nazi, or I'm going to have to learn how to take over a human body myself!"

Back downtown, former Senator Evermore Breadman was looking out his Prince and Prowling window at the White House.  He could make money no matter who occupied it, but he couldn't spend it very well while living in the State-of-the-Art underground review bunker after Ted Cruz started a nuclear Armageddon...or Bernie Sanders started a financial one.  The rumor around P&P was that former junior partner Bridezilla was the secret political operative who had tipped the scale against Trump in Iowa, and he was inclined to believe it.  But then what?  Breadman's practice group had incorporated most of the secret SuperPACs in this town, but their behavior, reach, and influence were now inscrutable.  Were the puppets jerking the puppeteers around?

The Shackled flew in from around the city to convene in the White House at dusk, but neither Breadman nor anybody else watching could see them--except Bridge, the gardener, who lifted his eyes up for just a few moments before returning to his task of protecting the rose bushes from the coming snowstorm.

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COMING UP:  The river in winter.

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