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 ....

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Happy Easter!

Washington Water Woman is taking a break from blogging for Easter weekend....

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COMING UP
Angela de la Paz channels the vengeful rage of Dulles Samuelson.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

A Pretty Good Place

Angela de la Paz had saved many lives, partially from her training as a super spy but mostly because of her supernatural gifts.  But this was her first time ever guarding the children of the President and First Lady.

"There are a lot of nut jobs out there," said Dr. Devi Rajatala.  "I told you about that massacre out in Maryland."

"Don't worry!" said Angela.

"I know this isn't your normal thing, but with all the budget cuts, I just really needed the extra help."

"After all you did for me as a kid!?  I'm happy to do this, Dr. Raj!"

"But the weather is so awful, right when they're so vulnerable.  It's going to complicate everything."

"I'll hear any screams from your office, and I'll be out there in a flash.  Nobody's getting near that bald eagle nest!"

Dr. Raj sighed and smiled.  "You always were a good kid!"

"Is this where the 'you should go to college lecture' starts?" said Angela.

"A lot of good it's done me!" said the National Arboretum tree specialist.  "How many years have I dedicated myself to tending these woods on a smaller and smaller budget, and all anybody cares about are chicks hatching out of their eggs on a live camera feed.  Trees grow too slowly to watch on camera!  Maybe I should do an Internet camera for diseased trees' getting chain-sawed."

"Or an Internet contest for who gets to chop them down!" said Angela.

"Are you serious?" asked Dr. Rajatala.  "Honestly, I don't know anymore.  If Trump becomes President, he'll probably turn this into a golf course."

"If that's the price we have to pay to see angry bald eagles attack Trump, it might be worth it!" said Angela sadly.

Out on the Potomac, Marcos Vazquez was breaking Coast Guard protocol by having his wife, Golden Fawn, riding on the patrol boat, but since the weather made it extremely unlikely they would encounter any problems out on the river, his coworkers didn't complain.  Vazquez's wife was known for doing mysterious ceremonies on Roosevelt Island, and they had no doubt she was trying to communicate with the ravens nesting for the first time in a hundred years on a Potomac River bridge.  What they didn't know was that she was succeeding.

"They actually knew about Ardua?" whispered Marcos, referring to the demon that had recently been banished from the river.

"They did," reiterated Golden Fawn.  (They had just completed their third pass under the bridge.)

"So, they think the river is safe now?"

"It's safe, and what they eat isn't poisonous anymore."

"What are they eating?" asked Marcos.

"Rats and fish right now.  In a few weeks they'll probably be going after turtles and frogs."  Golden Fawn was smiling, in spite of the cold rain falling on her slicker.

"But Angela said it's not over yet," said Marcos.

Golden Fawn continued smiling.  "There's still plenty of evil in this town, but that's all the more reason to celebrate every victory we get!"

A few miles to the east, newly medicated Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle was returning to his gritty city investigative reporting habits with his first Urban Guerrilla Field Trip in years.  The late-season blast of winter misery had scuttled his original plan, but he had a dozen middle-schoolers retracing his steps through Union Station to hear about the research he had done on how many people were living at Union Station.

"Well, it's a pretty good place to be homeless," said one girl.

"Do you think they're homeless?" asked Winkle.  "Because I think this is their home."

"They're just squatting!" exclaimed one of the boys.  "They're not paying rent or a mortgage or anything."

"Do you pay rent or a mortgage?" asked Winkle.  The kids all laughed.  "You think you have homes even though you're not paying anything.  What if you start fighting with you father in a few years?  What if he dies, your mother gets a new boyfriend, he beats you, and you run away?"  The kids were silent, crossing their arms and shuffling their feet nervously.  "People don't just become homeless because they don't have money--they don't have family to rely on."

"Well, they probably got kicked out for doing drugs or shit like that!" exclaimed one girl.

"Maybe.  Maybe they were doing drugs because they were mentally ill or abuse victims, and trying to feel better.  There are a lot of people who can't pay rent or mortgages.  Sometimes it's because they're children.  Sometimes it's because they're too messed up to work."

"Sometimes they mess themselves up," said one boy.

"You're right.  And when they do that, their family and friends might not be inclined to give them another chance.  So what should the city do with those people?  Do we really want them living in the rail yards and station crawl spaces, or on top of the subway grates?"

"You can't lock them up unless they're dangerous," said the oldest girl there.  (She had a schizophrenic uncle living at Urine Park, but she wouldn't tell anybody about him.)  "I think there should be social workers who go around and check on all these people.  The government shouldn't wait until they flip out."

"The government," said Winkle, making a sweeping gesture to encompass all his listeners, "is of the people, by the people, and for the people.  Every generation before you has failed to end homelessness; every government before this one has failed to end homelessness.  What will your generation and your government do?"

"But it's better in other places!" protested one of the girls.  "They don't have so many homeless in other countries!  And our city is one of the worst!"

"Some of those countries do lock them up, I'm afraid.  But you're right--in some places it's better.  The governments spend more on alcohol and drug rehab, watch over children in foster homes better, and run better homeless shelters so that people don't think it's better to live on the streets.  I hope you will all read my article and think hard about the places you saw people living here--all of them were 12 or 13 years old once, just like you."

And so ended the first Urban Guerrilla Field Trip of 2016, but Perry Winkle could not get those words out of his head:  "our city is one of the worst!"  And then the voice in his head which answered:  "you know why!"  He rushed home to do the meditation that helped hold at bay the hallucinations of evil threatening to return to his mind...but he was taking more pills since returning to Washington.

A couple miles away, Laura Moreno was packing her suitcase to accompany former Senator Evermore Breadman and Prince and Prowling's triumphant Cuba Practices Group across the Florida straits with President Obama.  The law firm had never paid for her to go anywhere--not even a single taxi ride or restaurant excursion.  She kept waiting for somebody to telephone and say it was a mistake, they had reconsidered, she was back on document review while Bridezilla would accompany the high-level delegation--i.e., that Bridezilla's scandalous photos from her last Cuba trip had been forgiven and forgotten.  But here she was, still packing.

Then the anonymous phone call came from an unlisted number:  "Watch out for Breadman after he hits the rum.  If he doesn't find a Cuban hottie--"  Laura hung up before hearing the rest.

"I can handle myself," she said angrily to the now silent phone.  Outside her window, the howl of the cold rain picked up.  She shivered, finding it hard to believe she would be on a tropical island the next day.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

The Ides and Tides of March

It had taken some time, but conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann had finally figured it out!  It was Sarah Palin who had murdered Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia!  She had murdered him for being a member of the International Order of St. Hubertus, the post-Medieval hunting society founded by Catholics and not open to women.  As an Alaskan fundamentalist with dim views of Catholicism, obliviousness to the Hapsburg Empire, and a proud (albeit secret) tenure as President of the co-ed Hunter-Gather Society, Sarah Palin could not tolerate Scalia's membership in the wrong hunting society!

Beckmann was on a bender, having spent Saturday evening drinking at Archibald's and Sunday morning smoking marijuana.  He showed up at the Hunter-Gatherer Society's local Sunday afternoon hunt too messed up to lead the assault on feral pigs wreaking havoc in St. Mary's County.  On the one hand, Palin was grandmother to his secret love child with Bristol Palin, and he had been proud to call her President for years!  On the other hand, she had endorsed fascist Donald Trump and struck a blow against patriotic hunters who had refused admission to Nazis.  What does Sarah Palin stand for?  What do I stand for?  What do I stand against?  He waved his rifle around, asking people where Palin was the afternoon his beloved Darja had been assassinated and, failing to get a satisfactory answer, went off to seek Palin out and ask her himself.

Meanwhile, the ghost of Henry Samuelson had grown impatient with Beckmann's failure to assassinate Donald Trump and (through temporal lobe epileptic John Doe) had sought out others who might do the deed.  The level of violence at Trump rallies warmed his spectral heart, but things had gone on far too long already.  The Ghost CIA had several members excited about Trump's plans to bring back torture of captives, and massacres of women and children, on levels not seen since the Vietnam War, but Ghost Henry railed that Trump was too stupid to make good use of intelligence.  The Ghost CIA, like much of the country, was becoming deeply polarized about Trump.

They also disagreed with Ghost Henry's plan to assassinate Heurich Society President Dick Cheney.  Even though Ghost Henry argued that he had to do it to protect his son, Dulles, the Ghost CIA agents knew that Dulles had made zero progress in discovering his sister's murderer.  The Ghost CIA had done several successful missions around the world, and did not want to jeopardize this by killing Dick Cheney because he might become more powerful as a ghost than he ever was as a man!

So Ghost Henry made a desperate visit to Angela de la Paz.

"There's not a lot I can do," said Angela, who had developed enough supernatural power to speak directly with him now.  "Dulles doesn't believe anything I say."

"I want you to create phony evidence about who killed Button, and then manipulate my son's mind into thinking that he's gotten revenge by killing the person.  I know you can do it if you use your mind tricks!  Then he'll leave Washington and be out of danger."

"Out of danger!" cried Angela, aghast.  "I'm not going to create false memories in his mind that he's a killer!"

"But he wants to be a killer!"

"And you wonder why they kicked you out of Purgatory!"

"Look, I'm serious!  Cheney killed my daughter, and if Dulles sticks around much longer, he'll kill my son, too!  You can't tell me that's not a possibility!"

"I am watching over Dulles!"

"When was the last time I asked you to do anything for me?!" begged Ghost Henry.

"Every single time I see you!"

"But I haven't bothered you in a long time!"

Angela sighed, knowing this was true.  "Alright," she said.  "I'll persuade him to leave town, but I'll find another way."

Meanwhile, Dulles Samuelson was spying on another meeting of the Heurich Society at the Brewmaster's Castle, where they were discussing the Judicial Committee's progress with the Supreme Court problem.

"Justice delayed is justice denied!" exclaimed Chairman Dick Cheney.

"That's not exactly what happened," protested the investment banker.

"Dow Chemical settled a case rather than take it to the Supreme Court because they couldn't wait on the uncertain outcome!"

"They were guilty!" said the Chair of the Subcommittee to Protect the Secret Ogallah Water Diversion (designed to quench the thirst of the elite in the polluted years to come).

"Whose side on you're on!?" bellowed Cheney.

"Now, Dick," crackled Condoleezza Rice over the speaker phone, "we have never been able to control the Supreme Court.  We just need to stick to our practice of influencing the Circuit Courts."

"We don't have that luxury anymore!" cried Cheney.  "God knows what could happen now!  There is talk that Obama might appoint an Asian!"

"Hey!" protested the international arms dealer.  "My wife is Cambodian, Iron Ass!"

"I don't care of your wife is the President of Thailand!  You don't want her on the Supreme Court any more than I do!"

"Could we talk about my work on the DC Republican primary now?" asked the Chair of the Local Politics Subcommittee.  "Marco Rubio!  Nice, right?"

Cheney said nothing, choosing instead to grunt and bite into another heart-healthy, sawdust-tasting snack packed by his wife Lynn.

Several miles to the South, DC Water employee Kevin "Monkey" Mundy was investigating reports of a Chesapeake Bay algae bloom creeping its way towards Washington with every high tide.  It was a cloudy day in the speedboat, but light was reflecting brightly off the cursed Rolex adorning his wrist.  He slowed down, then cut the motor altogether, marveling at the sight of the red tide.  "It's beautiful!" he said to no one in particular.

"Yes it is!" replied the Beaver, who had seen and felt that evil timepiece before.  He slapped his tail hard and disappeared back under the water, satisfied that Monkey was not going to put the red tide in his report.

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COMING UP:  
Reporter Perry Winkle brings back Urban Guerrilla Field Trips!

Sunday, March 06, 2016

Year of the Monkey

"He's the equivalent of a monkey throwing feces around, and people are voting for him!"

"I don't know what to tell you," said Bridezilla to Charles Wu, over mimosas at Circa.  She was debriefing Wu about her unsuccessful political campaign swing through the South on behalf of Wu's SuperPAC.  "Trump's voters are not Christian conservatives, they're not fiscal conservatives, they're not social conservatives, they're not guardians of the free market."

"They're angry white people," said Wu.  "They think somebody's getting a better deal than they are, but they're too stupid to realize that it's people like Donald Trump!"

"Now, now, Charles, that is what got the GOP into trouble in the first place!  You can't just label your voters "stupid", even if they are slower than molasses on a biscuit."

"So what do we do now?"

Bridezilla sighed, anxious to get back to her mysterious husband, "Marco Pel" (AKA, the Condor) after a month on the road.  "I wish I knew what to tell you, Charles.  We seem to be in uncharted territory now."

"Uncharted?  The territory looks exactly like Adolf Hitler's campaign rallies in 1930s Germany!"

"Then we wait for Trump to invade Poland, and then finally people will unite against him," concluded Bridezilla, unconvincingly.

Charles Wu was a product of Hong Kong, British, and Beijing educations.  He thought power and wealth should be controlled by the most intelligent people, and if money had to exchange hands for that to happen, so be it.  The world had always been that way, and always would.  It was up to brilliant, charming, and charismatic men like Wu to tip the balances here and there, sell secrets when necessary, and be the invisible hand of the global market.  Though not a fan of the more authoritarian aspects of Beijing rule, he saw serious complications arising from too much democracy--namely, what to do with large masses of angry people who won't listen to reason?

"Hillary Clinton has become the candidate that conservatives will vote for in November," said Wu.  "My clients [he did not explain to Bridezilla that his clients included the likes of British and Chinese intelligence officials] will absolutely not stomach a President Trump.  I need to focus on influencing the Clinton campaign."

"I understand," said Bridezilla, secretly relieved that she could walk away from her fruitless gig as a SuperPAC operative in the Republican Party.  "You know, my husband actually likes Hillary a lot!"

"I'm sure he does!" smiled Wu, who knew a lot more about the Condor than the Condor's wife did.  "And with Paul Ryan admonishing the Republican Party to be more 'inspirational and inclusive', maybe--"  Wu stopped, arrested by the pained look in Bridezilla's eyes.  "Anyway, welcome back to Washington!"  He held up his glass to clink hers.  Paying for her campaigning jaunt was the worst investment decision of his life, but it would roll of his back like rain on a duck.

"Thank you!" said Bridezilla, who was getting tired of disappointing people and eager to change the subject.  "Now, please show me some photos of Delia!"

So Wu obliged with some recent pictures of his daughter, Buffy Cordelia, playing with the stuffed monkey that her grandmother had left her for the Chinese New Year before returning to Hong Kong.  "The Year of the Monkey is all about liveliness, playfulness, and cleverness," he said.  "And she has it all!"

"Without the feces-throwing?" laughed Bridezilla.

A couple miles away, psychiatrist Ermann Esse was examining his bowel movement carefully for any signs of biological disease, then, satisfied, he flushed it away.  He washed his hands, combed his hair, smoothed down his beard, and returned to the waiting area of the secret CIA facility located deep underground, beneath the headquarters of the "Washington Times".

"They'll see you now," said the receptionist.  "Don't sit down."

Dr. Esse raised his eyebrows in surprise, since he was a half-hour early, but he dutifully followed her into a nondescript conference room where a glass of water and steno pad had been left for him to sit beside.  He sipped the water and wrote down the date and time on the pad, supposing this was all a thinly disguised design to get his DNA, fingerprints, and a handwriting sample--which he would have happily given up since, after all, they already knew about the biggest skeleton in his closet.

Two women and three men entered the room, introduced themselves, and began the interview.  Psychiatrist Dr. Ramona Schapiro took the lead.  "We invited you here today because, frankly, we lost one of our best interrogators last year, and we need some help with detainee testimony."

"Enhanced interrogation?" asked Dr. Esse, not entirely surprised.

"Certainly not!" lied Dr. Schapiro.  "Traditional interrogation!  We understand that you have had great success with hypnosis in your non-pharmaceutical clinical practice."

Dr. Esse had, in truth, had a small amount of success with hypnosis in the not-too-distant past, but his practice had become what some might consider abusive under the influence of the cursed Rolex he had been wearing until recently flushing it down the toilet.  His more recent methods had included berating patients, secretly drugging them, videotaping them and playing the tapes for other patients, seducing the good-looking patients, and encouraging some to engage in highly reckless behavior.

"Some believe," continued Dr. Schapiro, "that you actually hypnotized one patient into killing another!" 

"As I told the police--"

"Yes, of course, we know what you told the police," said Dr. Schapiro, smiling like a Cheshire cat.  "We also know that one of your patients quit his job at the Treasury Department to travel to Syria and fight ISIS.  Another patient quit her job at the USDA to sell Avon in Afghanistan.  Another patient quit his job in the White House, divorced his wife, kidnapped his children, and moved to Nigeria to hunt down financial scammers and kill them.  Would it surprise you to learn that these people are all working as CIA operatives now?"

"Yes!" said Dr. Esse, who had vague memories (which he tried to doubt) of wishing all those insipid people to do the proverbial jumping-off-of-a-cliff.  "Um, are they doing well?"

"Quite well!  The recent publicity related to the arrest of one of your patients for Tasering another patient to death in your office has resulted in a lot of cancelled appointments, Doctor?"

"Well, naturally, but these types of scandals--"

"These types?" laughed Dr. Schapiro.  She took hold of his hand, seductively, as if nobody else were in the room--and indeed, the others were still completely silent.  "Your private practice is over, Doctor, but we can make excellent use of your skill set here.  There are no offices with windows, but you only need to work 100 hours/month, with a generous salary and plenty of vacation time."

When will this nightmare end? thought Dr. Esse, still desperately hoping the last few months had been a dream.

Several miles away, at the Blue Plains Advanced Wastewater Treatment Plant in Southwest, DC Water employee Kevin "Monkey" Mundy noticed a shiny metallic object while inspecting a stage-two mass of partially treated sewage sludge.  He carefully inserted a net to scoop it out and, much to his surprise, became the proud owner of a gold Rolex.

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COMING UP:  
Conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann figures out who killed Antonin Scalia!