P and P, pee pee, P.R., and P.P.

"It's just a SuperPAC, sir, like I understand Prince and Prowling has done many of before."

The interjection of "sir" did nothing to assuage former Senator Evermore Breadman's feeling that he was being shaken down by a New Jersey thug.

"Now, I could take our business elsewhere, but I know P.P.--"

"P and P," interjected Breadman.

"P and P," repeated the New Jersey thug, leaning forward in the guest chair, "has a reputation for delivering tough political results."

"If you don't mind my saying so," said Breadman, "your candidate has done pretty well for himself without our services so far."

The thug propped his elbows on the arm rests and pressed his fingertips against each other the way he'd seen it done by tough guys in many Hollywood films, then he smiled with recently bleached teeth already stained from excessive coffee and cigarettes over the past five days.  "Mr. Trump is in a new field of play now.  You don't keep using submarine warfare after you've already stormed the beaches of Burgundy."

"Normandy?"

"What?"

"Beaches of--never mind.  Look, we can set up the SuperPAC for you, but we can't run it."

"I think you can, and you will."

"We have strict policies about--"

"Your mama has strict policies!"

"What?!"

"You've got a nice good-cop-bad-cop thing going at Prince and Prowling.  We're just looking to hire the bad cop."

"Like I said, we can set it up for you--"

"I'm not a retard, so stop repeating yourself, Breadman!"

"Let me talk to the Managing Partner--"

"Well, make it snappy," said the New Jersey thug, standing up.  "I'd hate to see things get ugly for your fancy little law firm here."  Then he knocked a pile of files off Breadman's desk and walked out.

Across the river in McLean, the Ghost CIA was also having a rather animated meeting about Donald Trump's looming Presidential nomination.  On the one hand, they were all thrilled with Trump's promises to bring back torture.  On the other hand, they weren't a big fan of complete morons' running national security. 

"He might take back the Panama Canal."

"What does he care about the Canal for?  He's an isolationist!"

"I don't think so."

"He wants to give Korea and Japan their own nukes, then withdraw troops!  We have American troops on every continent in the world--we can't end that!"

"But if troops are withdrawn, that means more power for the CIA stations!"

To do what?  Little assassinations here and there?  The days when an entire regime can be toppled with just a couple dozen advisers are long gone!"

"We'll still have our drone strikes."

"You can't topple regimes with drone strikes!"

"If Drumpf's elected, the CIA will be more powerful than ever!" cried the Ghost of Henry Samuelson.  "The Pentagon will be terrified to take commands from Drumpf!  They'll lie about the nuclear codes-- I can guarantee that.  There will be a power vacuum, and the CIA will fill it--with help from the Ghost CIA."

The others were impressed that Ghost Henry had deftly inserted the ancestral name of Trump's family into the conversation--a name well-known by the Nazi wing of the CIA.  

"The tide is turning, gentlemen," continued Ghost Henry.  "A baby with Hitler DNA is growing within a womb on Trump National Golf Course ["huh?"], and powerful forces are on the rise.  The stupider the President, the more opportunity for the Ghost CIA to take charge of this historic moment."

"Henry, have you been sniffing the ink toner again?  You can never be a poltergeist when it really counts, but somehow you can rip open those packages--"

"Shut up!"

"You wanted Trump assassinated!  You threatened to haunt his body!"

"I changed my mind!  The weaker the President, the better for us!  The stupider the President, the better for us!  And my poltergeist skills get better every month!"  Ghost Henry tried to demonstrate this by urinating into a potted plant the way he saw Ghost Pippin do once, but his spectral willy just hung there doing nothing.

Back in Washington, the Zombie Caucus was having a similarly spirited debate about Donald Trump in the bowels of the Capitol.

"He's not one of us!"

"That can be arranged."

"I'd rather eat him."

"That can also be arranged."

"I don't think there are any brains in there to eat."

"What do you think, David?"

All eyes turned to David Hoppe, Paul Ryan's Chief of Staff, whom some felt had not accomplished much for the Zombie Caucus since joining it.  "He's simply an egomaniac.  He has one strategy for everything, which is bullying.  He tried groveling with the Speaker, and it came across as desperate and fake."

"But Ryan spoke optimistically afterward."

"Ryan made no promises--he just wanted the clown back on the first plane out of Washington."

"So should we eat Trump or get him elected?"

"Well," said Hoppe, "I was sorely tempted to eat him on the spot, what with the Secret Service agents waiting out in the hallway, but he might still prove useful to us.  I did give him some zombie suggestions for a V.P. pick."

Over at the Justice Department, U.S. Attorney Atticus Hawk sat nervously in his office, waiting for Loretta Lynch to summon him into her office for this rare Sunday afternoon meeting.  Please don't put me on the North Carolina bathroom case.  Please don't put me on the North Carolina bathroom case.  Please don't put me on the--

His phone buzzed, and he jumped up to head three doors down to her office.  He greeted her warmly, shut the door behind him, and proffered a bag of pastries so that he could avoid a sweaty handshake.

"Please sit down, Atticus."

"Before you begin, I understand that it's been a tough week with the White House and the culture wars, and I'm all on board with the agenda, but I think Karen would be a better person to hand it off to for follow-up because--"

"I'm not assigning the bathroom litigation to you."  (Atticus exhaled deeply.)  "I need you take on this."

She handed him a large portfolio marked "P.P."

"I thought David was still overseeing the Prince and Prowling deferred prosecution agreement?"  The Attorney General shook her head, and Atticus opened the file.  "Panama Papers?  What are we doing with the Panama Papers?"

"Proceeding with caution.  I need somebody with your skill set to handle this."  (Atticus Hawk did a quick inventory of his skill set--torture expert, NSA damage control, psychological profile of FBI's Most Wanted Barbara Hellmeister--but was at a loss.)  "We currently have no electronic files on this.  Anybody hacking us or watching us--including the NSA and the CIA--will only find that a few attorneys here have browsed what's out in the public domain.  All our analysis is sitting in your hands.  You will write everything in long hand, and the file will be locked in your safe every time you leave your office unattended for even one second--unless you have brought the file to me."

"Are we prosecuting anybody?"
 
The Attorney General leaned across her desk to whisper.  "The bathroom wars are a distraction.  The death threats we get about those transgender kids will create the smokescreen behind which we tip toe across this field of landmines."

"Isn't walking across landmines in a cloud of smoke a bad idea?"

Lynch frowned at him.  "When you're A.G., you can use whatever metaphors you like."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"You know how the unsavory think and act and justify themselves.  You are going to learn this world inside and out, and then we will decide how to proceed."

Atticus left her office still uncertain if the Justice Department wanted to prosecute tax evaders, recruit them, or ship them off to Guantanamo for torture sessions.  He sat down at his desk and nervously opened the file.

Back at Prince and Prowling, Bridezilla was now sitting in former Senator Evermore Breadman's office, surprised by her sudden summoning from exile in the underground SOTA-Bunk (State-of-the-Art Secure Review Bunker, still being federally monitored under Prince and Prowling's deferred prosecution agreement).

"I'm not going to beat around the bush.  I'd like to be on a plane to Dallas to promise bankruptcy miracles to another faltering Texas oil company, and you'd like to be a partner again."

"Sir?"  Bridezilla had never before worn yoga pants and an old Redskins sweatshirt to a meeting with Breadman, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"Tell me about that husband of yours."

"Marco?"

"Is there another one?"

"No, sir!"

"Then tell me about Marco!"

"Well...."  Bridezilla hesitated.  The success of her whirlwind marriage to Marco Pel relied on the fact that she found him tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious, and she had made no effort to thwart that.  "He works very hard."

"At what?"

"Business things--international business things."

"Cut the crap:  can he get things accomplished or not?"

"Sure, loads of things!"  (She had no idea where this was heading.)

"Because I've heard rumors that he has associates who can get things accomplished."

"Sure!" Bridezilla repeated.  "You just name it!"

Breadman handed the New Jersey thug's business card across the desk.  "This man wants us to set up and run a SuperPAC devoted to wreaking revenge on any Republican who doesn't jump on the Donald Trump bandwagon."

"And you want me to do that?"

"And stab half our clients in the back?  Of course not!  I need Marco's associates to tell this thug what to do with his ugly threats.  I don't wanna hear how Marco handles this--I just want it handled.  You get that done, and you'll be back in a partner's office in no time."

"This sounds more like a matter for the FBI or--"

"Are you out of your mind?!  The survival of this law firm is at stake!  This guy threatened us, and nobody threatens Prince and Prowling!  Now can I count on you?"

"Yes, sir!"

Outside the window, an interested catbird would have flown off to report to Ardua, but she was living so far away now that he just flew instead across the street to make siren noises to startle tourists at the White House.

*************************************************************
COMING UP:  
Dr. Khalid Mohammad and the radicalized Muslim.