Some surprising secret plans!
The Heurich Society was not in the habit of supporting Democratic candidates, but, even with Dick Cheney at its helm, was now having a serious discussion about stopping Donald Trump from taking control of the White House.
"Nothing's more important than the money!"
"And the power!"
"And the freedom!"
"How can he criticize Hillary for something that Pence also did, and when confronted with the hypocrisy, say he doesn't care?!"
"Why don't his supporters care that he's a proud hypocrite?"
"Why do his supporters think he gives a shit about anything except aggrandizing his own DNA pool?"
"The man's a Nazi!"
"That's an insult to Nazis!"
"He'll freeze our assets!"
"We will lose decades of work building networks in OPEC countries!"
"Who will take care of my yard if he gets rid of the Mexicans?"
"Shut up!" hollered Cheney, massaging his wacko replacement heart muscles with his right hand. "This is not the time to panic! We have never put stock in democracy, anyway. We've got dozens of key operatives in the military and intelligence branches. We have 100% control of the Overseas Contingency Operations, for God's sake!"
"What are you suggesting?!"
"Let him win! Then we blackmail the Hell out of him once he's in office. If that doesn't work, he's out."
The upper floor conference room of the Brewmaster's Castle fell silent except for the Army colonel chewing ice and the international arms dealer scratching his stubble. Several eyes looked to the speakerphone, but Condoleezza Rice was uncharacteristically quiet.
After several minutes, the international banker pushed back his chair and stood up. "No."
"No?!" screamed Cheney, turning red in the face.
"No. We've increased all our financial holdings under the Obama Administration and still retained tremendous influence in world affairs. The conservative choice is Hillary Clinton."
"How the Hell can we project power in the world if that broad is wearing the pants in the family? She's going to be sitting down with Russian and Chinese leaders while Bubba is holding tea parties in the Rose Garden? We'll be the laughing stock of the world! No offense, Condi."
"We'll be the laughing stock if we let a charlatan and his coterie of yes men and sluts take over the White House," said the international banker calmly. "No offense, Condi. And if you actually expect the Heurich Society to put its resources into electing Donald Trump, I will put our financial resources at the disposition of somebody else."
Three men jumped up and pulled their guns on the international banker, while another four pulled their guns on the first three.
"ORDER! ORDER!" screamed Cheney, pounding his fist on the table until he had a heart attack and slumped in his chair.
The ghost of Henry Samuelson, appalled that he had suddenly found himself siding with his arch-enemy Cheney, held his spectral breath waiting to see if the man who had murdered his daughter was finally dead.
Condoleezza Rice, who had not seen the guns drawn and could not see that the current silence in the room was due to the men falling silent while a defibrillator was applied, finally spoke. "What I want to know is, who fed the DNC documents to Wikileaks? What exactly is their agenda?"
Their agenda, as it turned out, was to air the dirty laundry before the DNC convention so that it would be quickly subsumed, and not come to light in an untimely fashion in the fall.
"I've taken a big leap of faith on this one," Charles Wu said to Bridezilla, who was still serving as an occasional consultant to his SuperPAC. "Nobody really wants to see how the sausage is made."
"People would rather eat bloody sausages than shit on a spatula," said the Prince and Prowling junior partner in a tone of bitterness he had never heard from her.
"I didn't know he was already married," said Wu honestly, switching to the topic they needed to address.
"But you did know he had a secret life in Singapore and plenty of other places," said Bridezilla.
"He said you liked the fact he was a mysterious foreigner." Wu was uncomfortable with this sort of conversation and got up to feign interest in the blooming bougainvillea gracing the corner of her office.
"I didn't even know his real name!"
"Neither did I," said Wu, honestly. He knew she was an intelligent woman about many things but not her own heart. He gently touched the blossoms, keeping his back to her.
"What did you know about him?" she asked.
Wu suppressed a sigh and returned to the guest chair. "He fed me intelligence about OPEC countries to help me make business decisions." (This was true, though only a fraction of the truth.) "I think he was in love with you, for what it's worth."
"Who do you really work for, Charles?"
"Myself and my daughter. I'm a selfish man. I have clients that I may or may not agree with, like your law firm."
Bridezilla bit her lip, realizing there was no moral high ground to take in response to such a statement. She took a bonbon out of the expensive box of chocolates he had brought her and ate it while he got up to look at the bougainvillea again. "You're right," she said at last. "I did like the fact he was a mysterious foreigner. Now I'm surrounded by strangers in my own country more mysterious to me than you or him. People ready to vote Adolf Hitler into the White House. My grandfather didn't die in Italy so that fascists could take over this country." (And bigamists! she added to herself, with a newly found horror of men who take on a new wife every decade or two.)
Wu returned to the guest chair, and she offered him a bonbon. The crisis in their working relationship was over. "So let's talk about what we will spend money on in Philly," said Wu.
"Hillary must win," said Bridezilla quietly, thinking with sadness about the era which now seemed eons ago--the era when she worked closely with John Boehner. "And Tim Kaine," she added, though she had never voted for him before.
Out at Trump National Golf Course in Virginia, Nazi descendants Barbara Hellmeister and Ernest Ironman were dealing with their own angst about the upcoming Presidential election.
"But your grandfather would have wanted Trump!" exclaimed Barbara.
"No, not Adolf Eichmann!" argued Ernest, who was fed up that his pregnant lover was too fat and tired now to satisfy his needs.
"Trump has Hitler DNA!" retorted an exasperated Barbara. "I've run the biological analysis four times!" She was amazed she had ever thought she could bring out the Aryan greatness in this hillbilly.
"His blood is too impure!"
"So was Hitler's!"
"Trump has recklessly bred with Eastern European scum!" exclaimed Ernest (who had some suspicious West Virginian ancestry of his own). "He has a daughter named 'Ivanka' dying her hair blond to try to pretend she is an Aryan, and yet she married a Jew!"
"All this screaming is not good for the baby!" pouted Barbara, showing a rare maternal streak. "I am going out to soak my feet!"
It was too hot for members to come golf today, so she was able to leave their underground bunker freely and head to the pond where Ardua was currently residing. Ardua had regained her strength feeding on the fascist energy of Trump's club, but was not yet ready to slither her way back into larger waters. Ardua sucked affectionately on the wicked toes of Barbara Hellmeister, but was undecided what to do about the sudden rift between the couple she had been hoping to inspire for a major killing spree in Virginia. And what about Tim Kaine? Was Ernest onto something? Perhaps further down the line, Ardua could actually have more influence over a Virginian!
Back in Washington, conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann was stoked on cannabis purchased at the housing project across the street, and the lovely interaction it made with the prescription psychotropics already circulating in his brain. He was rewatching the most recent video of the day put on by the popular YouTube channel, "Larry and Gary". Larry, as usual, had filmed the video in front of the shared computer at the Arlington Group Home for the Mentally Challenged (while nobody else was in the room). And, as usual, the video began with typical comedian banter between Larry (an exceedingly bad ventriloquist) and Gary (an exceedingly bad dummy). Then, as usual, they ended up in a big argument (this time it was about immigration policy as it would be applied to ventriloquist acts from terrorism-compromised countries), followed by Gary's putting his little dummy hands around Larry's neck. Then, as usual, somebody (this time it was Theresa) interrupted the fight, pulled the dummy off Larry's neck, and threw it on the floor. Gary's mouth continued to move by itself for another minute.
Beckmann had been convinced for weeks that Gary was truly evil (maybe even as bad as that zombie chief of staff he had beheaded some years back) but had been undecided what to do about it. Today, he finally realized what he needed to: kidnap the dummy so that he could unleash it on unsuspecting enemies. (The enemy list--subject to daily revisions--was kept on a dry erase board next to the television. Top of the list? Ivanka Trump's husband.) He pulled up his conspiracy blog (disguised as a lifestyle blog) and typed in code a call upon his followers to locate where Larry and Gary were to be found.
Over in Cleveland Park, Marcos Vazquez's mother made the difficult decision to give destiny a hand by slipping secret herbs to Golden Fawn to get her pregnant, but the herbs would do much more than that.
********************************************************************
COMING UP: The veil.
"Nothing's more important than the money!"
"And the power!"
"And the freedom!"
"How can he criticize Hillary for something that Pence also did, and when confronted with the hypocrisy, say he doesn't care?!"
"Why don't his supporters care that he's a proud hypocrite?"
"Why do his supporters think he gives a shit about anything except aggrandizing his own DNA pool?"
"The man's a Nazi!"
"That's an insult to Nazis!"
"He'll freeze our assets!"
"We will lose decades of work building networks in OPEC countries!"
"Who will take care of my yard if he gets rid of the Mexicans?"
"Shut up!" hollered Cheney, massaging his wacko replacement heart muscles with his right hand. "This is not the time to panic! We have never put stock in democracy, anyway. We've got dozens of key operatives in the military and intelligence branches. We have 100% control of the Overseas Contingency Operations, for God's sake!"
"What are you suggesting?!"
"Let him win! Then we blackmail the Hell out of him once he's in office. If that doesn't work, he's out."
The upper floor conference room of the Brewmaster's Castle fell silent except for the Army colonel chewing ice and the international arms dealer scratching his stubble. Several eyes looked to the speakerphone, but Condoleezza Rice was uncharacteristically quiet.
After several minutes, the international banker pushed back his chair and stood up. "No."
"No?!" screamed Cheney, turning red in the face.
"No. We've increased all our financial holdings under the Obama Administration and still retained tremendous influence in world affairs. The conservative choice is Hillary Clinton."
"How the Hell can we project power in the world if that broad is wearing the pants in the family? She's going to be sitting down with Russian and Chinese leaders while Bubba is holding tea parties in the Rose Garden? We'll be the laughing stock of the world! No offense, Condi."
"We'll be the laughing stock if we let a charlatan and his coterie of yes men and sluts take over the White House," said the international banker calmly. "No offense, Condi. And if you actually expect the Heurich Society to put its resources into electing Donald Trump, I will put our financial resources at the disposition of somebody else."
Three men jumped up and pulled their guns on the international banker, while another four pulled their guns on the first three.
"ORDER! ORDER!" screamed Cheney, pounding his fist on the table until he had a heart attack and slumped in his chair.
The ghost of Henry Samuelson, appalled that he had suddenly found himself siding with his arch-enemy Cheney, held his spectral breath waiting to see if the man who had murdered his daughter was finally dead.
Condoleezza Rice, who had not seen the guns drawn and could not see that the current silence in the room was due to the men falling silent while a defibrillator was applied, finally spoke. "What I want to know is, who fed the DNC documents to Wikileaks? What exactly is their agenda?"
Their agenda, as it turned out, was to air the dirty laundry before the DNC convention so that it would be quickly subsumed, and not come to light in an untimely fashion in the fall.
"I've taken a big leap of faith on this one," Charles Wu said to Bridezilla, who was still serving as an occasional consultant to his SuperPAC. "Nobody really wants to see how the sausage is made."
"People would rather eat bloody sausages than shit on a spatula," said the Prince and Prowling junior partner in a tone of bitterness he had never heard from her.
"I didn't know he was already married," said Wu honestly, switching to the topic they needed to address.
"But you did know he had a secret life in Singapore and plenty of other places," said Bridezilla.
"He said you liked the fact he was a mysterious foreigner." Wu was uncomfortable with this sort of conversation and got up to feign interest in the blooming bougainvillea gracing the corner of her office.
"I didn't even know his real name!"
"Neither did I," said Wu, honestly. He knew she was an intelligent woman about many things but not her own heart. He gently touched the blossoms, keeping his back to her.
"What did you know about him?" she asked.
Wu suppressed a sigh and returned to the guest chair. "He fed me intelligence about OPEC countries to help me make business decisions." (This was true, though only a fraction of the truth.) "I think he was in love with you, for what it's worth."
"Who do you really work for, Charles?"
"Myself and my daughter. I'm a selfish man. I have clients that I may or may not agree with, like your law firm."
Bridezilla bit her lip, realizing there was no moral high ground to take in response to such a statement. She took a bonbon out of the expensive box of chocolates he had brought her and ate it while he got up to look at the bougainvillea again. "You're right," she said at last. "I did like the fact he was a mysterious foreigner. Now I'm surrounded by strangers in my own country more mysterious to me than you or him. People ready to vote Adolf Hitler into the White House. My grandfather didn't die in Italy so that fascists could take over this country." (And bigamists! she added to herself, with a newly found horror of men who take on a new wife every decade or two.)
Wu returned to the guest chair, and she offered him a bonbon. The crisis in their working relationship was over. "So let's talk about what we will spend money on in Philly," said Wu.
"Hillary must win," said Bridezilla quietly, thinking with sadness about the era which now seemed eons ago--the era when she worked closely with John Boehner. "And Tim Kaine," she added, though she had never voted for him before.
Out at Trump National Golf Course in Virginia, Nazi descendants Barbara Hellmeister and Ernest Ironman were dealing with their own angst about the upcoming Presidential election.
"But your grandfather would have wanted Trump!" exclaimed Barbara.
"No, not Adolf Eichmann!" argued Ernest, who was fed up that his pregnant lover was too fat and tired now to satisfy his needs.
"Trump has Hitler DNA!" retorted an exasperated Barbara. "I've run the biological analysis four times!" She was amazed she had ever thought she could bring out the Aryan greatness in this hillbilly.
"His blood is too impure!"
"So was Hitler's!"
"Trump has recklessly bred with Eastern European scum!" exclaimed Ernest (who had some suspicious West Virginian ancestry of his own). "He has a daughter named 'Ivanka' dying her hair blond to try to pretend she is an Aryan, and yet she married a Jew!"
"All this screaming is not good for the baby!" pouted Barbara, showing a rare maternal streak. "I am going out to soak my feet!"
It was too hot for members to come golf today, so she was able to leave their underground bunker freely and head to the pond where Ardua was currently residing. Ardua had regained her strength feeding on the fascist energy of Trump's club, but was not yet ready to slither her way back into larger waters. Ardua sucked affectionately on the wicked toes of Barbara Hellmeister, but was undecided what to do about the sudden rift between the couple she had been hoping to inspire for a major killing spree in Virginia. And what about Tim Kaine? Was Ernest onto something? Perhaps further down the line, Ardua could actually have more influence over a Virginian!
Back in Washington, conspiracy blogger Glenn Michael Beckmann was stoked on cannabis purchased at the housing project across the street, and the lovely interaction it made with the prescription psychotropics already circulating in his brain. He was rewatching the most recent video of the day put on by the popular YouTube channel, "Larry and Gary". Larry, as usual, had filmed the video in front of the shared computer at the Arlington Group Home for the Mentally Challenged (while nobody else was in the room). And, as usual, the video began with typical comedian banter between Larry (an exceedingly bad ventriloquist) and Gary (an exceedingly bad dummy). Then, as usual, they ended up in a big argument (this time it was about immigration policy as it would be applied to ventriloquist acts from terrorism-compromised countries), followed by Gary's putting his little dummy hands around Larry's neck. Then, as usual, somebody (this time it was Theresa) interrupted the fight, pulled the dummy off Larry's neck, and threw it on the floor. Gary's mouth continued to move by itself for another minute.
Beckmann had been convinced for weeks that Gary was truly evil (maybe even as bad as that zombie chief of staff he had beheaded some years back) but had been undecided what to do about it. Today, he finally realized what he needed to: kidnap the dummy so that he could unleash it on unsuspecting enemies. (The enemy list--subject to daily revisions--was kept on a dry erase board next to the television. Top of the list? Ivanka Trump's husband.) He pulled up his conspiracy blog (disguised as a lifestyle blog) and typed in code a call upon his followers to locate where Larry and Gary were to be found.
Over in Cleveland Park, Marcos Vazquez's mother made the difficult decision to give destiny a hand by slipping secret herbs to Golden Fawn to get her pregnant, but the herbs would do much more than that.
********************************************************************
COMING UP: The veil.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 5:12 PM
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