Re-purposed

"What do you mean my chi is gone?"  Charles Wu was staring at Lynnette Wong in disbelief.  "You always said I had more chi than anybody you ever saw!"  (He had forgotten the ghost's warning that he was not using his chi for its intended purpose.)

"It's not totally gone," said the Chinatown herbalist with a complicated relationship to Wu.  "The good news is that some of it has gone to Delia."

Charles looked over at his daughter, who was laughing and chasing a wind-up mouse zooming around the floor of the shop.  "Why doesn't she have her own?!"

"She does!" said Lynnette, carefully measuring out herbs.

"Well, I need mine back!" said Charles, who quickly got a reproachful look.  "I'm not saying that to be selfish," he added quickly, but Lynnette was still scowling at him.  "Look, she's a very happy child!  But I'm under a lot of pressure right now!"

"From your Beijing overlords?"

"That's not funny!"

"Well?"

"I've done a lot to help Hong Kong, the U.K., and even the State Department!"  He had never admitted to Lynnette he was a triple agent (a quadruple agent?), and realized his lack of chi was leading to this sort of sloppiness.  "I'm not a bad guy!" he pleaded--feeling ridiculous, having never had to defend himself before like this.  "I helped with that damned demon in the river!"  Buffy Cordelia was suddenly at his feet, recognizing the bad word.  "Hi, sweetie!" he said in Mandarin, lifting her up onto the corner.  "Do you want to eat dumplings or mu shu?"

"Both!" said little Delia, who treasured these outings when she did not have to eat her English nanny's boiled food offerings.  "What damned demon?" she asked, in English, not knowing the Mandarin words.

"The one your father needs to be focused on right now, instead of all the politics," interjected Lynnette.

"You can't be serious!" exclaimed Charles.

"You can't be serious!" exclaimed lifestyle guru Giuliana Sunstream, a mile away in her NoMa loft.  She had just finished counting the money she made at her $100/head New Year's Eve party, and it would not even cover the costs of the party:  the ice sculptures of "Rogue One" characters, the caviar pastries, the pomegranate-flavored champagne, the chocolate gingerbread Capitol she had commissioned.  Thank goodness I made most of the decorations from re-purposed Hillary buttons, shed dog hair, and items obtained at Obama staffer yard sales!  She ate another marijuana brownie, amazed at the party's low turnout--and at how many people had declined the brownies and asked if she was serving Trump wine.  "It tastes like rancid grape jelly!" she exclaimed to her toy Maltese, but Vegas continued chewing on her Bernie doll.  "I have spent years building up my hip brand here!" she continued, as Vegas at least made a little bit of eye contact with Giuliana to encourage her.  "Am I supposed to switch now to garish, gaudy, gold-plated, Queens nouveau riche decor?  Lifestyles of the rich and tacky?  Overpriced swill?  The man doesn't even drink vodka, which would be the only possible advantage I could work with!  Are people going to expect deep-fried Twinkies now, gold-lamé halter tops, or bedazzled gun holsters?  I don't know how to work with this Administration!"  She realized there might only be a couple hours of sunlight left in the day, put the brownies in the freezer, and got out the dog leash she had made from braided Christmas tree garlands to take a walk though her rapidly changing world.

A few miles to the west, the Thai masseuse was trying to get Paul Ryan's kinks out.

"I'm not Scrooge!  But school lunches are wrong, and so is Obamacare!  Aargh!"

She was digging her right heel into his left buttock.  "Bamacare," she parroted.

"And why do people expect me to be my brother's keeper, anyway?  People need to take care of themselves.  Gaa!"

She was now digging her left heel into his right buttock.  "Brother," she parroted.

"And so what if Senator McCain, Broadway showgirls, and Mormon choir singers are all thumbing their noses at Trump?  I have a Constitutional duty to work with an elected President.  Oof!"

She was pummeling the backs of his thighs now.  "Duty," she parroted.

"Yeah, it would be nice if he had invited me to Mar a Lago for a nice family vacation in Florida, instead of inviting only people who could pay $500/ticket.  It's no wonder the guy has no friends!  We're not friends.  But we're on the same team!  Man alive!"

She now had her right foot planted between his shoulder blades and was pulling both his arms backwards.  "Team," she parroted.

"We're making America great again. Sweet mother!"

She was kneeling on Ryan's buttocks and pressing her thumbs into his adrenal glands.  "Mother," she parroted.

"And we can handle Russia!  There's no way they can take advantage of us," Ryan said softly, relieved she was now rolling him onto his back.

"Unless Putin have blackmail on GOP," she said, staring at him blankly while she raised both his legs and the color drained from his face.

"Oh, Putin definitely has blackmail against everybody!" shouted Glenn Michael Beckmann at his television, down in his Southwest Plaza apartment.  "Wake up, people!"  The militia man had been blogging about this for days, and was distressed that most of his followers seemed more interested in college football and hunting wild turkeys right now.  "He's at the top of my list!" Beckmann shouted, referring to his suspects list for the murder of Darja.  He was hopped up on psychotropic medication, hot whiskey toddies, and whatever the dealer had sold to him in the stairwell last night.  "I'll get you in the end!" he shouted, then ran out on his balcony to breathe some fresh air as the real estate demon listening from the building basement started laughing at him.

"Glenn?"  It was the former Mrs. Brittani Mundy, recently liberated from a basement cage and looking up at him from the parking lot.  She had on an overstuffed backpack, and was carrying two trash bags in her hands.  "Happy New Year!" she cried, trying to put on a brave smile.

"What are you doing here?"  She looked around her, and Beckmann realized she wanted to talk in private.  "Hold on."

Five minutes later, she was sitting at his table, trying to ignore his bloodshot eyes and unpleasant smell.  "Daddy's gone crazy.  It's that Rolex!"  Beckmann had a vague recollection of that day they had rescued her and something about the Rolex her father had swiped from the son-in-law he was beating up, so Beckmann nodded at her to continue.  "I ain't never going back to my stepdad's place!" she said defiantly.  "And my friends are just babies, still living at home, can't help me," she said more softly.  "I been bouncing around.  I turned fifteen last week, and nobody even remembered."

"Damn!" said Beckmann, who had murdered a few people along the way, but considered himself too much of a gentleman to have sex with a girl under age.

"Can I crash here for awhile?  I can clean for you, and I know how to cook a few things."

At this, Beckmann brightened considerably.  "Sure!  But you should know, I'm a very busy man with a busy business and all kinds of things to take care of and do.  I can't keep you entertained!"

She looked at his pizza sauce-stained sweatshirt, torn camouflage pants, uncombed hair, and three-day stubble.  "Sure thing!" she said, telling herself nothing could ever be as crazy as those golf course people, the lizard baby, and the creepy way men acted with that Rolex on.

Out on the 14th Street Bridge, Nazi criminal fugitive Barbara Hellmeister (mother of the accidentally killed "lizard baby") was adding more squirrel skin insulation to her new home in the bridgeman's quarters, where she had finally found a renewed personal energy...fifty feet above Ardua of the Potomac.

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COMING UP:  The pregnant pause!