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 ....

Sunday, March 05, 2017

The Enemy of Your Enemy

Vice-President Pence was in the Oval Office filling in for Donald Trump while POTUS was doing political fundraising, playing golf at Mar-a-Lago, and Tweeting that Barack Obama was responsible for all the damning evidence coming out against Trump's Russian mafia connections.  Not an entirely atypical day for Pence, but still....

"Sir?"  A staff member from the National Security Council was at the door, and the V.P. called for her to come in.  "You're wanted in the Situation Room."

"Not again," Pence muttered under his breath, rising with a silent prayer.

"Not again," Congressman Paul Ryan muttered under his breath, a mile away.  "The pundits actually praised Trump's address to Congress, and then he turns into paranoid Alt-Right conspiracy lunatic again on the weekend!  OOF!"

"Alt-Right," repeated his Thaitastic masseuse, pressing her thumbs into the inflamed adrenal glands at the tip of each kidney while she dug her knees into his buttocks muscles.

"GAAAAA!  How do we push the domestic agenda forward when the GOP has to keep defending him on a weekly basis?"

"GOP," repeated the masseuse, sliding her thumbs under his shoulder blades.

"Aaaaah," the Speaker of the House sighed.  "The Senate goes through all the embarrassment of confirmation hearings for an Alabama good-old-boy, and now Sessions turns out to be a racist and a perjurer!  MOTHER OF--!"

The masseuse was pulling his arms backwards out of their sockets and bending the Speaker's spine backwards.  "Racist and perjurer," she repeated.

"I ask myself every day:  what would Ayn Rand do?  And the answer is always:  look out for herself.  So what do I want?  That's the question. CRIKEY!"

The masseuse was laying down some karate chops on his upper back.  "Look out for herself," she repeated before rolling him onto his back.

"Can I tell you a secret?" the Speaker of the house asked.

"Secret," she repeated, lifting his right leg to rotate his hip.

"I want to be President of the United States.  OW!"

The Thai masseuse had abruptly dropped his leg, sat down to straddle his groin, and pushed both arms above his head.  "I tell you secret now.  Everybody tell me want to be President.  Talk about line of success."

"The line of succession?" he asked, getting aroused.  "Who?"

"No, no, no!" she frowned, getting back up.  "No balls!  No dick!"  She grabbed his left leg and began rotating the hip while he pleaded for names.

Meanwhile, over on Capitol Hill, President Pro Tempore of the Senate, Orrin Hatch, was being wined and dined by the Russia Caucus, though he did not yet realize that.  "We're concerned about how many dominoes might fall," said Texas Congressman Zeke "Slick" Hicks, handing the third-in-line-of-succession a whiskey.

"Oh, I'm not much of a drinker," said Senator Hatch, who had already declined a visit to the Hicks hot tub (where Hicks had placed a couple hookers provided by the Russian ambassador).  "I'll admit that I do have some reservations about the President, but--"

"Exactly!" interrupted the Representative from Oklahoma.  "But what we really need is some stability for our constituents and friends to do their business planning."

"All we're saying, Senator," added Congressman Hicks, offering Hatch a marijuana-laced brownie, which was also declined, "is that petroleum exploration and drilling requires political commitment and cooperation--"

"Such as in the Arctic Circle," interrupted the Representative from Alaska, "and we would like to know if we can count on your support in the event that you end up in the White House."

"This is outrageous!" exclaimed Hatch, though he was secretly thrilled at the thought.  "You are slandering the Vice-President and the Speaker of the House!"

"Oh, no, not at all!" protested Congressman Hicks.  "Unfortunately, sometimes innocent people get swept up with the guilty--"

"Especially if they are defending the guilty," interrupted the Representative from Oklahoma, "so it's important for you to go on the record now."

Congressman Hicks took Hatch by the elbow to turn him towards the hidden video camera and handed him what Hatch thought was a glass of water but which was actually a glass of Russian vodka.  "Sometimes the best way to know what's coming down the pike is to put that race car in the fast lane, Senator."

Senator Hatch took a gulp and started coughing.

Back at the White House, Captain Tyler Glockmann was briefing Vice-President Pence on the location of three Soviet nuclear submarines and (at the secret direction of Condoleezza Rice) stoking his fears about Russian reprisals.

"Reprisals for the smearing of the Russian ambassador?" asked Pence.

"No, sir, Commander," said the Defense Intelligence Agency operative beholden to the Heurich Society.  "Intelligence indicates that Putin is growing impatient for certain promises to be kept."

"What promises?" asked Pence, looking around at a room full of generals, colonels, and their aides.

"We thought you might be able to help us with that," said one of the colonels, with a sad smile on his face.

"I know nothing about the Russians!" insisted Pence, getting red in the face.

"Sometimes it's easier to spot the shadow than the actual object," said Captain Glockmann.

"Come on!" shouted the ghost of Henry Samuelson, who had brought a large contingency from the Ghost CIA to this meeting.  "The time for pussyfooting around is over!"

"Hear, hear!" echoed his colleagues, spectrally glaring at the White House ghosts.

"You're not welcome here!" declared Ghost Dennis.

"We need to work together!" protested Ghost Henry.

"Not with you!" said several members of the Shackled in unison.  "Go away!"

"We wouldn't have to be here if you could get into Trump's head properly!" cried Ghost Henry.

"He hears everything I say!" retorted Ghost Dennis.

"He thinks you're Nelson Rockefeller!" replied Ghost Henry.

"I just need to fine-tune my delivery," pouted Ghost Dennis.

"Ya think?  Because your Nelson street cred didn't get him to understand anything about Nixon, did it?!" glowered Ghost Henry.

"None of this is helping!" said the senior member of the Shackled.

"We need to work on Pence!" exclaimed Ghost Henry.  "Talking to a crazy person doesn't help!  Together we--"

"No!" shouted the Shackled in unison.

"Anyway," said Ghost Dennis with a sigh, "Pence lost his sanity three weeks ago."

A mile away, a slightly hungover Chloe Cleavage was leaving Trump International with a few more nuggets of actionable Russian intelligence (and a touch of Herpes) from Sergei, while a flock of starlings flew off to report to Ardua of the Potomac.

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COMING UP:   Home Sweet Home! 

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