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, April 09, 2017

Love in the Time of Choler

The morning mist starts lifting, and the girl runs up the steps to the castle wall.  She runs along the edge and around the corner to get a better view of the valley.  A raven lands with a squawk on top of the gun blind to tell her what is out there, approaching.  The girl turns back to look fifty feet down at the anxious villagers camped out inside the castle walls, starting to rekindle fires to cook their meager breakfasts.  "But their breakfasts are not meager because of what's out there," squawks the raven.  "Their breakfasts are meager because of him."  The girl is now on the highest lookout tower, but she is looking back at the magnificent castle, where the king will soon be sitting down to a breakfast feast of sausages, mutton legs, oranges, and oats dripping with honey.  "Out there," repeats the raven.  The girl can't fly; she can't jump.  The pink warbler arrives to start singing its morning song, and the girl follows it down a different set of stairs.  This is the escape gate.  The girl opens the door to rush away from the castle, but leaves it ajar for the return of the rightful queen.

"Angela?"  Dulles Samuelson was staring intently at his girlfriend, unsure if she was walking in her sleep or now awake.

"The mist has lifted," Angela de la Paz said.  "Things are clearer."

A couple miles from that houseboat scene, Chloe Cleavage was again doing her version of the "walk of shame" out of Trump International.  It had been a long time since her conscience had given her shame about anything, but her life was really in quite a shocking place these days.  For one thing, she was making ten times more per week as a high-priced call girl than in her day job as a staff attorney at Prince and Prowling.  What had started by accident had now morphed into a stranglehold on her life.  Then there was the fact that she was wheedling information out of Russian clients and feeding it to British spies of some sort, but she really had no certainty what their agenda was.  Some of the secrets ended up spilled into the news, and some had dealt serious blows to Trump's Administration, but other tidbits had met more obscure fates.  Was British intelligence doing something with all this?  Were the Brits feeding it to the FBI?  CIA?  She was finding mysterious bundles of compensatory cash at work and at home, which only gave her the creeps:  who was close enough to do that?  But worst of all, she had fallen in love with Sergei--a Russian businessman of dubious standing!  He might be a spy or even an assassin, for all she knew!  And he was paying her!  He would never have those kind of feelings for her, would he?

Over at the White House, Steve Bannon was doing his own walk of shame, having woken up from his Saturday night bender face down in the bowling alley--one hand wrapped around a beer bottle, another hand still immersed in a bowling ball.  "Alt-Right One is stirring!" a Secret Service agent chirped into his mouthpiece.  "No signs of vomit yet.  He's looking for his pants."

"Shut up!" hollered Bannon, who tried to throw a bowling ball at the agent but only succeeded in breaking a nearby chair with it.

"Your safety is our utmost concern, sir.  Step away from the balls."

"Don't tell me what to do, you jag-off!"

"I'm not the one with wet pants, sir.  You should use a condom when you're over-excited about blond fascist interns, sir."

"Give me your damned badge, smart-ass!  You're through!"

"Alt-Right One is on the move!" the Secret Service agent barked into his mouthpiece.  "I need back-up!"

"Here's your hangover remedy," said another agent, rushing into the room.  "Rebecca Mercer is upstairs waiting for you.  We told her you were reviewing Easter Egg Roll anti-terrorism plans, but she won't wait all day, sir!"

A few miles to the east, Dr. Khalid Mohammad and his (now visibly) pregnant wife, Yasmin, were hosting brunch at their new Southwest townhouse.  They were trying to get to know their neighbors, but the conversation had soon turned awkwardly to politics.

"Well, what about that Muslim terrorist slaughtering Christians in Egypt on Palm Sunday?" cried one woman.  "It's horrific!"

"He wasn't a good Muslim," said Dr. Mohammad.  "He's just a criminal.  Every country has criminals and sociopaths."

"But slaughtering people in a church?" asked one man.

"You had an American man slaughter people in a church," said Yasmin.

"Well, he was sick," said another woman.

"So was the Muslim in Egypt," said Dr. Mohammad.

"But it's so many," said another man.  "That's why people get nervous about letting in the refugees."

"Jordan has hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees, and they flooded the border," said Dr. Mohammad.  "No refugees would resettle here without 18-24 months of screening."

"And Trump said his heart was moved by seeing those gassed children," said Yasmin.  "He must let in more refugees."

"Well, if we knew they were all like you two, it would be different," said another man.

"Presumed innocent until proven guilty," said Dr. Mohammad.

"Not for foreigners," said the first woman.

"Not for citizens, either," muttered Yasmin.

Back downtown, Washington Post reporter Perry Winkle was interviewing new legal hero of the resistance Coretta Rosa McIntyre in her Goode Peepz law firm office.

"Today I'm working on another FOIA for the legal justification to bomb a country we have not declared war on," she said.

"But we've been doing military operations in Syria for years," said Winkle.  "How is this different?"

"The U.S. has been fighting ISIS.  This is a direct attack on the Assad regime."

"But the U.S. has also been arming rebels against Assad," countered Winkle.  "There was no declaration of war for that."

"That was also a problem.  "The U.S. has troops in every continent in the world but has not declared war by Act of Congress since Pearl Harbor.  Still, this is a major escalation."

"But some are saying it is not even an escalation.  The U.S. told Russia to avoid air collisions; the Russians told Assad; planes and people were moved in advance; there was no major damage."

"If that's true, all the more reason to get all these justifications out in the open," said the Harvard-educated attorney.  "The taxpayers have a right to know why we exploded dozens of exceedingly expensive Raytheon missiles if there was no real impact to protect civilian lives--which is the implied justification even though Trump has banned refugees from Syria."

"The Administration will argue national security and never give you what you're asking, and no court will force them.  Why bother?"

"Because you never let a tyrant do one single act of tyranny without challenging it," she replied.

It was then that Winkle began falling in love with her.

Out on the river, Barbara Hellmeister (currently known as "Dr. Bibi Von Braun", special science adviser to the President) was curled up in her bridgeman's quarters bed, hidden on the 14th Street bridge, nibbling at raw pieces of flesh from the catfish she had suddenly found flopping around up there a few minutes earlier.  The Nazi did not know, of course that the demon Ardua of the Potomac had tossed it up there for her, but she had been happy to slice off its head and eagerly begin consuming as much protein as she could before any morning sickness might begin in the coming weeks.  It had taken weeks of lab work and the assistance of two Japanese robots, but she had successfully cloned Donald Trump and implanted the embryo in her own womb.  She would return to her East Wing suite tomorrow to continue advising Trump on science by day and doing the degenerate sex acts he liked at night, but now she had some verifiable Hitler genes growing inside her own womb, fused with her own Aryan egg, and her child would someday be a greater leader than Trump or his Slavic/Jewish offspring could ever be.  She smiled, feeling the special (unknowingly demonic) energy she got here, and mulled what kind of science policies she could talk Trump into before her unwed pregnancy became apparent to Pilgrim Pence and she was forced to vacate the White House.  So many morons, she mused.  I could rule them all if they were not so sexist and insecure about strong women.  She got up to throw the bones back into the river.  She briefly thought about the mutant baby born to her after the Election, but repressed the thought quickly.  It was Ernest's defective genes, she told herself, but she was dead wrong.

The diary of  SCOTUS newbie Neil Gorsuch!


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