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 30, 2017

Melania mania hits DC!

Dr. Ermann Esse, under the CIA alias of fashion designer "Gunther Zimmer", was in the East Wing planning out Melania Trump's outfits for the week.

"Zat outfit for Argentina President was ridiculed, Gunther!" she cried, wagging his finger at him with a smile and locking the bedroom door behind her.  "They said it was junta chic!"

"I know, my darling, please forgive me?  Look what I brought you!"

He kissed her passionately (he was getting better and better at this part of his undercover mission), then pulled out several dresses his CIA seamstress team had put together.  She turned around to let him kiss her neck while he took off her clothing.

"He insisted on going to zee white trash rally AGAIN yesterday!" she bemoaned, while moaning.  "Pennsylvania!"

"I know, Melania.  You belong in Manhattan!  Or at least in Georgetown."

"And why did Ivanka get to call the astronaut?"

"I don't know.  It's wrong!"

"And why did Merkel invite Ivanka to German entrepreneur conference?  I can speak German, and I am the REAL entrepreneur, right?"

"Exactly!" said the psychiatrist, who was supposed to be hypnotizing her into influencing her husband but was getting nowhere.  "You and I worked our way up from humble roots!  And here we are today, in the White House!  Ivanka was BORN rich!  She is no entrepreneur."

"AND she had plastic surgery!" said Melania, admiring her own buttocks in the mirror.

"YOU are the TRUE beauty, Melania!" said Dr. Esse.  "Nobody can believe you are 47!"

Melania frowned at this reminder.  Though she had celebrated a fabulous and stylish birthday in Washington last week, she was demonstrably too old now to land a different rich old husband now.  And hers had become too insecure to dump her and seek a fourth wife.  Everyone knew he got fatter and uglier every year!  "Do you think he's right about the Canadian wood?" she asked, changing the subject.

"He only knows about golf club wood!" Dr. Esse replied, and this got a good laugh from Melania.  "And THIS kind of wood!" he added, pulling her close to him.

"Ah, you are too fast, just like him!" she laughed, pushing him away.  "I need to finish trying on zee outfits first!"

The shrink lay down on the bed to watch her striptease her way through the remaining outfits (all of which fit perfectly, and looked fabulous on her).  "But, seriously," the psychiatrist said, "it would be good for you to calm him down about NAFTA.  Ripping it up could destabilize the continent."

"What continent?" she asked.

It was then that Dr. Esse realized she was actually too clueless to even be used by the CIA to influence Donald Trump.  "What are you thinking of for President Duterte?" he asked.  "I am thinking black, with some lace and ruffles.  That gives off a bit of a Catholic vibe, and you cannot be too frivolous in color since he has a lot of human rights complaints."

"Maybe," she sighed.  The Filipino thug of a dictator had no money or style, and she didn't have the slightest interest in ever visiting a Trump hotel in Manila.  "Do you think zee climate change protesters are right?" she asked suddenly.  "Will Mar-a-Lago be underwater?"

"Rich people can build sea walls," said Dr. Esse.  "The poor will be underwater."

Out in the hallway, Randy "Bubba" Blaylock was pacing the hallway furiously.  The security guard hired by Steve Bannon had developed an intense fixation on Melania as soon as she had moved in, and he was certain there was hanky-panky going on with this fashion designer.  "What does she see in HIM?" he muttered out loud.  "Everybody knows those guys are all fruit loops!  I'm the handsomest hunk out here!"  He stopped to look at himself in the mirror, then pulled up abruptly when he realized a Secret Service agent at the other end of the hallway was smirking at him.  They think they're better than me! he thought.  Just because I'm from a small town in Virginia and didn't rise up the ranks!  But POTUS LOVES me!  He knows I'm one of his kind.  He scratched the skin under his cursed ROLEX.  Next time this fag Gunther shows up, I'll tell him he's no longer allowed in there!  Then she'll have to ask ME to help her into and out of those dresses!  I'll show her what a real man is!  He heard a sudden squeal of laughter and clenched his fist.

Over in NoMa, lifestyle blogger Giuliana Sunstream was holding her first-ever Ljubljana Luau to try to attract the attention of Melania Trump.  The Slovenian caterer had brought zlikrofi, golaz, and turnip soup, which had all tasted so dreadful to Giuliana on the sampling day that she was complementing them this afternoon with Hawaiian pizza, mahi mahi, and a sculpture of Ljubljana Castle made entirely of poi poi.  The whole party made absolutely no sense, but she was on a desperate quest to find the Trump zeitgeist, and the Hawaiian punch was spiked with so much Russian vodka that the $200/ticket revelers were having an excellent time.  Half the women there, Giuliana included, were wearing their hair long and parted in the middle like Melania, though some were achieving this effect with wigs.  They had shoes from Ivanka's collection, and dresses and jewelry from Melania's collection.  The other half of the women had thought this party idea was an ironic theme, and were dressed in tacky combinations of Hawaiian mu-mus and stiletto heels.  The men, likewise, were evenly divided between (1) dark suits with red ties and (2) khaki golf pants with Hawaiian shirts.  Giuliana's toy Maltese, Vegas, was draped in fake diamonds.

"Who's ready for the Ljubljana Limbo contest?" asked Giuliana, to enthusiastic cheers.

She didn't realize that a drunken Democrat had already written over the marked measurements with phrases like "attacked federal judge", "attacked free press", "questioned practicality of Constitutional government", and, on the very lowest notch, "nuked North Korea to distract from Russia probe".  "How LOW will we GO?!" he shouted, before getting the whole crowd to chant with him:  "How LOW will we GO?!  How LOW will we GO?!"

Over at Lafayette Park, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle was meeting with one of his secret White House sources on a park bench.  What had begun as an attempt by Winkle to break into political journalism had, instead, brought him back to struggling with questions about the supernatural.

"She thinks nobody there understands Slovenian, but I do!" exclaimed the housekeeper.  "I worked at the Slovenian embassy for years.  The First Lady doesn't want to live here because of ghosts!"

"Are you sure?  There seem to be plenty of other good reasons not to," replied Winkle.

"She has been on the phone with her sister talking about it.  She's not frightened of them, but she finds them very annoying.  She keeps throwing salt and pepper everywhere, and lighting peppermint candles."

"Peppermint candles?  I've never heard of such a thing."

"It smells like you're brushing your teeth and smoking at the same time."

"Does the President hear ghosts?" asked Winkle.

"Why do you think he's got bags under his eyes all the time?" she sniffed.  "It's not because he's up late reading in the Oval Office!"

"Have you heard any ghosts?"

"Of course not!  Those people are crazy.  I'm just telling you so you can print the story."

"I wish I could," said Perry, who was still on anti-hallucinatory medication since his editor had sent him on sabbatical after his last attempt to write a supernatural story (about zombies).  "But let me know if you hear of anything Trump decides to do based on what he heard from a ghost."

"I WISH he would decide things based on a ghost," she said, shaking her head.  "There are much scarier things happening in there."

Back inside the East Wing, the ghostly presence of twin pre-schoolers Regina and Ferguson jumping up and down on the bed was making it impossible for Melania to have sex with Gunther.  "You can't take you clothes off!" she insisted.  "They're right here!"

"I don't see anything, sweetie pie," replied Dr. Esse.

"You really can't see zem?  Do you think it's stress?"

"Let me give you another treatment," said the CIA agent, beginning to hypnotize her.  Then Reggie and Fergie got bored and went off to mess with Steve Bannon again.

COMING UP:      
Prince and Prowling racking up the billable
Trump hours--in Washington and Beijing!


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