Massive intelligence failure!

"The important thing to establish is that this Nigger situation was not my fault!" declared CIA Director Mike Pompeo.

"Niger," replied his assistant.  "It's pronounced nee-jair."

"Same difference!" retorted Pompeo, scratching underneath his cursed Rolex.

"No, very different," insisted his assistant.

"People cannot be allowed to talk about a 'massive intelligence failure'--not on my watch!"

"Sir, we believe we can credibly put forth in careful leaks that CIA intelligence was accurate but that the army chose to rely on the Defense Intelligence Agency--"

"No!" interjected Pompeo.  "I'm not making enemies at DIA!  There are rumors that Condoleezza Rice is secretly running that agency!"

"How would that even be possible?" asked his assistant.

"The Deep State!  It's real!  Just look what happened when I spoke the truth about the Trump-Russia nothing burger investigation and no election interference:  CIA's own spokesman contradicted me!  Deep State!"

"Well, sir, your statement actually did not encompass the full set of facts and circumstances--"

"Deep state!"

"Let's refocus on Niger.  Why would Condoleezza Rice use faulty intelligence in Niger?"

"You're the one that brought up DIA, not me!  Let's blame it on French intelligence.  That damned smug Macron!"

"Sir, it's important not to alienate our actual allies--"

"Freedom fries!"

"Sir, we are dealing with a very complex set of relationships right now.  For instance, France is an important channel of communications and monitoring for Iran.  POTUS just de-certified their nuclear compliance, and we need France to--"

"Axis of evil!" declared Pompeo.

"Sir, there's no camera on right now.  It's just us talking."

Pompeo looked down at the cursed Rolex, which was gripping his wrist more tightly.  "Nobody can know about me!" it whispered.

Meanwhile, over at the Department of Justice, Attorney General Jeff Sessions was trying to catch up on his work after losing valuable time being grilled on Capitol Hill earlier this week.

"Dementia?!" he scowled.  "I don't have dementia!  How can they expect me to remember every single version of the contact-with-Russians question, or the basis for why DOJ issues an important guidance, or whether Robert Mueller wants to question me?  So what if I accidentally referred to the Democrat as the Chair of the Senate Judiciary Committee?!  Doesn't mean I have dementia!  I was a sharp prosecutor in Alabama!  I know what I'm doing!  What was I doing?"  Sessions had walked over to the corner of his office, but could not recall if he was getting something from the bookshelf or checking the ficus tree for listening devices.

DOJ attorney Atticus Hawk had been in the office doorway for a minute now listening to the muttering.  "General Sessions--"

"My integrity shall not be questioned!" barked the Attorney General, wheeling around.

"I'm not questioning--"

"Executive privilege!  If I discuss it with the President, I don't have to tell anybody!"

"That's not really true, General."

"What?!"

"You can't automatically put a privilege on something simply by discussing it with POTUS.  You said as much yourself to Attorney General Eric Holder five years ago."

"You think I don't recall that!  I recall it!  I recall it very well!"  He turned back to the ficus tree, pulled off a yellow leaf, then returned to his desk.  He felt he could trust this young man, but was having trouble recalling his name.  Some sort of a bird?  

"I have a first draft of the memo you requested on a coordinated media campaign to highlight the work that DOJ is doing to prosecute hate-based murders in the LGBT community as a gaslight against the collapse of DOJ civil rights enforcement in housing and employment."

"Do they really have a community?" asked Sessions.  "I mean, they live in different cities, don't they?  Is this one of those virtual reality things, like the Matrix?  Is it a gay Matrix community?"

"Um, well, no," said Atticus Hawk, and then he changed his mind.  "Yes, sir, you could call it a gay Matrix community.  So I'm a lawyer and don't have a lot of media experience, but this is my first draft."

The Attorney General took the memo, glanced at the name and nodded at the sight of the bird name--"Hawk"--on the page.  "Right, right."  He started reading the first page, but was having trouble focusing.

"Tell me, Atticus," he began, putting down his reading glasses only a moment after putting them on, "what does the gay Matrix community think about this whole Russia thing?"

"Um, well," began Hawk, stepping back to shut the door behind him, then taking a seat in a guest chair.  "I believe their concern is that Vladimir Putin is extremely repressive to the LGBT community, and actually had Russian operatives spend money on social media posts propping up reactionary religious conservative opinions prior to the U.S. Election last November.  The Russians spread fake news about--"

"Nope, nope," interrupted Sessions, shaking his head.  "What I mean is, we need more people in this country supporting law and order!  Aren't there any patriots in the gays and weirdos?  If there are, we gotta find them!  Is this murder prosecution thing going to do it?  This whole Puerto Rico thing is a mess, and they'll move to Florida, for sure.  We've got the Voter Fraud Commission trying to prevent the wrong people from voting, but the Matrix gays--well, they're very organized, right?  Even if they lose their jobs or their apartments, they'll probably figure out how to register to vote.  We've gotta get some of these Matrix gays together to praise the President and the return of law and order in this country!  They've gotta see that Hillary and Obama were the threat, not a few Russians on Facebook!"

"Well--"

"Wait!  What if we torture the people that murder the queers!  That will win them over, right?  Law and order!  Write me a memo about torturing anybody arrested for murdering a fag.  That's how you rose up the ranks, right?  Torture expert?"

A mile away, Italian economist Luciano Talaverdi (Yellen) had finished some overtime at the Federal Reserve Board and was exiting to meet his wife Helen (Talaverdi) Yellen, and their pot-bellied pig.  "How is Petro Pig?" asked Luciano, hoping to see the recently depressed pig perking up at the sight of his girlfriend Princess Buttercup, a yellow Lab FRB police guard dog.

"About the same," sighed Helen.  "Ever since he met the Tax Chicken, he feels totally eclipsed."  (Princess Buttercup was wagging her tail and straining her leash towards the pig, but Petro Pig was staring at the ground.)

"You are so silly, Petro Pig!" said Luciano, squatting to pet the pig.  "Tax reform lobbying will come and go, but the petroleum industry will be back on Capitol Hill soon, and you will be in great demand as a paid mascot again!"

"Paid protester," corrected Helen, who had once handled a busy roster of Petro Pig clients, including Greenpeace, Mike Bloomberg, and the Sierra Club.  "That Tax Chicken is so large," said Helen, as they started a long walk down towards the monuments to take advantage of the warm weather.  "I was thinking I could get some sort of very large thing to push him around in."

"Like a wheel barrow?"

"No, really large!  Like a Pope Mobile for pigs."

"Helen, maybe it is time for you to focus on other things,"

"Well, I can't go back to house-sitting!  You want me at home at night, don't you?" cooed Helen.

"Yes, I want you to have a child!"

"Well, there's nothing wrong with me!  Maybe you need to get your plumbing examined."

"What?!" exclaimed Luciano, feeling a surge of Italian testosterone.

"You're so stressed out about the economy and all that jazz!  It might be affecting your swimmers.  Trump has depressed the fertility rate."

Luciano looked at his wife in amazement, then felt a horrible, horrible knot tightening up in his gut.

Back at the CIA, Mike Pompeo's assistant had departed, and the CIA Director was looking over a top secret briefing on North Korea.  "Why read it?" whispered the cursed Rolex.  "You know what the President wants to hear!"  Pompeo scratched under the watch, dreading his agreement to head over at 4:30 for a round of golf with Trump now that the media was pointing out that all five former Presidents were in Texas at a hurricane relief fundraiser.

"Why does the weather have to be this good?" Pompeo muttered to himself.  "When will he return to Mar a Lago?"

"He doesn't like the Impeach Trump billboard they put up there," whispered the Rolex, "and Barron has a science project."

"What?!"

"Tell him it's time to go to war!" whispered the cursed Rolex.  "That's what he wants!  Nobody cares about Niger--he wants a big one!"

"I can't just recommend a nuclear war!"

"Yes!  Yes, you can!  We will be victorious!  Trust me!"

The Ghost CIA Director, the late Henry Samuelson, was now jumping up and down on Mike Pompeo's desk.  "NO!  Listen to me!  ME!"

Pompeo blinked hard, reached in the bottom drawer for his Ritalin, then scratched furiously under the cursed Rolex.

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COMING UP:    Arlington Group Home for the 
mentally challenged gets a new resident!