Feisty!

"Now we're talkin'!" exclaimed Glenn Michael Beckmann, an avid conspiracy theorist and militiaman based in Washington, D.C.

His very young roommate, Brittani, looked around with large eyes at what appeared to be acres of weapons on display at the Nation's Gun Show in Chantilly, Virginia.  "Can we leave now?"

"We just got here!" exclaimed Beckmann.  "Most women get a thrill seeing real men handle real guns!"

"Look, I understand huntin', but what are ya gonna do with something like that?" she asked, pointing to an AK47 painted red, white and blue.  "Only a psycho killer would buy that!"

"What?!  I got three of those at home!  You gotta be prepared for the coming invasion!  Could be Mexicans or Russians or worse!  We know Trump is a puppet king installed by aliens to weaken our society and prepare us for an invasion from space.  Even before that happens, some guys even think women will rise up and start mowing down their chauvinist pig bosses!  They might go crazy and try to kill all the men."

"I think you have enough guns.  I don't want you to buy more!"  She made her pouty face at him--which drove him nuts, since he was still waiting for the teenager to turn eighteen.

"Look, Brittani: I know you been through a lot with that annulled marriage and all, and I've been supportive of your trapeze school and women marches and your #MeToo banner unfurled in the Trump hotel bell tower, but ya gotta let me be a man every now and then!"

"I don't feel safe here!  Look at those guys staring at me!  Be a man and protect me!"

Beckmann looked over at the two men, flipped them the bird, then steered Brittani in a different direction.  "Alright, just let me stock up on some hand grenades, and then we can go.  You can't order those online."

The FBI agents continued to follow Beckmann at a distance.

Meanwhile, over in D.C., renowned lifestyle blogger Giuliana Sunstream was hosting the first of her trilogy of holiday events at her NoMa loft:  The Best of Washington 2017!  For $100/head, party goers were donning Trump-inspired hair wigs (the "Melania", "Donald" or "Ivanka"), feasting on roasted cauliflower gingerbread cookies, drinking hot chocolate vodka shots, throwing darts at photos of celebrity sexual predators, gambling on minute-to-minute swings in Bitcoin valuation, speed-knitting earphone cozies, watching a video of the total solar eclipse, and pogo-dancing to the retro vinyl music spun by the DJ installed in the corner.  In her guest bedroom, Giuliana had set up three CPAs and several computer stations for party goers to make last-minute charitable contributions or pre-pay property taxes before the entire financial system was overhauled in 2018.  And in Giuliana's own bedroom, Vegas (her toy Maltese) was wearing a "porg" costume, surrounded by a host of visiting pets dressed by their owners in other Star Wars costumes provided by Giuliana:  ewok, wookie, storm trooper, Jedi.

Near the window, always with an eye on the door, Solomon Kane spit his roasted cauliflower gingerbread cookie into a napkin, struggling hard not to vomit.

"Here," said Bridezilla, passing him her glass of peppermint schnapps.  "This will help."

He sipped gratefully, then handed the glass back with a smile.  "That's the only edible thing I've found at this party."

"I'm very into comfort foods right now," sighed Bridezilla, still reeling from the shocking death of her boyfriend, (Esperantu) Edward.  "I spent hours on Christmas Eve decorating a gingerbread house with my mom.  I hadn't done that in years."

Bridezilla was a lovely woman, but Solomon had to keep glancing at the door because he was expecting a 55-year-old Caucasian female with a bad hair dye job, reindeer sweater, and MAGA necklace to show up any minute:  the woman's son wanted Solomon to kidnap her and deliver her over to the Seekers for cult de-programming.  (Solomon would have waited outside, but it was too cold.)  "I spent Christmas with a couple of Jewish people and a Buddhist monk," replied Solomon.  (He didn't tell her they had been doing emergency cult de-programming while other members of the Seekers were performing ministerial duties for Christmas.)

"You don't celebrate Christmas?" asked Bridezilla.

"Not in a long time," he answered.  "But I believe stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Stuff," he repeated, vaguely.  The Seekers represented leaders from many different faith communities who were at least united in their belief that the Cult of Trump was both delusional and evil.  They had de-programmed hundreds of people from all over the country this year, but would it ever be enough?  Some of the leaders thought that serious demons were behind all of it:  the Russia collusion, the war on the poor, the racist attacks, the contempt for the sick and disabled.

"Yes, sometimes it's hard to have faith," sighed Bridezilla, who was fretting that the other pets would not be nice to her conjoined guinea pigs (Thelma and Louise), despite how adorable they looked poured into one Yoda costume.  She leaned her head against Solomon's chest, uninvited, and the onetime hitman gingerly put his arm around her just as he saw the target walk in through the front door.

Over in Georgetown, another Trump Cult de-programming was already underway in the Seekers' rented townhouse basement.

"The tax cuts primarily benefit the richest people in our country," said the Catholic priest.

"I don't think so!" answered Robby, the Kentucky man flown in by helicopter the night before and now strapped to a recliner for his own safety and comfort.

"The corporate tax cuts are permanent, but the individual tax cuts are not.  Why do you think that is?" asked the Methodist minister.

"Trump said it would hurt him the worse," answered Robby.

"You're not this stupid!" interjected his wife, sitting tearfully on a couch at the other end of the room.

"Please don't address him," said the Presbyterian minister, who then turned back to the Robby.  "We will have to borrow trillions more from the Chinese now.  Your children and grandchildren will be paying off those loans for decades to come."

"I don't think so!  Anyway, they'll be rich."

"They won't have any health insurance!" exclaimed the Jewish rabbi.  "And your Medicare will be reduced to a pittance!"

"I don't think so," replied Robby.  "Anyway, I'll die sooner from all these terrorists or Mexicans or the Deep State!  They don't even believe in the Ten Commandments!"

"What's the Fifth Commandment?" asked the rabbi.

"Um, is that the one about gay marriage?"

"No!" exclaimed the rabbi.

"Well, no offense, but don't you folk number it differently than our folk?"

"There are no Commandments about homosexuality," said the Lutheran minister.  "And Jesus never spoke about it.  What He did speak often about was--"

"That doesn't sound right."

"--helping the poor and sick and disabled, loving foreigners, forgiving enemies--"

"No!" retorted Robby.  "You're trying to trick me!  Are you ISIS?"

"It costs $200,000 to join Mar-a-Lago!" interjected Robby's wife.  "Trump signed that tax bill to help his billionaire friends!  You are never gonna get another coal job, and I wouldn't want you to, anyway!  Why won't you work for the windmill farm?!"

"Windmills won't make American great again!"

The Muslim imam was about to take his turn, but decided to go out and pick up lunch instead.

Back at the Nation's Gun Show, Brittani was getting ejected after repeatedly interrupting a National Rifle Association spokesman with "NRA equals National Republican Army!" and "NRA equals Nazi Retarded Army!"

"You gotta control your girl!" shouted a NRA member as Beckmann hustled her out.

"I rescued her from a cage!" replied Beckmann.  "She has PTSD!"

The FBI agents followed the two outside of the show, confiscated the hand grenades because of Beckmann's well-documented psychiatric illness, then let the two go.

"Damn it!" muttered Beckmann, starting the engine.  "Why do ya always have to draw so much attention to yourself?!"

"Me?!" retorted Brittani.  "You're wearing a baseball cap that says 'F--- the FBI!'"

"That's free speech!"

"So's what I did!"

"Damn, you're a feisty girl!" laughed Beckmann.  "Maybe I can just count on you to be the equivalent of a hand grenade wherever I go!"

As they drove across the river back into D.C., Ardua of the Potomac grinned in pleasure...then killed a few more ducks.

****************************************************
COMING UP:     The Federal Reserve Board 
                               has a new playuh in 2018!

Hours and hours of darkness!

Dr. Ermann Esse had never done a suicide watch before, and he would not have guessed Bridezilla would be his first, but here he was.

"I don't even know if he preferred garland or tinsel, you know?" said Bridezilla, contemplating what to put on her Christmas tree.

"You could put on a little of both," replied the psychiatrist--who had not seen a regular client in a very long time, ever since the CIA had blackmailed him into working for the Agency.

The conjoined miniature guinea pigs (once named Thelma and Louise, then named Flower Girl and Maid of Honor, now back to being called Thelma and Louise) squeaked, and Bridezilla interrupted her tree preparations to go over to their miniature Tudor dream house to pet them.  "I know!  I miss him, too."

It had been a week since she was having dinner with her boyfriend (Esperantu Edward), half-expecting an engagement ring as an early Christmas present.  Instead, he had started hemorrhaging in his brain and had a stroke right in front of her--felled (though she did not know it) by a pro-Putin Russian agent fed up with Esperantu Edward's work on behalf of the émigré resistance.  It was on Thursday that the Prince and Prowling junior attorney had taken a break from burying herself in work to buy her parents Christmas gifts at Union Station.  It was there she had accidentally run into her former shrink (who had been taking a chance that Melania's absence from the White House and her usual routine of getting fitted for clothing and enjoying other naked activities with undercover CIA agent "Gunther Zimmer" [her fashion designer] would result in a lull of CIA handling and allow Dr. Esse ["Gunther Zimmer"] to board a train, skip town, and escape his forced espionage servitude).  Bridezilla's accidental discovery of Dr. Esse at Union Station, followed by her bursting into tears and pouring her heart out to him, had changed everything.

The psychiatrist had seen (and briefly partaken of) many disturbing things, but he could not look at the conjoined guinea pigs without freaking out, so he stood up to hang some tinsel, himself.  "I think you should bring your pets to your parents' house for Christmas, even though they said they don't want them.  Just offer to put them in your old bedroom, out of sight.  That way you can go upstairs to pet them whenever you are feeling stressed."

"I had a dream that God was punishing me because I supported the GOP tax bill," said Bridezilla, still petting Thelma and Louise.

"God is not like that, and certainly would not give your boyfriend a fatal stroke to punish you."

"If Thelma and Louise were people, they would eventually lose the Medicaid needed to survive.  They would be forced to rely on the charity of people like me.  The super rich don't give money to Siamese twin freaks!  They like to spend their money on things they can put their names on:  hospital wings, theater wings, the Halliburton Loophole--"

"The what?"

"It's not important," sighed Bridezilla.  "No, it is important!  It's all important!  I'm being punished!  The Ghost of Christmas Past told me!  I knew that eliminating the Obamacare individual mandate would de-stabilize the health insurance markets, and I just didn't care!  And I lied to Senator Collins about it because I thought it was for the greater good, but it's NOT for the greater good!  And now I'm being punished!"

"We all do things we regret," said the psychiatrist (who once murdered a patient while under the influence of the Cursed Rolex).  "All we can do is learn from our mistakes and move forward."

"I've learnt I'm a horrible person who doesn't deserve love!" Bridezilla sobbed.  "I'm not even gonna tell you what the Ghost of Christmas Present said to me!"

"Didn't the Ghost of Christmas Future say anything hopeful?" asked Dr. Esse.

"He said I'll meet a tall dark stranger next year," she sniffed, "but I filled out the e-Harmony profile, and they told me they cannot accurately predict a match for me!  I'm a bigger freak than these pigs!"

Dr. Esse, who had enjoyed a dozen three-ways in December with Melania and Steven Miller's bodyguard Randy "Bubba" Blaylock (another CIA asset), all in the name of eliciting information on the White House's Slavic underground, no longer considered himself an authority on what constituted freakish behavior.  "Most human beings struggle to find a long-term satisfying romantic partner.  This is actually the normal human condition."

"I'm a FREAK!" insisted Bridezilla.  "I'm a tragic Southern belle, something out of a Tennessee Williams horror show!  And I'll never know if Edward was a lying Russian spy!"

"What?!" exclaimed Dr. Esse, thoroughly startled.

"He knew so many Russians!  And I don't even know what side they were on!  I don't know what side anybody is on!  How am I supposed to trust anybody but these guinea pigs?!  Is it normal for a Russian ambassador to call on a Senator from Alabama?  Is it normal that Putin likes Oliver Stone, Jill Stein, and Ivanka Trump?  Why is Palau our strongest ally at the United Nations now?  What does Palau know about Jerusalem?  And what is the deal with Melania, anyway?   Nothing makes sense to me anymore!"

"Well, Melania, um," faltered Dr. Esse, quite discombobulated.  "Perhaps you could give me the names of the Russians that Edward knew, and I could ask some acquaintances to look into it."

"I can't give you those names!  They were all Prince and Prowling clients he found for me!  We closed the Russia Practice now, but that's all confidential."

"Prince and Prowling had a Russia Practice?"

"Yes," sighed Bridezilla.  "We drank a lot of vodka.  But Breadman doesn't want it anymore, and he's too busy with the--"  She stopped herself in time, and looked furtively at Dr. Esse, only to discover he was staring at the Christmas tree.  "Are you sure you can't come to Christmas with me?"

Dr. Esse was contemplating the mystery of Edward's Russian acquaintances, his sudden death, and whether the CIA already knew about Bridezilla's recent Russian clients.  He shook his head, amazed that he was even contemplating exceeding the already unethical mandate given to him in exchange for CIA silence on his murdered patient.  "I have to stay in Washington, but I encourage you to text me frequently.  I am hoping your family will rise to the occasion and be a source of comfort to you."

"Well, they'll be a source of cookies," Bridezilla whimpered.

Meanwhile, Angela de la Paz and FBI agent Dulles Samuelson were taking advantage of the freakishly warm rain to wash the exterior of their houseboat, Singapore Surprise.  Wearing wet suits and rain hats, they were soaping, scrubbing and laughing their way around the vessel.  (It was an ugly day after an ugly week after an ugly year, but they were in love, after all.)  It was then that a team of FBI agents arrived to search the boat berthed next to theirs, Molotov Cocktail.  One of the agents exchanged a look with Dulles before disappearing into the hold.

"I thought you weren't gonna tell the FBI about those Congressmen on the boat!" whispered Angela

"Let's just say there were some previous concerns about tiptoeing quietly around apparent Russian sympathizers in Congress, but those have recently paled in comparison to the orchestrated media campaign to discredit McCabe, Rosenstein, and Mueller.  I may or may not also have recently acquired a piece of information making it more relevant to take a closer look at Devin Nunes and Dana Rohrabacher, and since they're all out of town right now--"

"Stop!" interrupted Angela.  "Don't tell me!"

"Since when are you so concerned about keeping secrets?!  You're a spy!  Wait, are you keeping secrets from me?"

"That's different, and no," she said, closing her eyes and taking her hat off to let the wet wind whip her hair around.  "It's just...I don't want to know the details until it's all over."

"I get it," he said, putting his arms around her.  (She could send ghosts to purgatory and kill demons, but he had learned a lot about her discouragement and frailties this year)  "I still know very little about Mueller's investigation, but I do know a lot more shoes are going to drop.  It's just going to take time."

Not far away, Barbara Hellmeister was also taking advantage of the unseasonably warm afternoon:  she was sitting in the 14th Street Bridge watch tower quarters that her boyfriend had, for the most part, persuaded her to abandon after her pregnancy had reached the third trimester.  Just weeks to go now, she was hugging her own stomach with eyes closed, feeling the warm drizzle blowing into her face.  She was, more importantly, feeling the soothing presence of Ardua of the Potomac--the demon she still did not realize was just below her.  "This will be genetically perfect," she whispered to herself, thinking about the Hitler DNA-infused Donald Trump sperm she had cloned and implanted in her uterus, and trying not to think about the deformed baby she had given birth to a year ago at Trump National Golf Course.

"Why do you say that?" asked Ricky Chesterfield, startling her.  "Sorry!  Didn't mean to sneak up on you!  Finished the drug sales early.  What do you mean, genetically perfect?  I mean, we're both Aryans and all, but you can't be expecting perfection, honey!  My dad had to wear glasses, and my mom--"

"That's not important," said Barbara impatiently.  She had duped her Charlottesville Klansman into thinking the baby was his, but after it was born and her vulnerable period was over, she would be ready to dump the barely Aryan half-wit.  "I took samples from the amniotic fluid."

"Oh, alright," he said, sitting down next to her to hand her some cheeseburgers.  "The rain is sorta getting in here."

"I love it!" she exclaimed, opening the wrapper eagerly.

Ricky had loved the kinky sex, but this pregnancy was making her weirder and weirder.  He was starting to think he was gonna have to be a man about it and insist they go to South Carolina and stay with family until the baby was born.  "I been thinking, hot mama, that this plan to give birth naturally in our Arlington pad might not be the best plan."  (He was talking about her rented laboratory space, which now had a few domestic accoutrements-- including their bed and a bassinet.)  "Now, I know you're a brilliant scientist and all, and my Congressman told me not to buy Obamacare, and you ain't got insurance, but my mama and aunt know about birthin' babies and--"

"South Carolina?" she interrupted, screwing up her eyes in annoyance.  "Never!"

"I just don't understand you!" he replied.  "You got no family, you said, but you won't meet mine!"

"You are the only one I need!" she answered, as if this were perfectly logical and only a simpleton would question it.  "You bring the meat and this!"  She grabbed his balls in the way she always did when she was about to perform an orgasmic sexual asphyxiation act on him, and he immediately forgot about the baby.

Down below them, Ardua was sad that the shortest day of the year had passed and a little bit more sunlight would appear every day, but she felt stronger than ever.  She smiled, thinking about the hideous creature about to be born to this Nazi woman, and laughed at how distracted Angela had been this year.  2018 could only be better!

****************************************************
COMING UP: The Seekers make their last 2017
effort at Trumpian cult de-programming!

It's a shame.

It had been a very heady year for Esperantu Edward.  First, there was the unexpected romance with Bridezilla, who shared his passion for decorating miniature houses.  While it had taken some time to get used to the fact that she let her conjoined miniature guinea pigs live in hers, this was the least challenging aspect of their relationship!  Triple agent Charles Wu, who had introduced them, had warned Edward in no uncertain terms that she would not stomach dating another secret spy, and he had tried very hard to stay away from that life, but it could not be helped!  Bridezilla's work as a junior partner at Prince and Prowling had required her to develop a Russia practice, and Edward had lovingly used his contacts to gather Russian clients to the law firm on her behalf.  Those clients had, under the cover of networking and forging business relationships, developed a hub of anti-Putin Russian resistance in the Washington area, which was very exciting to Esperantu Edward!  And then the Robert Mueller indictments had started hitting close to the White House, and the law firm had abruptly told Bridezilla to dissolve the Russia practice.

Not only had Edward taken great risks to put together a coalition against Vladimir Putin, he was now exposed to their anger and suspicion about whether he had played them the whole time.  And so he found himself at the end of 2017 working his butt off to win back the trust of the Russian émigré community--which today meant going on a dangerous mission to gather intelligence at one of the Russian embassy staff''s lesser known favorite restaurants up in Tenleytown.  Edward walked in the door, spotted one of the ambassador's aides sitting at the bar, and took a seat on a stool beside him.

Meanwhile, the tumultuous year experienced by the Trump White House staff was finally drawing to a close.  The HIV-positive butler, Clio, amazed she had survived such a stressful year without developing full-blown AIDS, wearily lifted a punch glass to clink with the gardener, Bridge, in the unofficial Christmas party they were having in the East Wing kitchen with a narrow invitee list.

"I have to tell  you, Bridge, I'm gonna miss that Omarosa."  (Bridge snorted.)  "No, I mean it!  She was a complete waste of space, but there were many people who could not tell us apart, and they were nicer to me because of it."

Bridge laughed heartily.  "You don't look anything alike!"

"Oh, but we do!" replied Clio, laughing.  "A couple reporters even tried to ask me questions outside yesterday."

"No, they didn't!"

"I swear!  And it's a shame 'cause, well...."  She left her thoughts unsaid, and sipped some more punch.

"Tiffany gave me a Christmas card yesterday," said Bridge.  "She wanted to thank me for putting a fresh rose on her nightstand every night."

"You didn't do that!"

"Of course not!  But I took that twenty-dollar bill!"

"Marta did that!  She stole a rose out of the baker's dozen in the bouquet delivered daily for Melania."

"So I suppose you want me to give the twenty-dollar bill to Marta?"

"No," replied Clio, smiling at Marta's attempt to teach mambo to one of the sous-chefs.  "Tiffany gave Marta a huge bag of clothes she didn't want anymore."

"She give you something, Clio?"

"She gave me a framed photo of Barron fist-bumping me in the hallway."

"Damn!"

"She gave me a necklace, too."

"Well, that's better," said Bridge.  "What about the Big Cheese and--"

"Nothing, but it's only December sixteenth," said Clio.  "I guess we'll see!"

Bridge snorted again.  "I guess we'll see if they find your secret Twitter account mocking him about trying to have his Roy Moore cake and eat it too!"

"Well, I haven't mocked Melania!" Clio replied.  "Well, not recently."

Meanwhile, over in the West Wing, Mike Pence was entering the Oval Office mere minutes after Trump's helicopter took off.  Some people might think Pence was measuring for new drapes or something, but he liked sitting there waiting for Top Secret folders to be brought in or phone calls to be patched through from world leaders.  He also enjoyed having Karen film little videos of himself sitting at the desk for the grandchildren to look at in the future.  She would hold up sign cards for him to read off what he wanted to say.  Today's video narration went like this:

Mike Pence:  "This was an exciting week in Washington!  We brought several conservative attorneys one step closer to lifetime appointments on the federal bench despite a concerted effort to make them look foolish for not knowing anything about procedural motions or expert testimony or the "Rules of Federal Civil Procedure" or what a trial even looks like.  We brought back "Daily Caller" producer Martina Markota--who was very popular for her Pizzagate conspiracy support!--to dance the Harlem Shake with FCC Chairman Ajit Pai in a video about Internet freedom.  We successfully got out a unified message about how dangerous it is to have two whole attorneys at the FBI who don't like Donald Trump, and how--"

Karen Pence:  "President Trump."

Mike Pence:  "What?"

Karen Pence:  "President Trump.  You said Donald Trump."

Mike Pence:  "You know I can't say that."

Karen Pence:  "Do the other thing.  Rolling and ACTION!"

Mike Pence:  "We successfully got out a unified message about how dangerous it is to have two whole attorneys at the FBI who don't like the President, and how this discredits the entire Mueller investigation no matter how many card-carrying Republicans are staffing it--because they're all Deep State, and corrupt.  Most importantly, we successfully persuaded Little Marco--"

Karen Pence:  "You can't say Little!  Why did you throw in Little?"

Mike Pence:  "Whoops!  I've got his voice in my head!"

Karen Pence:  "Still rolling."

Mike Pence:  "Most importantly, we successfully persuaded Senator Marco Rubio that the Republican tax plan is a winning plan for Florida!  Not sure how we got Senator Corker on board, but maybe it was prayer!  Now some have said it's not appropriate to vote on a tax plan before Doug Jones is sworn in from Alabama, and some have said it's not Christian to schedule a vote while John McCain is in the hospital on the brink of death, but we all must serve the higher plan!"

Just then Tiffany Trump walked in with a suspicious look on her face.

"Oh, hello, Tiffany!" said the Vice President.  "I thought you were already on Christmas vacation."

"I need my 'A Short & Happy Guide to Constitutional Law' that I loaned to Dad.  He said it's somewhere in here.  I'm writing an article to submit to the Georgetown law review."

"What does it look like, dear?" asked Karen.

"It has a yellow happy face on it," replied Tiffany.

"Smart!" said the Vice President.  "That's the kind of stuff he likes reading!"

"Thanks, Uncle Mike," said Tiffany (who knew he preferred to be called "Mr. Vice President").

"Let's see," said the Vice President, rummaging around a credenza.  "'A Dummy's Guide to Public Relations,' a Russian phrase book, 'Fifty Shades of--'"

"Mike!" exclaimed Karen Pence.

"What?" replied Mike Pence.  "It's probably about the Civil War."

"Is this it?" asked Karen, holding up a book with a yellow smiley face.

"That's Barron's book on table manners," said Tiffany.  "Not sure why it's in here."

"Oh, this looks like the occult!" exclaimed the Vice President, showing a book about ghosts to his wife.

"We better confiscate that," she replied.

"You can't confiscate it!" said Tiffany.  "It was a birthday gift from my stepmom."

"Which one?" asked the Vice President.

Tiffany shook her head.  "Melania!  She and Barron have my dad believing there are ghosts in the White House."

"Oh, dear!" said Karen.  "We better invite some people over to pray those spirits out!"

Ghost Dennis, duly alarmed at this prospect, took matters into his own hand and pushed "A Short & Happy Guide to Constitutional Law" off the shelf where it it had been obscured by a naked statue of Lady Liberty.  Unfortunately, both the naked statue and the book bounced off Tiffany's feet in the process.

"Damn it!" exclaimed Tiffany, wincing.

"Language!" cried Karen Pence.

Back in Tenleytown, the Russian ambassador's aide had been drunkenly whispering intelligence secrets into the ear of Esperantu Edward for an hour--or so Edward thought.  The mostly sober aide had been whispering lies, but none of that mattered anyway because what the aide had really been doing was placing a highly lethal virus in Edward's ear, which would cause a brain hemorrhage and stroke within three hours.  (By then, the aide would already be on a plane out of the country.)  As the sun set, Edward--who had an imminent dinner date with Bridezilla--said he must be going.

Edward wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck and headed out into the last cold night of his life, feeling good.  A nearby catbird started imitating the sound of a leaf blower, while a raven watched the doomed man's departure in silence.

****************************************************
COMING UP:       
Hours and hours of darkness! 

GOP gives Bad Santa a run for his money.

Congressman Paul Ryan was finding it increasingly difficult to balance his responsibilities as an Ayn Randian Speaker of the House with his memberships in both the Russia and Zombie Caucuses.  He had just finished meeting with the Russia Caucus--which was up in arms about (a) Iowa Congressman Steve King's attacks on anybody with a foreign accent ("what matters is white skin!"), (b) Trump's failure to Tweet in support of Paul Manafort's right to use KGB buddies to defend himself from the Justice Department ("how many people is Trump gonna throw under the bus?!"), and (c) the forced relocation of the Russia Suite from the opulent Trump International Hotel to the decidedly dull Capital Hilton ("I can't do hooker jelly shots with cheap vodka!").  He was now walking into a shit storm at the Zombie Caucus meeting.

"Paul, you can't cut Social Security and Medicare!  Nobody's easier to feed on than frail elderly!  We need them to stay alive!"

"Or Medicaid!  When I'm really hungry, nothing is easier than lying in wait in a handicapped restroom stall!"

"And how could you support reciprocal concealed carry?  If people blow each other's brains out with handguns, that is robbing our food supply!"

"And why are you letting Secretary of Interior Zinke take Grand Staircase-Escalante land out of the National Monument and handing it over to the petroleum industry?  Patagonia is right:  this is stealing our land!"  (Everybody turned in surprise to look at the woman who said this.)  "Well, it was where my husband proposed to me!"

"Didn't you eat him?"

"That's not the point!"

"Look," said Speaker Ryan, feeling peckish at all this talk of feeding, "everybody has to make compromises to please our campaign donors."

"You suck!"

Ryan frowned but continued.  "The fact is, we all have to consider whether our way of life is sustainable.  Whose brains are we eating today?  Whose brains are we eating tomorrow?  Whose brains are we eating in the years to come?  I have encouraged people to take personal responsibility for learning to feed without creating new zombies in the process, but some Americans insist on feeding, feeding, feeding without any long-term planning."

"Eat the rich!"

"Eat the Koch Brothers!"

"Eat Sheldon Adelson!"

"See, that make no sense," replied Speaker Ryan (who Nancy Pelosi once called a lovely man who is wrong about everything).  "First of all, there are only a few of them!  One percent of the American population!  Secondly, if they don't fund my reelection campaign, I'll have to return to a small town in Wisconsin where I'll run out of brains to eat in about two weeks.  Now, all they ask is a massive tax cut, and we need to give it to them."

"It's gonna explode the deficit!"

"Yes, but I've got a top-secret long-term plan for that.  First, we cut entitlements because I've been promising Ayn Rand that for a very long time."

"She's dead!"

"Oh, she talks to me every night in my dreams!" insisted Speaker Ryan.  "The second stage is that the Chinese will refuse to keep loaning us money, and they'll call in the debt.  They'll send over politicians and bankers to collect it, and we'll just eat them.  Then they'll send more, and we'll eat them.  See?  They have over a billion people in China, so I figure they can keep sending over bill collectors for decades, even hundreds of years, and we can eat all their brains."

"I don't like Chinese food."

Meanwhile, over in McLean, CIA Director Mike Pompeo was reading another report from a Chinese spy on negotiations with North Korea when he was interrupted by yet another phone call from Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, which he put on speaker phone.

"The Dems want a briefing on how bad the Middle East is gonna blow up!  Why couldn't you talk the goddamn moron out of moving the embassy to Jerusalem?!"

"It's a Hanukkah gift to Jared and Ivanka," replied Pompeo.  "He had to go big, because Ivanka's really pissed off about Trump's campaigning for Roy Moore.  I mean, who the Hell campaigns for a pro-slavery statutory rapist just before attending the opening of a Mississippi civil rights museum?"

"Oh, don't give me that bull-caca!  It's for his lunatic evangelical base that think the Jews need to be in Jerusalem before Christ will return--and God only knows why evangelicals can't recognize that Steve Bannon is the anti-Christ.  Didn't you tell Trump it would light a powder keg all over the Middle East to move the embassy to Jerusalem?"

"Of course I did, Rex!" retorted Pompeo.  "He thinks it will subside over time."

"Our embassy personnel are already at risk in Beirut, of all places!  Israel's killing Palestinians.  And now I've got Democrats demanding to discuss the safety of American citizens abroad after Trump Tweeted those inflammatory anti-Muslim messages!"

"Look, Rex, tell those Dems the threat was always there, and Trump's just bringing it up to the surface where we can deal with it."

"Deal with it?  Deal with it?  I don't know what kind of CIA fantasy you're hatching to deal with it, but over in the real world of diplomacy, every goddamn Middle Eastern ambassador is pissing all over me right now!  What are we gonna do if our ambassadors and troops get expelled from Iraq, Kuwait, Qatr, Saudi Arabia?  Iran will win!"

"I've got bigger things to worry about right now!" exclaimed Pompeo, scratching under his Cursed Rolex.  "Is North Korea gonna nuke us?  Can Trump and Judge Pirro order me to use CIA agents to purge the FBI?  Is this skin rash serious?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?!"

"It's a little red and flaky."

"Not that, you moron!  You can't use CIA agents to purge the FBI!"

"Are you sure?  I feel like nobody here is being straight with me about what I can order CIA agents to do.  And every time I try to learn more about an investigation, I'm told 'way undercover, boss' or 'off the ranch, boss', and they give me nothing."

"Yes, I'm sure!  Leave the FBI alone.  Mike, just give me some statistics I can tell these Dems about risk level for Americans abroad."

"Tell them to stay home," replied Pompeo, hanging up the phone.

He took the Rolex off to apply ointment, but the watch immediately started whispering to him, so he lifted it to his ear to listen.  "I knew it!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air.  "I'll send the CIA in to clean up the goddamn FBI!"  He was now scratching his wrist furiously.

In the control room where Pompeo's office was being monitored on hidden camera, an agent shook his head and phoned his boss to discuss a new contingency plan.

Across the river, in Cleveland Park, Felix and Liv Cigemeier had just put their son Lucas down for his nap, and Liv had started packing for her International Development Machine trip to the U.S. Virgin Islands with IDM President Augustus Bush.

"Is this one of those sexual harassment things?" asked Felix Cigemeier.  "How can your boss be taking you to the United States Virgin Islands on International Development Machine business?"

"Robert can't go because he's got the flu, and Momzilla--"

"Yeah, I understand all that, but, you do international development work."

"I don't know!  We got a huge grant to rebuild housing and put in some health clinics."

"How?  How could you get a government grant like that?"

"Sometimes you're such a lawyer!" smiled Liv, pulling short-sleeved blouses out of the closet.  "I only wish it were Puerto Rico--the government is still neglecting them."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Felix.  "Doesn't this smell like some kind of Republican slush fund for Augustus Bush?  And his Bush clan in the U.S. Virgin Islands?  Which probably paid a bribe to--"

"I thought you said it was a sexual harassment thing!"

"One or the other!" replied Felix.  "You're gonna be calling me tomorrow hollering '#MeToo' or complaining that IDM seems to be helping rich people instead of poor people down there!"

"Well, Augustus is too smart to harass the wife of a lawyer, but I promise you, I will be on the lookout for the latter."  She approached Felix for a hug.  "And, incidentally, are you now an expert on Republican slush funds?  If so, how?"

"Um--"

"Never mind."

In the next room, Angela de la Paz had already entered the Dreamtime of her birth son, Lucas.  "Felix is alright," she told him.  "He hasn't lost his soul...yet."

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COMING UP:       
Esperantu Edward versus Putin's thugs!

The Diary of Jared Kushner

Dear Diary,

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!!!!!!

Why is this happening to me?!  All I wanted to do was be a good husband and son-in-law, and get super rich!  What's so wrong with that?

I was having a nice relaxing week, playing single dad while Ivanka was doing her photo ops in India.  I got to read the bedtime story!  I let the kids eat cheeseburgers and French fries!  I got online and ordered them the Hanukkah gifts they wanted!  I let them stay up late watching cartoons!  I even let them watch "Pocahontas", and told them sometimes Grampa Trump makes a mistake, but he's the President!

Then the nanny came on to me, and I had to fire her, and she's probably gonna accuse me of #MeToo sexual harassment, and how will I get Ivanka to believe me?  The nanny was probably wearing a wire for "The New York Times", but how can I prove that!?  I had to make up a lie about why I fired the nanny!  The kids loved that nanny!  I had to drop the kids off the next day with Eric and Lara at the hotel, and they hate Eric and Lara!  They only like Aunt Tiffany.  They wanted to go to the Christmas Tree lighting with Aunt Tiffany last night, and how was I supposed to know they'd spend the whole time asking where all the people are?  Who put out all those empty chairs?  It's a conspiracy to embarrass us ALL THE TIME! 

Why don't they love us?!  I'm busting my ass flying to the Middle East constantly--where all the damned TERRORISTS and REFUGEES are--and I make deals with the Saudis even though they HATE JEWS!  But does anybody give me credit for it?  NO!  I'm creating EQUITY FOR THE FAMILY!  I'm creating peace in the Middle East, too!  It will be very peaceful after this Yemen thing is crushed, and Iran, and Qatar, too.  Syria's a lost cause, but, hey, nobody can blame ME for THAT!  Last night there was a huge party celebrating 40 years of peace between Israel and Egypt, and did the lamestream media cover it?  NO!  And 40 years from now, will they give me credit for giving Saudi Arabia the greenlight to starve out the Houthi people and lock up political dissenters?  NO!

And I'm re-shaping government!  And negotiating a better NAFTA!  And who fired the White House exterminator and ordered new ones?  Me!  I also got rid of the white legal pads and replaced them with yellow ones.  I have to do EVERYTHING at the White House!  What does Omarosa do?  NOTHING!  What does Kellyanne do?  NOTHING!  What does Melania do?  NOTHING!  She can't even do Christmas decorations right!  What was she thinking?

I do EVERYTHING, but it's never enough!  They're always coming after me!  Last night I had a dream that I was going through the airport, and somebody had a gorilla android robot they were trying to take on my plane, and I said, ARE YOU CRAZY?  I made the airport security call the bomb squad, and they put him in the room where they explode suspicious packages, and it SURVIVED THE DYNAMITE!  And then the gorilla came up to the shatterproof glass and screamed at us:  "You will regret this!  You will regret this!"  Like a real gorilla, or a real person!  And I woke up IN TERROR!  It was a hundred times worse than the dream where Nana is being fed into the Holocaust oven because I did not speak out about Charlottesville.  Is that gorilla Robert Mueller?  Is it that guy that works for Kislyak who scares the shit out of me?  WHO IS THE GORILLA COMING FOR ME?!

I woke up today thinking we were going to pass the greatest tax millionaire tax cuts in U.S. history, and people would finally start giving us respect for MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, and I find out MIKE FLYNN MADE A DEAL WITH ROBERT MUELLER!  WHAT THE HELL?!  What is he saying?!  What is he telling them?!  You can't rat out Russian mobsters--THEY WILL KILL US ALL!

I promised Dad I would never go to prison, but maybe that's the only way to stay alive!  OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!  They're going to take away my provisional security clearance!  I'll have to work from home and listen to the tutor's stupid Chinese nursery rhyme songs all day long!  Will I lose Secret Service protection?  I can't go jogging without protection!  I'll have to use the treadmill in the basement, and whenever I do that down there, right when I'm feeling the burn and I'm SUPPOSED to get the runner's high, he always comes at me!  That horrible slave ghost with the shackles on!  And then I know I'm dehydrated and have to stop to drink water, and I never get my runner's high!  I need Secret Service!  I need

OH GOD!  They're saying Flynn named me.  FLYNN NAMED ME!  This isn't fair!  I've gotta call my lawyer!

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COMING UP:      
Bad Santa takes over the GOP!