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 ....

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

When it rains, it pours.

Former Senator Evermore Breadman was in a sour mood. First of all, his wife had called to tell him that her Mercedes had been struck by lightning on Chain Bridge. Breadman was not one to care what the hell his wife did when he was at his Prince and Prowling office, nor did he want to know why she was on Chain Bridge, but he really thought she had more sense than to leave the house in the midst of a violent thunderstorm. Or had she already been out and was now on her way home? And why did she call him, anyway, instead of AAA? What did she expect him to do about it? Then there was this snowballing Koch brothers fiasco. It was bad enough that the far-left liberals had gotten hold of the guest list and audio tape from the millionaire's club June meeting in Colorado, but the story was getting dangerously close to the mainstream, and the spin was that Charles Koch had called Barak Obama "Saddam Hussein" and referred to the presidential campaign of 2012 as the "mother of all wars". (What kind of nimrod says that and does not expect a tape recording to leak out?!) The real problem was that it was not just millionaires and Glenn Beck types and Rush Limbaugh types who attended, and he didn't care if fat cat New Jersey governor Chris Christie was there, nor the obscure Florida governor, but if the mainstream media picked up on the attendance of presidential hopeful Rick Perry, this was a major problem. The Obama reelection campaign had already trumpeted the news to its base, and it was not inconceivable that the question would be raised in the next Republican presidential debate. And he had no defensive spin to offer Perry, even though a third of the millionaire's club was phoning him incessantly about the issue. It was one thing to give political consulting to businessmen who needed a wise Washington insider, but it was getting to the point where complete morons were calling him up for advice. How could he help people who were that transparent about buying an election? (Or am I old-fashioned?)

In her new partner's office nearby, Bridezilla was thrilled to have enough space for an elliptical machine and weights apparatus. Armando, her increasingly flirtatious personal trainer, would read case materials out loud to her while she exercised. If she had to be on the computer, he would use that time to massage her neck and shoulders, or crawl under her spacious desk and massage her feet and ankles. (He had started massaging her knees and quadraceps one time, but she had giggled and said he better save that for the evening session.) When she was on the phone, he set it up on speaker and led her through a series of yoga stretches. Armando fed her small snacks and protein drinks throughout the day, and she was never tired or hungry. She could bill eleven hours/day while scarcely noticing the time go by--except for days when she had to bathe and dress for a meeting, but Armando would close her door and sponge-bathe her in five minutes flat (she didn't mind his seeing her nude because he really did need to in order to evaluate her progress), and then she would throw on a silk dress, jacket, and lipstick, and be on her way. She had never felt more alive, energetic, and productive in her entire life!

Several miles to the north, real estate mogul Calico Johnson was waiting for the moment he would feel more alive and energetic--because after a thunderstorm passes, his new neighbor had said, the air is charged with negative ions that recharge our mental batteries. His gorgeous blond neighbor had told him this during his hurricane party--the one in which he had conveniently forgotten to invite anybody but her, but had stilled failed to score. (All he had to show for the hurricane was several down trees and three empty propane tanks from running his generator.) Now he was hunkered down in his neighbor's small barn, where Johnson had gently led his neighbor's pet cow to her stall at the first sound of thunder. But his lovely Potomac Manors neighbor wasn't even at home! Here he was, stuck in a barn with senior citizen Mega Moo for what could be hours, and she wasn't even home! Sometimes he felt as if he could never catch a break. Like when he paid the money for that millionaire's seminar in Colorado, and it was all about hitting people up for political contributions, and nothing was about how to increase his own wealth! Sure, the right politicians might lower his taxes, but there was no guarantee of that--they didn't tell him one single thing that would increase his own income this year! (MOOOOOO!) Johnson looked at Mega Moo, appalled. "You really do have the loudest moo on the farm, don't you?"

Back downtown, Bo was not taking the thunderstorm any better. "Bo had never had trouble with thunderstorms before," they told dog whisperer Sebastian L'Arche, "but that changed with the hurricane." Becky Hartley (who had begged L'Arche to get her screened for the White House just in case they ever needed him again) was deliriously excited to be inside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, even if they were in the basement. This too shall pass, L'Arche was whispering to the Portuguese water dog, who continued to shake out his fur even though there was not a drop of water left from his morning excursion. (No, it won't, said Bo.) The dog's eyes were darting around the room, as if he had never conquered his fear of ghosts. What are the ghosts doing? whispered L'Arche. The thunder crashed again, and Bo jumped into Hartley's arms. (They talk to him all night long, while he's asleep. If I try to wake him up to warn him, he gets mad at me! If I bark at them to chase them away, the First Lady gets mad at me! What am I supposed to do?) L'Arche nodded and looked deeply into the dog's eyes. Tell me what they say to him, whispered L'Arche.

A couple miles away, John Doe was perched on the Roosevelt Island beach, screaming at the roiling water: "Tell me what you say to them!" The attire of the brain-damaged former attorney was raggedy on a good day, but looked in danger of coming off in wet pieces when the Coast Guard cutter approached.

"Do you need assistance, sir?" asked the first mate, but Marcos Vazquez could now recognize who it was and shook his head.

"I've seen this guy before--he has temporal lobe epilepsy," said Vazquez to the first mate.

"No, I don't!" said John Doe, whose temporal lobe epilepsy had led him to have super hearing. "I am an autistic mystic!" (He had been watching a lot of documentaries lately, and had decided this made more sense.) "I'm a shaman! It is my duty to free us from the evil spirits suffocating Washington!" (His helping dog Lucky Charm was lying quietly on the beach, scanning the skies for lightning; his usual job responsibility was mitigating epileptic seizures, and he didn't worry about harmless crazy talk.)

"Why don't you and your dog come inside and dry off?" said the first mate.

"Dry off?! Are you mad?! I am the one who has summoned the cleansing rain!" (Thunder boom on cue.) "Feel the power!"

"OK, buddy, I think you better come off the island now. We'll grab your canoe in a minute."

John Doe knew that when they switched from "sir" to "buddy", it usually meant he would be put back in the hospital, so he took off running into the woods, and Lucky Charm ran after him.

"Now what?" asked the first mate.

"Just leave him," said Vazquez, a Puerto Rican. "A little rain never hurt anybody." But Vazquez knew that John Doe wasn't up against only rain.

Up in the trees, the Warrior and Angela de la Paz watched the activity below and pondered Ardua's next move.

COMING UP: 9/11 legacies.


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