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 ....

Monday, July 15, 2013

Spies Like Us

The ghost of Henry Samuelson floated unannounced into Cedric's bedroom at the Arlington group home for the mentally challenged.  ("Gaaaaaaaaa!" was the somewhat inarticulate reaction of Cedric.)  "Oh, settle down!" scolded Ghost Henry.  "Stop being a drama queen!"  Millie (the big brown dog) raced in to confront Ghost Henry, but she held her tongue, unsure if he was really a threat.  "I'm worried that Edward Snowden is ready to release the UFO files," said Ghost Henry.  ("Gaaaaaaaaaa!" repeated Cedric.)  "Would you get a grip?!  I can't get any assistance from John Doe--who says the world has a right to see the secret UFO files--so it's up to you!  You still have that girlfriend in Moscow?"

"No," lied the former CIA spook, who had been pretending he was British ever since Ghost Henry came back from the grave.  "My girlfriend lives in Cheswick-on-Rye." 

"You just made that up!" said Ghost Henry.

"No, I didn't, old chap," said Cedric, clutching his teddy bear tightly.  "Aloysius can tell you all about Cheswick-on-Rye."  He looked at the bear as if expecting it to join the conversation.

"Are you hearing me?" cried Ghost Henry.  "The UFO files!  If the truth gets out there, it's game over--China wins!"

Cedric contemplated this carefully while stroking Aloysius with one hand and Millie with the other.  "Well, I might be able to persuade Camilla to take a trip to Moscow," he said, "but she's not a spring chicken anymore.  Even with her exquisite beauty, do you think a 28-year-old could seduce Snowden?"

"Seduce him?  I want him wiped off the face of the Earth!  Him and whatever files he has in his possession!  My Ghost CIA refuses to go in there--says UFO files belong in the public domain, and how else will they learn to advance to a higher level of consciousness?  Bunch a nut jobs!  What's wrong with this level of consciousness?  You don't hear me complaining about it!"

"Yes, you do--all the time," retorted Cedric.

"Look, buddy, you've got a pretty comfortable little set-up here in Arlington!  You don't have bills to pay or questions to answer!  When was the last time you did something for your country?"

"Oh, it's for my country?" asked Cedric.  "Why didn't you say so before!  But why did Queen Elizabeth send you?"

A few miles to the east, the State Department's Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope was also making an appeal to aid the United States--but his appeal was to a Chinese spy.  "Everything's been going downhill since the Secretary's wife was hospitalized," whispered the man also known as "P.P. Blu-Prag" (Point Person for Blunt Pragmatism).  "Kerry is getting more pragmatic than ever.  He doesn't care how we get from point A to B--he just wants us to get there."

"Understood," said Charles Wu, who feared his Prada silk slacks were sticking to something on the seat of his Froggy Bottom chair. 

"We were this close to intervening in Syria, but now it's gotten away from us," said P.P. Blu-Prag, gulping wildly at his beer.  "The Gulf Arabs just purchased Egypt like it's another Mediterranean yacht.  Bashir is jetsetting around Africa with impunity.  Edward Snowden does as he pleases, and have I mentioned that Afghanistan and Iraq look like they never had any U.S. intervention?"

"No need to mention that," said Wu frankly, stabbing suspiciously at the so-called salad in front of him.

"And I'm supposed to explain everything to Chuck Hagel!  Me!  The guy turns red in the face every time he sees me coming, and believe me, he shoots the messenger!  And now we've got more to worry about," said P.P. Blu-Prag.  "I'm up to my neck in reports on international neo-Marxists breeding unrest around the globe.  I mean, on the one hand, great, they'll beat up some Islamic militants along the way, but on the other hand, not exactly a horse we can bet on!"

Wu put down his fork.  "Neo-Marxists?"

"Yes," said P.P. Blu-Prag.  "Greece, Nepal, Argentina, Tanzania--they're on every continent.  We've got intelligence showing that they're gearing up for revolutions so radical they'll make Bolivia look like a free market champion.  U.S. commerce could be shut out of a dozen markets.  We are losing the war for hearts and minds, Charles!  We could really use some help from the Chinese--Hell, China is the poster child for one-upping Karl Marx, right?"

"Right," said Wu cautiously.  This is too easy, he thought with suspicion.  "Who gave you that intelligence?"

"I can't divulge that," said P.P. Blu-Prag.

"You mean, you can't divulge that, or the source won't divulge to you?"

"I don't know," confessed P.P. Blu-Prag.

"This is just a distraction," said Wu, with more than a little sympathy.  "Whoever's telling you this is just trying to miscue you.  There are no more international Marxists.  Nobody needs Karl Marx to tell them they're poor--the Internet tells them that.  What you need," added Wu, "is to show them that American values are the answer to poverty.  Free trade, my friend," concluded Wu, who had his own particular definition of what that meant.  "In the long run, it's still the best policy."  (Wu had every expectation that violent redistributions of wealth would continue until the day he died, but there was no reason to blame Marx for it.)

"Thanks," said P.P. Blu-Prag, feeling radically reassured, though later he would not remember why.

Several miles to the north, Liv Cigemeier was thinking about blogging on neo-Marxism, but lost her nerve.  Instead she posted another Tweet about the U.N.'s Malala Day celebrations.  It was true that she was sitting at home because International Development Nerds could no longer pay her, but she did not want to let down her 100,000 "Girl Hurl" Twitter followers just because the FBI had gotten IDN's bank accounts frozen. 

Next door, Mia (a Girl Hurl follower and employee of Charles Wu), read the latest Tweet from Cigemeier, as a life-vest-cocooned Buffy Cordelia splashed happily in her backyard kiddie pool.  Then the toddler hurled her pink rubber ball all the way over the wall.  Cigemeier--who had seen this unfold during her twentieth restless look out the upstairs office window--headed outside to retrieve the ball.  Mia put down her phone and jumped at the little girl, making her burst out laughing.  "Why did you do that to your ball!?" scolded Mia, leaning down for a quick kiss.

"I can toss it back to you," called Cigemeier over the tall wooden fence.

"No, no!" exclaimed Mia, who could not see Cigemeier but had seen her before.  "Why don't you come around?  I have lemonade!"  Maybe she can babysit!

A mile away, the Warrior walked down the Rock Creek Park trail, holding Angela de la Paz's hand like a little child.  He was riddled with guilt that he had not seen her in so long, and not sure she had heard a single word he had said all morning, but the fact she was letting him hold her hand spoke volumes.  "You are on a new path now," he said.  "I grieve for your lost love, but where one has fallen, another has risen."

"What do you mean?" she said, stopping to look at him.

"Don't you know?" he asked.  "Your man has left you with child." She dropped his hand and fainted dead away.  "And so the motherless girl becomes a mother," he whispered, sitting down with her head in his lap.  "The seed of love grows to crowd out the sapling of hate."

Up in the tree branches, a flock of starlings full of hate flew off to consult with Ardua of the Potomac, while a pink warbler flew down to the ground to serenade Angela de la Paz back awake.


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