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 27, 2014

A Beautiful Day for a--

Bridezilla was smiling gleefully as the wedding photographer took another photo of her clutching her bouquet in front of the Air Force memorial.  (They had already spent four hours touring all the significant memorials and picturesque sites in the region, and were finally winding down to the actual ceremony in Alexandria.)

"What about the Masonic Temple?" suggested Bridezilla.

"I think we need to wrap it up," said Laura Moreno, the hapless staff attorney who had inadvertently become her wedding planner.  (Moreno was hopped up on nasal spray and Vaseline, but after four hours out in the morning pollen of April, her sinuses were berserk, and her patience at its limit.)  "And you'll want some photos with your maid of honor--and the flower girl before she messes up her dress."

"Oh, right," said the Prince and Prowling junior partner, regaining focus and handing her bouquet to Moreno.  "Caitlin's probably whining for Goldfish by now.  Where's the limo?"



"Your flower girl's name is Catherine."

A few miles away, Catherine was, in fact, at the church and whining for Goldfish, but her mother had tied a big apron around her neck, so there was no trouble brewing there....

A few miles to the east, however, Giuliana Sunstream looked at the GI Joe clock nervously.  "We're gonna be late for the wedding, Glenn!"  She grabbed the electrostatic duster she kept handy and made some more swipes at his entertainment center.  How does this man generate so much dust?

In his Southwest Plaza bedroom, Glenn Michael Beckmann was busy hiding weapons all over his body.  Nag, nag, nag!  He couldn't deny that having her around while he was recovering from two broken feet had been wonderful, but she was such a nag!  And constantly questioning his decorating style--which she said was not remotely as interesting as the decorating he blogged about online!  It had been pretty tough hiding the truth from her--that Beckmann's Floral Cushions was an elaborate front for Beckmann's Bad Asses, and his entire blog was written in code!  (And sometimes he forgot that, anyway, and they would get into heated debates about the relative virtues of leaded and unleaded crystal, or the relative auras of ferns and ficus trees.)  She had replaced all his heavy velvet curtains with paisley window treatments, had a 6 a.m. junk crew sneak away the snakeskin couch he had bought on eBay for $300 from Metallica's first drummer, and put cozies made out of recycled Versace sweaters on every appliance in the kitchen!  He sighed.  Well, she cooked great, was easy on the eyes, and a demon in bed!  So he had to put up with her.  Thank goodness she firmly believed in separate closets and had never found his weapons cache!

"Glenn!" hollered Sunstream, who really was demonic in the sack--because her cursed Rolex had sealed them into a most unnaturally passionate relationship.

"Coming, sweet pea!"

"Why do you look so...lumpy?  I just ironed those clothes two hours ago!"

"Nobody will be looking at me when I'm next to you, Giuliana!"

"So who's this guy we're picking up?"

"Just a client," said Beckmann.  "He's dying to see the old-money Virginia mansion they're having the reception in."  (This was a lie:  the client had hired Beckmann's Bad Asses for protection because he was worried about being attacked at the wedding.)

"Ooh!" sighed Sunstream.  "Georgian or Louis XIV furniture?"

"And here I thought you were a modern, trendy woman!"

Back at the church, Congressman John Boehner had arrived an hour early--after being deliberately mis-scheduled by his Chief of Staff in the vain hope that the Speaker of the House could use the time in productive conversation with former Senator Evermore Breadman and other partners at Prince and Prowling.  But, no, here he was trapped in an awkward conversation with his psychiatrist, Dr. Ermann Esse, terrified that somebody would overhear something that did not sound like a purely social chit chat.

"I was a little concerned about the tone of your speech yesterday," said Dr. Esse.  "I feel we may need more work on your anger issues."

"It's politics, Doc!" exclaimed Boehner.  Then he looked around nervously and lowered his voice:  "Are you a guest of the groom or the bride?"

"I am the guest of a guest," lied Dr. Esse.  "How are you doing with your resolution to read all the details in the defense appropriations rider?"

"Well, um, I'm working on it."

"And did you invite Congressman Ryan to your manhole poker party with the boys?"

"It's a man cave, Doc, not a manhole!  I did invite him, but he said he had to go to the gym.  I think he's afraid of whiskey!  And he's obsessed with his own muscles.  A man of his age!  It's embarrassing."

"Hmm.  I think I remember President Reagan bragging about his muscles, too."

"You're comparing Ryan to Reagan?  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"Oh, no.  By that logic I would have to compare you to LBJ."

Boehner screwed up his eyes in suspicion.

Then Buddy Lee Trickham arrived, with his strange posse mix of good ole boys from Mississippi, solemn professors from Georgetown University, and three literary pals from New York.  They spilled out of their stretch limo, and Trickham immediately started working the crowd still milling outside the church in the warm sunshine.  "Thank y'all for comin'! === Aunt Sookie!  Don't you look like a rainbow?! === Cigemeier and the missus!  Where's that bouncing baby boy? === Mama!  You're gonna outshine my bride in that beautiful gown! === What?  Aw, c'mon, the magnolia trees aren't that puny here!"

Gradually, the guests were persuaded to go into the church and listen to the harpist being paid $600 to play ethereal music.  (Bridezilla had insisted there would be no country music until the reception.)  Beckmann and Sunstream slid into the back of the church with "John Smith" (who had some mysterious clothing lumps of his own).  When Moreno texted Bridezilla that all the important people were there, and got the text affirmation back, she signaled the organist to begin the wedding march.  A couple minutes later, Bridezilla was at the altar, and even her psychiatrist (Dr. Esse) was starting to wonder if this was the wedding that would actually happen....

Then came everybody's favorite part:  did anybody object?  And breaths were sucked in all over the church.

"I object!" shouted lumpy "John Smith", jumping to his feet and rushing out into the center aisle.

"I object more!" shouted Wince (Bridezilla's very first fiance' from all those years ago!), and he threw down the video camera he had stolen from the real wedding photographer (currently waking up in his van with a real shiner) and strode resolutely up to Bridezilla.

"Hey!" shouted John Smith, fumbling for his lumps.

"I love you more than anybody!" shouted Wince to Bridezilla, who had turned whiter than her Donna Karan wedding gown.  (Moreno had found it secondhand on Craigslist--because of the tight budget Bridezilla's father had insisted on this time around.)  "I've always loved you!  Everything I ever did was to make the world a better place for you to live in!  Every Supreme Court opinion I ever wrote for Justice Prissy Face was to get rid of the vermin and terrorists and criminals and welfare cheats and gun haters that try to make this country a shithole!  Every time he voted for freedom and the pursuit of happiness, it was a vote for you!  Last night I saw a secret report predicting that the Keystone Pipeline won't be approved by Congress, and we'll all be shivering in the dark, so I'm sorry I haven't succeeded in making this country perfect yet, but I'll never stop trying!"

"Well, thanks for the guns, man, but she's a bitch!" shouted John Smith.  "And so are the rest of 'em!"  And with that he pulled out two handguns and started shooting at every Prince and Prowling attorney he could see.  Since more than a couple were packing heat, Smith was soon under fire himself--but Beckmann was on the job, firing at several shooters until he decided it would be better to use his combination nerve/tear gas.  He grabbed Smith and pulled him quickly towards the exit as the gas spread rapidly behind them.  (Unfortunately, since he was a professional totally focused on rescuing his client, he forgot that this girlfriend was now getting gassed.)

Up at the altar, Bridezilla was bent over Wince, who had, truth be told, jumped in front of her to take a bullet.  "Wince!  Wince!"  (Not that Trickham would not have jumped in front of her, but he was simply in shock!  And he had the slow reflexes of a tenured English professor.)  "Wince!  Wince!"

Will she really never get married? thought Dr. Esse, as the gas reached him in the second pew and he passed out.

And somewhere in the fourth pew, a staff attorney / wedding planner who had not had a day off in two weeks smiled at the cloud of gas coming her way, twitched a couple of times, then happily closed her eyes and dropped her head into the nearest lap.

Near the back of the church, a wedding crasher pulled the cursed Rolex off of the fainting Sunstream's wrist, put it on, and tried to rush for the exit before succumbing to the gas.

Outside the church, a flock of excited starlings watched John Smith's escape, then flew off to report the mayhem to Ardua of the Potomac.

COMING UP:  Who got shot, and who got arrested?


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