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 10, 2016

The Panama Root Canal

The Tarantula's hack-and-release of the Panama Papers was the most brilliant feat triple agent Charles Wu had orchestrated in some time.  Not only was it causing consternation among several world political leaders (and the universally detested Chinese "brother-in-law"), it had caused a stampede of millionaires to Prince and Prowling's offices in Washington, Beijing and elsewhere to set up off-shore accounts someplace "safer". First the triumphs from the nuclear safety summit and now this?!  Wu was feeling positively splendid.

"It's an absolute disgrace!" tut-tutted his English nanny, Mrs. Prudence Higgety-Cheshire, over her tea and buttered scones.  "I've paid taxes to the Crown my entire life!  Leona Helmsley was right:  only the little people pay taxes!"

"The little people have unicorns!" said her charge, Buffy Cordelia ("Delia"), paying more attention to her small figurines than her tort.

"That's right, princess!" said Wu.  (He only spoke to his daughter in Chinese when the nanny was not around.)

"The little people have unicorns to distract themselves from how the rich and powerful are sticking us with the bill every time!" exclaimed the nanny.

"Well, I pay taxes," said Wu, who prided himself both on being in the category "rich and powerful" and on being somebody who did pay taxes on some of his earnings.  (But there was really no feasible way to pay taxes on the kinds of transactions the spy earned most of his money from!)

"People in government getting salaries paid by taxes should be paying taxes themselves!" declared Mrs. H-C.

"Oh, I agree entirely," said Wu.

A funny smile suddenly spread across his nanny's face.  "You had something to do with this, didn't you?!"

Wu shook his head with a laugh.  "A spy never tells!"  (He hid most of his espionage activity from his nanny, but he didn't mind her speculating on this topic.)

"You cheeky monkey!" Mrs. H-C tut-tutted.

"You cheeky monkey!" little Delia echoed.

Meanwhile, Kevin "Monkey" Mundy was spending another day off panning for gold and diamonds in Rock Creek Park.  But this time the DC Water employee had brought mercury ("quicksilver"!) to speed his enterprise.  He wasn't entirely certain how to use it since most of the agency's resource materials on mercury concerned its dangers as a water pollutant or methods for cleaning it up--not how to use it to flush out precious minerals.  He pulled up a pot of silt, poured some mercury into it, then watched impatiently.  The cursed Rolex glinted malevolently in the sunshine on his wrist, taunting him to find more...more...more!  He swished the silt around, watching the mercury diffusing through the water.  Nothing!  He dumped the pot downstream of his wading boots, then walked to a slightly different spot to pull up more silt.  His entire body was cold and aching from the dampness.  "Indians," a voice whispered to him.  "Make the Indians tell you where the gold is...."  He dumped the remainder of the mercury in the creek, almost hoping it would kill fish and frogs, scratched under his cursed Rolex, then stomped out of the frigid waters.  "Those damned super rich people!" he shouted to the squirrels and field mice.  "It's my turn!"

"We are super rich people!" Dick Cheney was saying a mile away, trying to calm down the members of the Heurich Society.  "This is simply a temporary setback!"

"Well, I'm not super rich!" exclaimed a member from the Navy.  "I've done everything I was asked to do here!  I don't even have enough money to buy a Lamborghini or a third home yet, let alone set up offshore accounts in Panama!  I can barely afford to finance the Mediterranean and Caribbean cruises my wife demands taking every time I am back on a nuclear sub!  And I've got to buy her diamonds every time I return to shore!"

"That's pretty sloppy," said the international arms dealer.  "She's going to get suspicious if you keep spending that kind of money on her."

"I have to!" he retorted.  "Anyway, she thinks I do drug-running for the CIA: she doesn't suspect anything else."

"Well, that's a relief," said the international banker.

"None of our individual names are on the Panama accounts," Cheney said, trying to chair the meeting more forcefully.  "The situation has already been addressed, and we can move onto other business."

"Like, seriously, we are going to assassinate some of these Presidential candidates, right?" asked the CIA operative, wiping powdered sugar off his lips from the doughnuts furnished by the Brewmaster's Castle butler.

"There is more than one way to skin a cat," said Cheney.  "Let me tell you about something we used to call 'the Wyoming cow pie eating contest.'"

"You haven't been to Wyoming in thirty years," said the media tycoon.

"That's a damned lie!" shouted Cheney, rising to his feet, but a sudden pang in his heart made him quickly sit down again.

A mile away, Glenn Michael Beckmann also had a sudden pang in his heart--but it was heartburn from the fourth cup of iced tea he had downed after eating three plates of onion rings and four pieces of pie at the White House deli.  He had been playing Rumsfeld Churchill solitaire on his smartphone for three hours and, in a sugar/salt fugue exacerbated by forgetting to take his meds, he was finally seeing the hidden messages that Donald Rumsfeld was telling him!  The three of hearts has come up next to either the nine of spades or jack of clubs every hand, which means that the Trinity is surrounded by golfers on the left and tennis players on the right, which means that athletes are protecting God, which means that Villanova is protecting God, which means that God is currently in Pennsylvania, which means that God is in a swing state, which means that the swing state is going to vote for the Godliest candidates, which means that whomever Pennsylvania picks for President will be God's candidate, which means that they will again turn to Donald Rumsfeld to invade Iraq and stop ISIS, which means--

"Do you want another refill on that iced tea, hon?"

"Gaaaaaa!" Beckmann snarled, causing the employee to jump back.  "You totally wrecked my train of thought!"

She looked down at the solitaire game on his phone, shrugged, then walked over to the tourist family from Pennsylvania to see if they wanted refills.

Beckmann looked back at his phone, trying to regain his train of thought.  Rumsfeld solitaire, Rummy, gin rummy, bathtub gin, cotton gin, Egyptian cotton, "she whose gaze must be avoided".... He scratched his head at the last one, unaware he had stumbled much closer to the truth of Rumsfeld Churchill solitaire than anybody else ever had!  "Wait!" he cried aloud after seeing an ace of diamonds turn up.  "Secret bank accounts!"  (This was totally wrong.)

Out at Trump National Golf Course, the biologically perfect little Aryan baby continued to grow in the womb of Barbara Hellmeister, under the watchful eyes of Ernest Ironman (Adolf Eichmann's great-grandson) and Ardua of the Pond....

Spring is in the air at the Arlington Group Home!


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