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, September 25, 2016

What Trump is spawning....

It was an absolutely gorgeous day out at Trump National Golf Course--perfect weather to bring out hordes of wheelers and dealers to play 18 rounds.  This also meant that Barbara Hellmeister--a wanted fugitive--was stuck in the secret underground bunker to deliver her baby.

"PUSH!" hollered her mate and fellow Nazi, Ernest Ironman.

Barbara slapped him.  "Don't yell at me!"

They had been arguing for months about whether Donald Trump's Hitler DNA made him a worthy political heir to Der Fuhrer, and this childbirth was not going to be easy.

"You need to push harder!" insisted Ernest, grandson of Adolf Eichmann.  (He believed the family education he had received about Nazi politics made him best qualified to deem Trump a failed fascist because of his suspicious dealings with Russia.)

"I have done ALL the work for this baby, and all you do is yell!" retorted Barbara, whose Nazi grandfather's notebook had guided her scientific research and helped her both identify Trump's DNA strand from Hitler's family and predict the genetic superiority expected from their own baby.  "Get me more cookies!"

"I'll get them!" interjected teenage bride Brittani, freaking out ever since her husband, Kevin ("Monkey") Mundy, had told her to help out with the birth while he examined the walls of the bunker for signs of gold veins.  She bolted for the kitchen to get another plate full of butter, pecan, chocolate, and walnut cookies; she also grabbed another cold beer for Ernest.

"You shouldn't be eating while you're in labor!" protested Ernest, again, but this time he took a step back to avoid getting slapped.

"I've been in labor for eight hours, and I'm hungry!"

"Are you hungry?" asked realtor Calico Johnson, offering a plate of ladyfingers to Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts.  It was another meeting of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous (DC Chapter) at Dick Cheney's house, a few miles away from Trump National Golf Club.

"Hungry?!" exclaimed Roberts.  "I've been nauseous since I saw the haters erupt on Twitter during my speech at the grand opening of the Museum of African American History!"  (Johnson shook his head in sympathy.)  "They berated me for coming--said I had no right to speak about the Civil Rights movement because I had [air quotes] gutted the Voting Rights Act!"

Prince and Prowling junior partner Bridezilla tut-tutted.  "They would have berated you if you had not gone!" she said.  "It was a no-win situation."

"We don't need the VRA anymore!" exclaimed Roberts.  "The museum alone proves that!"

"And Oprah!" piped in a member of N.U.T.T.Y (Nannies United to Take y-Chromosomes).  [She was currently writing a young adult novel about a heroic nanny with secret superpowers who kills the she-beast masquerading as a mother, saves the children, and marries the father.]

"Indeed," said Judge Sowell Ame of the D.C. Superior Court (still uncertain how these N.U.T.T.Y. women were allowed into S.E.A.).  "I tell these fools all the time, 'if you don't wanna lose the vote, stop becoming felons!'  It's very easy to blame other people for your problems."  (Judge Ame had sentenced three D.C. residents to prison just this past week for possession of marijuana, interpreting D.C.'s "legalization" of marijuana to apply only in the Northwest quadrant.)

"Let's talk about something more pleasant," said former Vice-President Dick Cheney, motioning to Johnson to get the champagne out of the ice bucket.  "We need to toast Boehner's new job with Reynolds tobacco!"

"Hear, hear!" said Roberts.

"Who can forget how he once handed out tobacco industry campaign checks on the House floor?" commented Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi (with a note of sarcasm that went undetected because of his Italian accent).

"Ha, ha!" laughed the former Speaker of the House.  "Remember when I repented publicly about that later?"

"But nobody gave back their checks!" said Roberts, to more boisterous laughter.  "Hey, that's what Citizens United was all about, am I right?!"  (He had a twinkle in his eye.)

"Could I be serious for a minute?" asked Taleverdi.  "We really need to do something about Donald Trump."

"Why?" asked Cheney.  "He's closing in on Hillary in the polls--he has a good shot at winning!"

"Wait, what?!" exclaimed Talaverdi.  "No respectable Republicans are voting for Trump!  They are all endorsing Hillary!"

"Who said Cheney is a respectable Republican?" laughed a former member of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) Court.  (She had started drinking during the Uber drive over to Cheney's house.)

"What?!" exclaimed Cheney, getting red in the face.

"Please calm down, Dick!" said Bridezilla.  "If you have another heart attack, Lynn won't let you attend these meetings anymore."

"We have to do something," said Talaverdi.  "His election would usher in a fascist era none of you can possibly imagine the way I can, having grown up listening to family horror stories about Mussolini!"

"Aw, come on, Luciano!" retorted Cheney.  "He would be a weak President--blocked by Congress, ignored by the intelligence community, and sidelined by the Pentagon."

"But might he possibly tarnish our country's image in the eyes of the world?" asked Bridezilla gently [never letting on she was actively working for a secret SuperPAC to defeat Trump].

"I'm with her," said Boehner, to a few gasps.  "No, not with her!  I mean, I'm with her!"  (He pointed to Bridezilla.)  "My company wants to increase tobacco exports, so we can't be starting trade wars!"

"And the House?" added Bridezilla, coyly.

"Yes, yes!" agreed Boehner.  "And the House!  Electing Trump might lead to Democrats' taking control of Congress!"

"Who the Hell cares about Congress?!" declared Cheney.

"You were once a Congressman--" began Bridezilla, before being interrupted.

"The CIA and NSA and Pentagon secret slush fund are all we need to control power!" exclaimed Cheney.

"Who's 'we?'" asked the member of N.U.T.T.Y., and the former member of the FISA court burst out laughing again.

Over in Washington, triple agent Charles Wu was not laughing about Donald Trump.

"It's not really my thing," said his special agent, Angela de la Paz, looking in wonder at the brocaded gown of a 17th century Italian noblewoman.

Charles Wu glanced over his shoulder at his young daughter, running up and down the marble stairs instead of taking in culture during her first visit to the National Museum of Women in the Arts.  "I'm at my wit's ends," confided Charles, who was exceedingly unaccustomed to that feeling.

"You know I'm not happy about Donald Trump," replied Angela, "but my gifts are not in that field, and I have a lot of other things going on."

"But the reporter bought your story of mutant rats in the subway tunnels, didn't he?"

"I don't think so.  Anyway, I've got other worries."

"The international order could unravel in a major way!" said Wu.  "I'm talking Europe faltering, Russia ascending, China pushing up against India and Russia.  Pakistan is convinced that Trump would drop a nuclear bomb on them!"

"You used to have it all figured out," said Angela, gently.  "Handing secrets to England, or Beijing, or Hong Kong--"

"That was simple," he said.

"It wasn't simple," said Angela.

"But I understood what I was doing.  There was a small set of variables.  The variables started growing when I brought the State Department into the mix, and now they are growing exponentially."

They followed Buffy Cordelia and her English governess up the staircase to the 18th century paintings.  "I have these gifts to fight evil," said Angela, smiling at little Delia's wide-eyed wonder at the enormous chandeliers.

"What if Trump were evil?' asked Charles.  (Angela smiled, but shook her head.)  "No, seriously," Charles said.  Look, I understand there are ghosts and demons out there, but couldn't you just get close enough to him to find out?"

"I think he's just a reprehensible human being with a lot of money, appealing to haters who think--"

"What if he's not?" asked Wu.

Back at Trump National Golf Club, the moment had arrived!  Barbara Hellmeister wailed loudly and pushed her baby into the waiting arms of Ernest Ironman.  She waited for Ernest to carry over the baby and place it into her arms--the baby she knew would be an Aryan genetic masterpiece!--but he just kept staring down at it.  Barbara could hear the baby's cries, so she knew it was alive.  "Ernest?"  She weakly sat up to get a look while Brittani, who had been holding Barbara's hand during the last stage of labor, fainted to the floor.  Barbara strained to sit up higher until she saw her baby--which had a green face and a long, scaly tail.

Out in the golf course pond, the demon Ardua smiled with pleasure.

Dr. Ermann Esse's undercover adventures in Trump Nation!

Sunday, September 18, 2016

House of Dreams

Bridezilla was carefully reading Dana Milbank's Washington Post description of the furnishings in the cheapest (!) room for rent in the new Trump hotel:  Italian bed linens, French table linens, Chinese duvet, Korean TV, Indian towels, Japanese bone china, Italian cutlery, Malaysian telephones, Swiss refrigerator, German coffee cups, Canadian toiletries, and Chinese everything-else.  "Huh," said the Prince and Prowling junior partner to herself.  She shook her head.  It was all wrong!  Not just because of the 100% political hypocrisy involved in importing every manufactured product, but the choices were all wrong!  "It should be French bed linens, Irish table linens, Swiss duvet, Japanese TV, Egyptian towels, Chinese bone china, British cutlery, Korean telephones, German refrigerator, Italian coffee cups, and Norwegian toiletries!  Doesn't everybody know these things?"  She looked at Thelma and Louise--her conjoined Guinea pigs--and shook her head again.  "Don't worry!  Your home will be much classier!"

Over at Prince and Prowling, another junior partner also had Trump's new hotel on his mind:  Felix Cigemeier.  Tasked with developing the law firm's drone practice, he had built up a respectable reputation as Washington's legal expert on federal and common law relevant to drone enthusiasts.  But this had all been about sales contracts, rental contracts, and simple advice up until the day the American Civil Liberties Union had walked into his office and asked him to defend Glenn Michael Beckmann's free speech right to use a drone to dump protest pig shit on the hotel bell tower.  (The ACLU had first asked Goode Peepz law firm to do it, but they simply knew too little about drone law.)  Felix had tried to get out of it by pointing out to Prince and Prowling's managing attorney that he had never done a criminal defense case before, but Felix had been told in no uncertain terms that P&P's reputation as the nation's preeminent drone expert was at stake.  (What Felix did not know was that Prince and Prowling had already taken drastic action to avoid a New Jersey gangster's request that P&P set up a SuperPAC dedicated to defeating any Republican who had dissed Donald Trump.)

"I think you should consider the plea deal offered to you," said Felix to Beckmann, who was sitting in a guest chair sporting a Hunter and Gatherer Society hunting cap, a "Dump Trump" t-shirt featuring a stylized depiction of the pig manure vandalism, camouflage pants, and star-spangled suspenders.

"Mr. Cigemeier," began the ACLU attorney, sitting in the other guest chair [she had decided early on to treat this case with absolute seriousness, so it was always "Mr. Cigemeier" and "Mr. Beckmann"], "that seems premature."

"The federal authorities have been monitoring him continuously since he blogged about overthrowing the Federal Reserve Board--"

"His 'Serial Predator' piece was protected first speech," she retorted.

"Yes, but people have heard him bragging about [he paused to look fearfully at Beckmann] killing various people."


"There is a pattern of behavior which does not incline the federal authorities to go easy, and it was a clearly illegal act."

"Protected free speech!"

"He used a drone, first of all, and he vandalized private property, second of all."

"I'm familiar with the facts."

"The drone was illegally operated," said Felix.

"We have put up a lot of money for this defense," said the ACLU attorney.  "Your managing partner assured me you would take it to trial if necessary."

"If necessary, yes, but I am advising you against it."

Beckmann finally spoke.  "That pig shit was the only made-in-America product you'll find in that den of thieves and harlots financed by Saudi petrodollars and Russian Bitcoin!  I did him a favor, big dumbass with the bimbos and expensive suits and conspiracy to murder more Supreme Court Justices!"  ("What?!")  "My daddy served in Vietnam while he was getting blow jobs in Times Square!  I served in Iraq while he was cheating hard-working Americans in his casinos!  He's a disgrace to real patriots, sir, and his hotel is an abomination!"

"Well, all that may be true," began Felix [not all of that was true, but some was], "but those are not the kinds of things that can be raised as defenses.  Can I get you some more coffee while you two discuss it?"

"Nothing to discuss!" Beckmann said.

"Mr. Beckmann will not take the deal," said the ACLU attorney.

Is this really happening? thought Felix as he walked the two out.

Is this really happening? thought Dubious McGinty, as he walked into the Southwest Plaza apartment a city social worker had talked him into taking.  The Vietnam Veteran had been living in the Bridgeman's Quarters of the 14th Street Bridge as long as he could remember, keeping watch over the demon Ardua, but she had been vanquished for a long time now.  The ducks and river rats were no longer infected with evil, ravens were nesting and raising babies, and the pink dolphins were frolicking freely.  He hadn't looked at a mirror in years, but his rheumatism was reminding him daily how old he had now become.  He had made a pretty cozy nest for himself over the years out over the water, but now that things had calmed down in the Potomac, he was no longer so averse to the idea of spending a winter in a heated indoor place.

"Most of this is from A Wider Circle," the social worker said, pointing around to the secondhand bed, recliner, TV stand, and kitchen table.  "We got some linens and kitchen things from GoodWill."  (She had insisted most of his things were too hygienically compromised to bring with him.)

"But what will I eat?" he asked in sincere perplexity after years spent making daily forays to raid public garbage cans and dumpsters.

"We've stocked some food to get you started, and we put in a standing Peapod order to deliver food a couple times a week until you decide on doing something different.  We talked about this--remember?  Your military pension and Social Security payments were piling up for awhile when you weren't claiming them, so you're in good financial shape."  (He looked at her dubiously.)  "Do you remember when we set up the bank account last week?  There are deposits in it now, and automatic debits for rent, electricity, and Peapod."

She was going over some other details about who had Power of Attorney over his money and social programs he could attend, but he was overwhelmed and no longer hearing anything she said.

"I'll phone you tomorrow, alright?  I've gotta go."

And then she was gone.  He had a vague recollection of somebody who was supposed to come visit him this evening, but now he wasn't sure.  He went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, saw a cockroach, and got an uneasy feeling about this place.

Out in Potomac Manors, real estate mogul Calico Johnson was finally letting go of the small but expensive menagerie he had acquired since he first developed a crush on former neighbor "Basia Karbusky".  He watched the show horse Ninja get loaded onto a horse trailer.  Originally purchased for $14,000, she and her accoutrements were departing for $10,000; he had probably lost the other $4,000 in supplies and veterinarian treatment, though he hoped to start recouping this after converting the heated barn into a rental apartment.  Of course, it had not been heated for Ninja but for the persnickety geriatric cow MegaMoo.  He had inherited the cow for free after Basia burnt down her estate and fled, but he had been paying for MegaMoo ever since in treatments for bovine narcolepsy, arthritis, irritable bowel syndrome, and dissociative identity disorder--not to mention endless hay when MegaMoo did not feel like grazing on the acres of grass, which was 90% of the time.  He had almost sold her to a butcher but, ultimately, through an odd mixture of guilt and malice, had offered her to an animal sanctuary--where her legendarily thunderous mooing could wreak havoc on other people's bucolic lifestyles.  MegaMoo was still staring at him in disbelief as she worked her way into the trailer, and he turned away.  Donald Trump didn't put his stamp on the world through animal husbandry! he reminded himself.  I'm a real estate developer!

Back at Bridezilla's apartment, she was lost in concentration on the enormous Tudor style dollhouse she had purchased to house Thelma and Louise.  (It was an idea borne from her recent visit to the dollhouse exhibit at the National Building Museum.)  She knew the conjoined twins would never be on the upper floors, so she was applying her finest and most delicate touches up there for the dollhouse's human occupants:  a beautiful, professional, accomplished and graceful mother of young twins.  (Her back story was that the children's father had been murdered by a coalition of his jilted lovers, but she had not yet settled on the manner of death.)  But Bridezilla also wanted her guinea pigs to sleep and frolic in style below, so the parlor had primrose wallpaper and plum velvet curtains above the cushioned cedar chip bed, and the kitchen had Italian marble bases under the stainless steel water and food bowls.  The side yard held an exercise wheel for the pig twins and a miniature swing set for the human twins.

"I finally have a dream house," Bridezilla sighed, going back to the Internet to look up miniature books to stock the mahogany bookcases with.

COMING UP:  The Trump National Golf Club baby!

Sunday, September 11, 2016

It all stinks!

Triple agent Charles Wu was in the back seat of the taxi, listening to his Ethiopian driver's latest intelligence on Somalia.  Wu was thinking two things:  (1) his clients were not interested in paying for this when much bigger balls were in play, and (2) he was not catching any of those balls.  Have I become incompetent?  He looked out the window as they drove past Embassy Row, fighting back his greatest fear:  that his little daughter had made him soft.  Plenty of people have children without becoming soft!  Why him?!  Or could it be worse than that?  Was he becoming old?  He was treating the Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope to lunch at the Four Seasons--not to pump him for State Department secrets but to explain Wu's failure to deliver China success stories on President Obama's recent trip to Asia.  There was a time a State Department meeting meant buying secrets from C. Coe Phant in a Foggy Bottom dive bar, or even meeting directly with the Secretary of State to discuss Project R.O.D.H.A.M.; now it was he and the ADAfH commiserating over the tempestuous state of international affairs.  The driver pulled up to the Georgetown hotel and waited patiently for Wu's $200 tip.  Wu walked into the lobby and saw that the ADAfH was already waiting for him, having finished the annual trip to the Pentagon 9/11 remembrance ceremony.  They shook hands silently.

A few miles to the east, Congress was back in session, and so was the Bicameral Anti-Zombie Caucus.

"We have to reconsider that he might be a zombie!" exclaimed Congressman Herrmark.

"Just because Dick Cheney writes an op-ed about 9/11 that tries to shift blame for Iraq to Obama does not mean he's undead!" replied Senator Rand Paul.  "It's completely consistent with the attitudes he's always espoused!"

"The man should have keeled over from a heart attack years ago!" insisted Congressman Herrmark.  "I think he's still secretly running the Senate--through the Zombie Caucus!"

"We've never gotten close enough to Cheney to find out," said the Representative from Florida, "and we need to focus our energies on thwarting Zombie Caucus riders and getting Zika funding."

"Your theory that Hurricane Hermine has spread Zika all over Florida, and that Zika is going to create zombies, is just not supported by the facts," said a Representative from Connecticut.

"That's easy for you to say!" she retorted.  "All you have to worry about in Connecticut is Lyme disease, and we know that doesn't create zombies!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," interjected Congressman Herrmark's Chief of Staff, Ann Bishis, "if I could have your attention for a minute, the Zombie Caucus is a perennial concern whoever is leading it, and we need to step up our efforts to identify likely elected and staff members.  If you could direct your attention to the monitor, I'm going to pull up a live camera feed from one of our new spy drones."  ("Spy drones?!")  "Only the size of a fly, they can get close to almost anybody, even follow them into bathrooms and secret meeting places.  They can eavesdrop on conversations, take photos of documents and screenshots, and witness anybody removing makeup or clothing which covers rotten flesh."

"And people snickered at my earmark to get these built in Montana!" declared the Representative from the gold and silver state.

"They melted in the Iraqi heat," said an Indiana Representative.

"What if they get captured?" asked Senator Paul.

"If they get swatted, they crumple into parts so tiny that nobody realizes what they really are."

"But what if they get captured?" repeated Senator Paul.

Bishis cleared her throat, uneasy about challenging him.  "I don't think people try to capture flies."

"They do if they suspect spy drones!" insisted Senator Paul.  "And smart people always suspect spy drones!  Honestly, I'm not comfortable with this at all!  Once again we're being asked to give up civil liberties for questionable efforts to improve national security!"

"Senator!" exclaimed Congressman Herrmark.  "Zombies have no civil liberties!"

"People should be presumed innocent until proven Zombie!" declared Senator Rand.  "That's what America stands for!"

Downtown, Glenn Michael Beckmann was exercising (he would argue) a civil liberty of his own--and using a drone to do it.  This was no tiny insect-like drone, no:  this was a 100-pound drone winging its way rapidly from Beckmann's Southwest Plaza balcony to the Trump Plaza Hotel.  His militia members had tried to tell him that private drones were illegal in Washington (and sure suicide so close to the White House), but Beckmann would have none of it.  "The so-called 'man of the people' is charging $800/night to stay in this den of casino thieves and hotel harlots financed by Saudi petrodollars!" he had written in his blog leading up to the hotel's opening.  (He had actually written it in code on his fake lifestyle blog as "The so-called 'trumpet douche bags' are going for $800/case, even though you're rolling the dice and getting black crude as lubrication!")

Semi-satisfied that Gretchen Carlson had extracted a huge financial settlement from the Fox News suits, Beckmann had returned his focus to going after Donald Trump a few days ago.  "Fly, baby, fly!" he cried in delight as his drone receded in the distance.  A few of his followers were decamped near the monstrosity of capitalism run amok and would send Beckmann cellphone video as soon as they spotted the drone delivering its payload. "Here it comes!" said the text message on Beckmann's phone, and then a minute later, the triumphant moment:  forty pounds of pig manure sprayed all over the Old Post Office Pavilion bell tower.

"That's for stealing the people's 360-degree view of downtown Washington!" hollered Beckmann, shaking his fist in the direction of the Trump Plaza Hotel.  "And performing a lobotomy on Melania!" he added.  (He had recently blogged about this.)  "And spying for Russia!"  (He had not blogged about this because the lamestream media was already covering it!  Amazing!)  "And telling the 9/11 hijackers to crash into the World Trade Center instead of your tower!"  (He had recently blogged about this, though it was a little more speculative than his usual conspiracy theories.)  "And for giving a bad name to crazy people!  I don't need to be further stigmatized, you mental health bigot!"  At this point he realized there were some people in the parking lot looking up at him and taking cellphone videos, so he ran back into his apartment.

Over at Redskins headquarters, Golden Fawn was tilting at her own windmill--namely, the anachronistic existence of the Washington Redskins Original Americans Foundation.  After a period of resistance, the National Museum of the American Indian employee had accepted a seat on the Foundation this summer, and had quickly made waves.  She sat down in the conference room in her usual braids and traditional clothing, and waited patiently for the agenda item she had requested.  At long last, the Chairman let her speak.

"I cannot tell you how deeply disappointed I am that this Foundation refused to help the Standing Rock Sioux in their fight against the oil pipeline threatening their water and sacred sites," she began.

"As our attorney told you on the conference call, they have no rights to those sacred sites," said the Chairman.

"You mean federal courts have ruled against them, as they did from the beginning and now continue to do because traditional jurisprudence means repeating the same mistakes over and over and over again in the name of 'precedent.'"

"The Sioux already have their victory," said another member of the Foundation board, whom Golden Fawn quickly unnerved with her black-eyed stare.

"You think a temporary reprieve by President Obama--a reprieve I and others secured by vigorous lobbying--will keep their water and sacred sites safe from oil spills?  You're more naive than I thought."

"There is a process that needs to play out," said the Chairman.  "This Foundation is not about encouraging civil disobedience."

"If this Foundation is not about protecting water and sacred sites, it is not about protecting the life of any tribe in this country.  You really think handing out blankets is enough?"

"That is uncalled for!" exclaimed a Cherokee member from Oklahoma, who had gotten a huge cash payment and business incentives to sit on this board.  "This is a charitable foundation, not a political action coalition."

"This Foundation is a spiritual failure," Golden Fawn said, but nobody replied to her.  She looked at the Chairman to see if he would expel her, but he simply opened the next item of business on the agenda.

Back at the Four Seasons, Charles Wu was trying to explain how his plane to Beijing had arrived late, and there were mix-ups about meeting times, and he had not had the usual amount of time to smooth a path for visiting Americans, and there was really nothing he could do about the man-made islands....And then came the ice pick.

"What have you done for us, lately?" asked the exasperated Assistant Deputy Administrator for Hope.  "I'm a very busy man.  I'm supposed to be pulling Turkey back into NATO's orbit, for God's sake!  Turkey, who thinks making peace with Russia is a better idea than making peace with the Kurds!  Russia, in case you haven't noticed, has returned our country to a Cold War footing.  Oh, and I have a permanent headache about the damned Clinton email server.   And Iraq and Syria are Hell on Earth, and somehow the U.S. gets the blame.  And what are you doing for us in Asia, exactly?  Because, Obama's visit was not very good."

Charles Wu felt a rumble in his intestines he had not felt since the surge of puberty testosterone had turned him into a virile young man.  It was true, he knew!  He had done nothing for the U.S. lately!  He had juggled Beijing, Hong Kong, and Britain for years, but somewhere along the line, instead of selling secrets about his current home, the United States, he had become somebody expected to deliver for the United States.  He couldn't just tell the State Department secrets about Beijing if they were bad news, no!  Wu was supposed to fix things!

"Well," Wu began, a little desperate, "I do have intelligence for you about recent communications between China and Pakistan."

"Great!  That's great," said the ADAfH sarcastically, reaching for the bread basket.  "Can't wait to hear it!"

A couple miles away at Adams Morgan Day, Angela de la Paz was licking ice cream and telling Dulles Samuelson she had no memory of 9/11.  (She had still been a young child at that time.)

Dulles replied, "my dad was never the same after that.  He was one of the ones scapegoated and forced into retirement from the CIA--and that's actually when he told us for the first time he had been in the CIA."

Angela shook her head in sympathy--not for Henry Samuelson's career but for the effect on his kids.  "People didn't talk about it much where I grew up.  They had other things to worry about getting killed by--they still do."  She suddenly remembered saving somebody in a Columbia Heights alley, and meeting the man who would become the father of the baby she later gave away after his death.  "It all stinks," she said.

"I got accepted into the FBI," Dulles said suddenly, and then he searched her face for a reaction, but got the same sad smile he usually did.

COMING UP:  House of Dreams!

Monday, September 05, 2016

Mind Games

Psychiatrist Ermann Esse was still being blackmailed into working for the CIA at their secret facility deep below the Washington Times headquarters.  His plan to get fired for a prescription pain killer addiction had backfired badly, and now they were holding that over him as well their knowledge of the suspicious death (murder) of one of his patients.  His professional and personal life were in a state of catastrophe.  How could things possibly get worse?

"We have a new assignment for you," said one of his handlers, entering his office.

"Great," said the shrink, swallowing hard.

Meanwhile, the Seekers were meeting in a Georgetown classroom for their first attempt at deprogramming a Trump supporter from the cult of Donald Trump.

"What's happening?" asked the self-proclaimed "hockey mom with lipstick" from Frederick, who had been tricked into coming here by her husband's lie that Trumpists were meeting there to boycott a professor's lecture on President Obama's historic place in African-American history.

"These people are here to help, honey," said the desperate husband, who had brought his own custom-designed duct tape with foam cushioning to strap her into a chair.  "I'm gonna put your feet up to make you more comfortable."

"You're kidnapping me!?" she screamed before he tied a chocolate-flavored bandana around her mouth.

"This is for your own good, sweetie," he said, kissing her on the forehead.  "Even the kids are worried about you.  They don't want Russia hacking the election."

The Buddhist monk and Unitarian Universalist looked at each other nervously, but the rest of the group seemed eager to press forward.

"The Trump family name is really 'Drumpf,'" began the Jesuit, sitting directly in front of her.  "They changed it in America as their very first act of phoniness.  Ow!"  He jumped back in pain because she had kicked him in the shin.

"Thus began a long history of feeding misinformation to advance their own purpose," continued the Muslim cleric, sitting down next to the Jesuit.  (The woman's eyes grew wide with terror at the sight of him.)  "That purpose was amassing obscene amounts of wealth for their own benefit."

"It's okay, honey," said the husband, patting her hand.  "He's an American Muslim.  He just joined my Fantasy Football league!"

"We are going to start showing you categorically all the lies being told to you on this campaign," said the Jewish rabbi, opening up a laptop computer for her to see.  "We will be here all night if we have to."

A few miles to the east, Sebastian L'Arche had persuaded Angela de la Paz to sneak into the Rhode Island Avenue Metro tunnels to hunt for demons causing the roof destruction.

"Sometimes it's not demons," said Angela, who had received no visions about this place.  "Lynnette says the system has been underfunded for years, and way behind in infrastructure maintenance."

"I'm telling you, it was a demon!" insisted L'Arche.  The Gipper (a gifted rat terrier and spirit-hunter) whined in agreement.

"I do believe you," said Angela, "but it might have just been hiding out.  It's not necessarily proof that demons are causing all the Metro problems."

The Gipper abruptly turned into a side tunnel.  "He said it's here," whispered L'Arche.

"You can really read dogs' minds?" she asked, still unaware of any supernatural presence.

"Sh," he cautioned her, and they walked slowly forward.  Suddenly the Gipper stopped, and all his hair stood on end.  The Dog Whisperer turned on his high-beam flashlight and aimed it at the ceiling thirty feet in front of them, where a demon was now hissing at them.

Angela ran forward, raised her hand, and telekinetically knocked it to the ground.  Before she could kill it, the Gipper ran forward to attack, but the demon knocked it violently away.  Then Angela exploded the demon into a fireball, which quickly collapsed on itself to leave nothing but a pile of ashes.

"Oh, God!" cried reporter Perry Winkle, who had followed them into the tunnels.  "I really am insane!"  And then he fainted.

Back at the secret CIA facility, Dr. Esse had just been briefed about recent intelligence investigations into whether Russia was trying to mess with the U.S. elections, and it was very disturbing.  The CIA had also just told him that NSA eavesdropping on Trump campaign staff had revealed specific plans which would weaken NATO, strengthen Russia, and possibly even result in several nuclear weapon strikes in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. 

"I share your concerns," said the psychiatrist, "but I don't see what I can do about it.  If you're thinking of sending me to be an agent in Russia--"

"Don't be absurd," said the woman.  "The threat is already here.  We need you to go undercover as a Trump supporter and start hypnotizing your way to the top."

Out at Trump National Golf Course in Virginia, the demon Ardua was playing mind games of her own, but it was increasingly difficult to get the bickering Nazi lovers living in a hidden bunker to listen to her.

Charles Wu's work is cut out for him after he and Obama return from China!