“WASHINGTON SPRING” by @MCRUMPS

On a cold rainy spring Saturday evening the defense secretary rode in a convoy of black SUVs from the pentagon to Georgetown. His wrinkled face looked out the tinted raindripping windows to the bright green blossoming trees in Arlington cemetery, the soil fertile with the nutrients from the collective rot of thousands of heroes. The sun was setting over the skyscrapers of Rosslyn. The rays of sunlight gave the words “Raytheon” and “BAE Systems” a heavenly glow of anticipation from the tops of the glass towers. A rainbow had been visible earlier.

Blaring sirens from the front of the convoy parted traffic for the important passenger as they crossed the Key Bridge. Tourists in shorts and raincoats gawked at the convoy from the sidewalk, wondering what important dignitaries were inside the mysterious, serious SUVs. Perhaps some of them even guessed correctly. The convoy soon turned off M Street and drove up the darker and narrower streets of Georgetown, brightly shady under the nubile leaves of spring in the fading light. They drove up to an inconspicuous townhouse building in the Federal style architecture of the neighborhood, partially hidden by a large garden stinking fresh in the cool rain. 

The convoy stopped and secret service men got out first. They had to secure the perimeter before such an important figure could be exposed to the vulgar street, however upscale the neighborhood. The dozen of them grasped their guns and spoke codes into their microphones. CCTV cameras stood guard silently overhead. All possible angles were covered. Everything was safe. They opened the car door for their master, black umbrellas shielding the his thin hairs and pale scalp from the mist. The defense secretary walked up the brick stairs carefully. One false step could break bones. The secret service walked close by.

Inside the townhouse was a gaggle of suits and voluptuous young maidens. The Senior Research Fellow on Eastern Europe for Brookings was there, chatting up a bouncy mestiza, whose color was magnificent in the warm light of the room, her firm ass leaning against the arm of a mahogany settee, her dress carelessly covering her like the delicate ornamental ribbon on the crest rail. The Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stood in the corner next to a Charleston Federal clothes press, his square face red drunk between his philistine flat top hair and his preposterously chiseled jaw. The Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs, a rather young and charming stud whose thick hair was only half-gray, was sprawled between two giggling blondes on a walnut and cherry Grecian couch. At the bar at the end of the room huddled over cocktails a tweedy Georgetown international relations professor, the former ambassador to Japan, and someone from the Lockheed Martin board of directors. The COO for Teneo Holdings was there, as was the VP and head of federal government affairs for UnitedHealth Group. A gang of obese drooling Booz Allen Hamilton executives and Washington Post columnists cornered a light-skin black girl. There were many others, some famous, some not, from a seemingly endless list of secretive government agencies and mighty corporations. The National Security Advisor explained to Condé Nast’s CFO the differences between the Chippendale, Federal, and Imperial styles in a flamboyant pastel suit over the sound of a string quartet. Senator John McCain was there eyeing the gook girls with perky tits serving hors d’oeuvres.

The defense secretary hobbled his way around the large room, making sure to greet nearly everyone. The building appeared much smaller on the outside. The other guests greeted the defense secretary eagerly. Senior defense officials are received with a particular tenderness in times when the world is unstable, when security is under threat, when a special, extraordinary vigilance is needed to protect liberty and freedom. The Georgetown professor was talking about how Marxists and Rightists alike love the word “crisis,” how it can charge up anything with a hot, urgent, throbbing sense of eros, and the other wonks, politicos, and thought leaders were nodding along intently, their pants bulging, their minds occupied with the deep profound considerations of the eminent crises in their own areas of policy expertise, their own targets for erotic discharge. Above all, the defense secretary was electrified by it—though he managed to coolly contain his ecstasy—as his dominion is the apotheosis of danger.

A bell rang a charming little dingaling! and the guests all knew it was time. The string quartet stopped playing for a moment. The room went silent with anticipation. “Temps pour toucher! Temps pour toucher!” a butler exclaimed excitedly. “Temps pour toucher! Temps pour toucher!” In a matter of moments the pink genitals of the bravest men emerged from their trousers like the first cherry blossoms in March. The smell of incense and lavender could scarcely cover the must of excited old pricks. The young Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs flopped out his—enhanced by a strong dose of Congolese yohimbine—and several others gazed on in awe and envy. The music resumed and the two girls around him stroked and licked his cock as he reclined on the Grecian couch. The Director of the CIA gored a petit brunette against a mahogany tea table, forcing his chode up her dress with no more than a droning grunt. The table creaked with his short lunges, speeding up as his drone turned to a high pitched yelp and he came inside her—the first of the night—and promptly pulled out of her cunt, slapping her dismissively before the US Trade Representative pushed his way in. Two sluts rode the IMF’s Managing Director and the National Security Advisor as they sat in matching walnut side chairs beneath a portrait of John Adams. The obese Booz Allen Hamilton executives were frantically shoving their pricks in every hole of the helpless, cornered light-skin black girl, while the Washington Post columnists had moved on to another victim they grasped with hateful grimaces. The hawkish center-right columnist forced her mouth onto his flopping cock while the hawkish center-left columnist, not yet hard or large enough to penetrate, lifted up her skirt, opened her cheeks, and plunged his tongue and teeth into her asshole. The musicians in the string quartet played their baroque music louder and louder, knowing that their audience preferred civilized harmonies to the chorus of primordial groans they were themselves making.

The room was a scene of creaking pallor like a ghost slave ship lost and adrift in Antarctic currents. The defense secretary held his pale pink prick between his fingers as he beheld the Brookings fellow and a smug MSNBC anchor standing like conquistadors tinkling the riches of Atahualpa into the gaping mouth of the bouncy mestiza. He leaned against a cherry and maple dressing table and its joints squeaked like his own as he caressed his unresponsive pecker. It was probably just his blood pressure medicine. But he felt no shame; flaccidity was the rule, not the exception here. And the men had all proved their firmness through their illustrious careers and their ruthless determination in their offices of power. They had proudly earned these debauched pleasures. Indeed, they were conferring imperial honors upon the adolescent girls who entertained their every perversion.

In wild ecstasy the noblemen had lost track of time, although the musicians and secret service agents knew the whole orgy lasted just over an hour and a half. Secret service agents wiped away body fluids and buttoned the trousers of the arthritic men they’d die for before shepherding them outside where a fleet of black SUVs occupied the entire street, waiting like praetorian soccer moms. Each satisfied dignitary was led by squads of loyal agents under black umbrellas through the pungent, moist garden to his respective car. The black fleet skulked away from the city to paranoid forests of McMansions. All the little pashas slept sound that night.

The next day was back to business. The armies were moving around the globe in preparation for a grand offensive. The defense secretary was brought to the Pentagon bright and early like a kid on Christmas Day and Arlington Cemetery glimmered with the ethereal glint of Sunday morning dew. The Pentagon was a hive of activity. The officers of all the services had anticipated this day their whole lives. Uniformed men saluted each other as they lined up at the bathrooms to take whey shits spurred by coffee and excitement. The sky was an inexplicably transcendent hue of blue. It was truly the Lord’s Day.

In the defense secretary’s grand command center was a huge screen on which an intricate map of the world was projected, showing the locations and trajectories of movements of all the fleets and army groups, every ship and squadron, the intricate and assorted supply chains for the numerous fronts, the range of missiles and artilleries, every base and field office in countless countries, the gaze of satellites in the paths of their orderly orbits—every link in the infinite, cosmic web that is the chain of command was encapsulated in this intoxicating and glorious map. At the snap of his bony fingers it could zoom into the units and provide the details of every cog in the command hierarchy down to the platoon, squadron, or vessel. To someone unlearned in the arts of military language, the symbols would appear utterly alien and incomprehensible, the language of some great insect hive completely unfathomable to those with an individualist conception of the self. The details of the multitudinous forces were so massive that the units and their trajectories obscured the earth beneath them so that the world itself was almost completely unrecognizable. The map would appear like an inscrutable fractal vortex, ever more intricate the closer one looks.

In his gaunt, insect fingers the defense secretary grasped the stem of a champagne glass and sipped a mimosa as his gaze fluttered among the units, processing all in with unholy mechanical mastery. He was the lord of this great map. The cosmic web was a reflection of his own mind. And yet—there remained but a few dark areas on the map. Hostile, unknown unknown spaces. Forbidden desires. That which is covered in the fog of war, the domain of enemy nations, unsecured and unpacified hearts of darkness. They taunted the orderly completeness of the web, begging for subjugation and penetration; they teased the defense secretary like giggling colonies of fresh, juicy pimples.

That afternoon the president, sprawled out sunburned with a little boy on a beach towel in the Florida sun, flicked his wrist approvingly to distant sweating black-suited agents. Moments later the Pentagon relayed its command to its millions of nodes covering the planet. A leviathan was in heat. Thousands of missiles spurted out of girthy tubes in silent darkness like fungal spores as dandelion seed paratroopers floated down from buzzing planes onto fertile ground.

The reviews were stellar—the war was a stunning bipartisan success. Professorial pundits raved in the papers about the decisive return of American global leadership. On television the scholarly talking heads marveled at the beauty of airstrikes, rummaging Shakespeare and the Old Testament to one-up each other in finding the most glorious metaphors for the bowing arcs of missile trajectories and their subsequent explosions (which were seen as transcendent for their own sake), while the more vulgar wonks kept to the normal moralizing platitudes—securing the homeland, honoring heroes, achieving our humanitarian goals, properly fearing the tyrannical enemy, spreading peace and democracy, and so on. The only dissent came from stern-eyebrow retired generals who growled that the war didn’t go quite far enough in the manner of their particular expertise.

The darling spring became sticky summer and the defense secretary went to throw out the first pitch at a Washington Nationals baseball game. A sentimental man, he loved how the tradition of baseball brought together Americans of different generations and classes. His heart would melt when they let a little boy run the bases between innings, or when they had a little girl with a disneysweet voice announce the roster of players over the stadium loudspeakers. It was this persistent, timeless symbol of freedom—baseball—that gave meaning to his career of service. We leave these traditions for the next generation, he liked to think. Little boys in baseball hats. Hot dog beer smell. The crowd had a ritualistic civic importance—in a spiritual sense, he thought it particularly republican. Truly America’s ballgame.

His honorary pitch fell halfway to home plate before secret service whisked him back up to his luxury box. His prostate was killing him. In solidarity with the thousands of beerful rubes below him lining up at urinals he relieved himself with reckless abandon, spraying a bit back on himself. Back at his seat in front of the window he was sweating but the air conditioning did its best to keep out the swampy heat. His view of the stadium was as complete as his great war map. He monomaniacally kept track of the score with his own scorecard, recording the balls and strikes for every batter with a giveaway pencil grasped in his spindly fingers. Total battlefield command, he thought. Nothing couldn’t be subsumed, calculated, and represented in his charming little chart. He was every bit at home.

In the “seventh inning stretch” the stinking hoi polloi lifted their sweating asses out of narrow bleacher seats to sing “God Bless America” and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Stadium workers wheeled out a limbless figure fresh from the front and zealous hot drunk fans cheered wildly for him as he slouched unconcerned in his uniform under the high sun like a hopeless sacrifice to Huitzilopochtli. “FREEDOM ISN’T FREE” glared on the gigantic stadium electro-stele over the vast bleachers. Scraggly aging biker dudes saluted with hostile determination. The defense secretary looked over his calculations. Everyone stood and took off their ballcaps for a moment of silence as waving American flags covered the big scoreboard screens. After the civic prayer We the People lined up to empty Our bladders, steaming piss reeking of ten-dollar Bud Light.