Chapter 1
Originally published March 18, 2006
I can imagine the conspiratorial scene in the Dirksen Senate Office Building:

A staffer for Kay Bailey Hutchinson reaches up the Senator’s blouse and flips a switch to put her in standby mode, making her head kink at a 45-degree angle. The staffer inserts a small memory card in a slot underneath her bouffant hair. One flip of a switch later, the Senator springs to life, her fluttering eyes twinkling with a knowing lucidity.

And all the while, Sam Brownback dances in circles, eyes half-open, foam around his lips, five serpents in his fists.

“Sam”, Hutchinson coos in her honey-tinged drawl, “I must tell you how much I admire your marriage subsidy for all those single mothers in Wards 7 and 8. It will lift them up so high. My goodness, they’ll think they’re on crack,” she chuckled. Senator Brownback started to spin faster. His head snapped back and forth like a jack-in-the-box. “Bwoogle wheeoofa werlia groook!!! Bwoogle wheeoofa werlia groook!!!”

Brushing her hair with deliberate ease, Kay Bailey smiled to herself. “Your flat tax idea is a lovely one, Sam. The income disparity in this city is such a disgrace. Something needs to be done about it! The DC Council will soon wonder, ‘How come we never thought of doing this before?’ I bet you’ll get a lot of thank you cards for doing their work for them.”

Brownback was crawling on the ceiling. His head reversed like Linda Blair’s, mouth agape. “Humphaaa dwroowie ecck! Humphaaa dwroowie ecck!!!”

“You would have been so proud of me, Sam”, Kay Bailey said as she drew a revolver from her purse. “See this? I pointed it in the face of a little black boy on my way into the office this morning. He was standing just a little too close for comfort. I whispered to him, ‘I know what you’re thinking, little one: Did she fire five shots or six? Well, little boy. Are you feelin’ lucky?’ The poor thing just cried and cried.”

It was all too much for Sam to take. He dropped from the ceiling and landed on all fours. Taking a bite out of the blue carpet, he leapt cross the room, taking Senator Hutchinson down in one graceful motion. Pressing down hard on her bosom, Sam reached for his zipper. Her mechanical twot clamped tightly around his stiff, pulsing dick.

“Yes, Sam. We were so right to send American sons and daughters to Iraq — and so many heroes from Washington, DC. Dead now, sadly, but the telegram we sent was a nice touch. And now the tyrant is gone. Freedom is taking hold. Soon, the Muslim realm will feel the hot winds blow from above. The chariots of light are coming, my dear. Are you ready?”

Sam Brownback’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy. The rapture was upon him.

Chapter 2
Originally published May 15, 2006

The letter had recently reached the home of Representative Tom Davis (R-VA) — a letter from him, Chief Justice John Roberts — which, in its wildly importunate nature, gave evidence of nervous agitation.

As the shades of the evening drew on, Tom Davis made his way up the marble staircase of the U.S. Supreme Court. He looked upon the scene before him with an utter depression of soul. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart. Gazing upward through the massive columns, Tom Davis noticed a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, until it disappeared into the base of the causeway. Pausing, Tom considered turning back, yet found himself compelled to reach out his hand to grasp the heavy rung on the 10-ft oak door. His fingers barely made an impact before the portal opened to reveal a dimly lit chamber. Stepping inside, Tom Davis breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. Behind him, the door closed imperceptibly.
John Roberts arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at full length. The ghastly pallor of the skin, and the miraculous luster of the sharp blue eyes, above all things startled and even awed Tom. “The commuter tax idea had some merit, and the plaintiff’s brief was argued with a singular passion that momentarily swayed my colleagues’ thinking,” John Roberts said as he methodically stepped across the dusty rug. “But, ultimately, it is important to remember that we are the stewards of the tenets laid by our Founding Fathers. I’m all for school funding and, boy, I sure would love to see all of those potholes filled along New York Avenue. But not at any cost, Tom.” The Chief Justice closed his eyes and lowered his head at a meditative angle. His right hand seized the rosary in his pocket. Turning his head suddenly toward Tom Davis, John Roberts smiled. “Not at any cost,” he hissed, flicking his tongue like a viper.
The two stood in silence for several minutes. Thick, coal-black clouds gathered above the Supreme Court, having rolled in from afar on a tempestuous wind. Without warning, Delegate Eleanor Holmes Norton (D-DC) (for so was she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the apartment. There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold—then, with a low, moaning cry, and without having noticed the presence of the two men, disappeared. Tom Davis regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread; and yet found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed him, as his eyes followed her retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed upon her, Tom’s glance sought instinctively and eagerly the countenance of John Roberts. His countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan—but, moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes—and evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor.
“Her malady has worsened. The stupid, uppity negress honestly thinks that we are going to allow her to represent hundreds of thousands of . . . unmentionables . . . with a vote in Congress,” scoffed the Chief Justice. He crept toward Tom Davis and, upon reaching him, clasped Tom’s cheeks in his hands. “Even if your little bill makes it through committee, wins a floor vote, and earns the President’s signature,” — the Chief Justice’s grip had tightened now, pinching Tom’s jowls — “even if all those improbable things occur, at the end of the day, the Constitution — we — will stop you.”

“Madman!” From that chamber, and from that building, Tom Davis fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as he found himself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and Tom turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast Court and its shadows were alone behind him. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through that once barely discernible fissure. There came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—and Tom’s brain reeled as he saw the mighty walls rushing asunder.

As the stone fragments fell around him, Chief Justice John Roberts stood motionless, bathing in the blood-red moonlight. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called to Tom Davis, who ran desperately into the night.

“The Constitution will stop you, Tom — or at least it will on a 5-4 vote!”

And across the avenue, in a tiny recess of the Dirksen Office Building, two Senators reached a consummation.

Chapter 3

Originally published November 12, 2006

Eleanor Holmes Norton stood amid the ashes of the former Supreme Court.  Her vision, once clouded and remote, slowly regained clarity. Raising her head, she squinted through the rising smoke and burning rubble, trying to determine her surroundings. The darkness of the night nearly made it impossible to discern any feature, save for the blazing white light atop the Capitol Dome.  At that sight, Eleanor Norton’s heart grew forlorn.  Another vote was being held on the House floor, she thought.

Making her way onto the Capitol Grounds, Eleanor approached a group of men waiting outside the House Side Entrance. All of them were drinking bottled water and chatting amiably. “Excuse me,” Norton asked one of the men. “What’s going on here?  The House is in session,” she said, pointing at the light aloft the Capitol Dome.

“Oh girl, we’re here for the big party!  Haven’t you heard?  The Democrats won back the House and Senate!”

“Won?”  Eleanor Norton raised her index finger to her lips.  Closing her eyes, she let her mind welcome the memories: Bill Clinton . . . Tom Foley . . . voting on proposed bill changes on the House floor . . .

“Pardon me, boys, but I have to talk to Nancy immediately.”  Eleanor made her way past the gyrating throngs and quickly escaped down a roped-off hallway.  Passing by a collection of congressional busts, she stopped at the last pedestal:

Looking over her shoulders, Eleanor assured herself that she was alone.  Taking the bust of Congressman D’Alesandro in her hands, she rotated it 180 degrees until it faced the wall. Suddenly, a trap door opened beneath her feet, sending Eleanor Norton hurtling down a slide that spiraled several times before depositing her on a large mattress in a brightly lit room. Standing up, Eleanor brushed dust from her blouse and walked through an ornate door with a hanging sign that read “Spa”.  Inside, she found a woman in a black frock sitting on a chair. Her face was being tucked by an immaculately groomed Asian man.

“Eleanor!  My dear, it’s been  so long!”

Eleanor walked over to her friend.

“Hello, Nancy.  It’s good to be back. But you’ve got to help me, sister. I feel as though I’ve been asleep for 12 years.”

Nancy Pelosi motioned for the Asian man to leave the room. “Go on!  Party it up with the boys upstairs,” Pelosi said as she pulled two white tablets from her purse. “One for me, one for you.” Swilling her bottle of water, she plopped the pill in her mouth.

“I say we impeach the motherfucker!”  Now Eleanor Norton was talking very loudly.  “I just wish that hippopotamus Gingrich was still around — the nerve of that man taking away my limited House privileges!  Nancy, are you listening to me?”

Nancy Pelosi opened several vents on the ceiling, allowing the music from upstairs to fill the room. She raised her hands above her head and started to twirl, rolling her eyes and smiling.

Unbeknownst to the revelers, Sam Brownback watched from a perch on the East Portico.  His eyes were like burning embers.  As the crowd heaved and swayed, the Senator started to quake with rage.  Then, hearing a wolf’s cry in the distance, he leapt to the ground and galloped off, his cloven feet echoing on Pennsylvania Avenue.