D.C. Neurotica
Chapter One
"Mr. Savant, The President would like to see you."
Although my back was turned and I heard nothing before the words were spoken,
it was no surprise to me that someone was there. I had first sensed violation
of my "personal space" several minutes ago, and I had grown more
and more uncomfortable as the distance between myself and someone not me
decreased from hundreds of feet down to only a few.
"I'm Agent MacNeeley of a special organization that protects the President.
I am not at liberty to divulge the name of this organization."
"The Secret Service?" I asked.
"You know about the Secret Service?" Agent MacNeeley asked, seeming
quite shocked.
I nodded. After watching the agent's perplexed expression take root, bloom,
wither away from detection, and rot into compost rich enough to guarantee
that the next few expressions on that face would be quite healthy and well-nourished,
I asked how they had found me. I also noted that Agent MacNeeley was beautiful.
Beautiful, even. A face like that could make a man repeat himself.
"We knew you would come here," she replied, matter-of-factly.
I exploded with the force of the collective Keg-O'Pabst-punished-innards
of a thousand retching frat boys on any given Thursday night during early
football season when everyone is happy because nobody is yet aware that
their team really sucks. If I had been a smidgen more angry, it might have
been a Friday night. A special Friday night, even, like one where the cover
band plays alot of cool Bon Jovi songs, and several high school girls show
up with oh-so-wonderful liver-inexperience and ill-conceived notions of
the allure of soon-to-be-retching frat boys.
"So those pinhead CIA weenie shrinks are still Ouija-Boarding up a
crock of Tarot and Tea Leave psychological profiles to use for political
leverage against upstanding private citizens, eh? Did they examine my writings
and analyze my blood donations and sample my semen and see my samplemen
and collect my excretions and sift through my garbage in a craftily engineered
and carefully executed ploy to forecast that I would come to the Edward
Kennedy Clandestine National Monument as soon as I set foot in D.C.?,"
I tersely spit out.
"Yes. Or we listened in on your call to the National Park Service when
you asked if the mandatory alcohol possession requirement was still in force
here."
"Bastards!" I hissed.