Fallen Angels, Complete Series

Jane and Dick knew how to manage appearances.

It was the work they did at the White House.

They had searched for a car that would communicate that they had already arrived at a very early age in life. It would project power and agility.

It needed to scream six figures even though they could barely afford leasing let alone buying.

There was no doubt that they would turn heads and that most everyone would be envious.

Dick took to planting his BMW 3 Series Sports Sedan key fob on the conference table at the White House. Jane carried her signature BMW gym duffel bag to the West Wing after every workout.

Yesterday at 3 a.m., precisely, Dick and Jane received texts telling them to look out the window.

The Ultimate Driving Machine they had chosen to send a message to the world was being used to send a message to them.

Harlan walked into the storefront compound (recently a shuttered Dunkin Donuts) with something hissing and struggling inside a burlap sack.

“Them two’ll think twice about throwin’ us under the bus.” he declared.

Harlan left a note telling Jane and Dick they’d get Phoebe back after they testify the rioters were “…following the Commander in Chief’s orders” and “…don’t make us sound stupid.”

“What are we gonna do with a goddamn cat?” groaned the one-eyed guy in charge.

“Like we planned to hang Pence!” a guy said.

“Like Junior Trump cut off the tail of an elephant!” another suggested.

“You guys are fucking idiots! We need Dick and Jane on our side.” the one-eyed man replied.

He’s seen the median IQ of his new recruits plummet since the indictments came down.

JANE and Dick had finally been recognized.

They were so thrilled with the creative fee they’d been offered that they’d spent the entire windfall before they billed the project.

The timing was perfect. Their wardrobes were months out-of-fashion and the sommeliers across DC had stopped humoring them.

Their assignment was to talk up the good points of Vladimir Putin, giving cover to Trump Republicans who lined up to call him a ‘genius’ for invading a peaceful, sovereign neighbor.

Dick and Jane love democracy and hate seeing cluster bombs used on telegenic civilians but as professionals, they have a service to sell.

Strangely enough, their anonymous clients seemed even more thrilled with their fee than they were.

The Does weren‘t aware that they’d been bargaining in rubles, now at .0075 to 1 USD.

“I’M NOT myself tonight.” Dick told Jane.

Dick’s the kind of man Jane has coveted since adolescence. A man with an appetite.

As a student at an evangelical university, Dick sowed his way up and down sorority row.

A few years later, he was voted the sexiest man at the White House. Ivanka managed to introduce herself several times.

But this past year of unemployment, subpoenas and threats from extremist groups and former White House conspirators –desperate to dictate his testimony –is taking a toll.

It doesn’t help that Nancy Pelosi and Liz Cheney climb into bed with him every night.

Jane had learned to fake her evenings with that middle-aged banker she almost married.

But Dick is at the mercy of things he doesn’t control. He can’t hide. He can’t phone it in.

Cialas jokes aren’t as amusing as they used to be.