Dick and Jane were welcomed to “the Heights” (as the locals call it) with curries and knafeh and hellos from stoops up and down Kenyon Street.

The stylish young Does were relieved to fit in.

They couldn’t decipher half the accents at their first block party so they simply smiled and nodded.

But that warm reception came to an abrupt end

A maintenance worker who pulls second shift at the White House recognized them as insiders in the “war-room” that engineered the Jan. 6 insurrection.

A good number of the Capitol Police live in Columbia Heights. Three of them were injured, one gravely, fighting to protect members of Congress.

“It’s not the neighbors we need to worry about,” Jane said. “The Capitol rioters are starting to get released from jail. They’re locked and loaded and they haven’t gotten laid for a while.”

“We’ve dropped at least forty bucks with you every week since we moved in last year, Lee.

”And I do appreciate that. Thank you.”

“But now you’re refusing to do our laundry?”

“Sounds strange,” Lee replied, “but we’ve come to realize we have too many customers, Mrs. Doe.”

He and Jane have been on a first-name basis since day one. (She generously pitched in $5 on a GoFundMe to replace his Fulton Tubeless Boiler.)

“It’s nothing personal, Mrs. Doe.”

”Retailers don’t turn away customers when they‘re placing coupon ads all over the Web. Too much of the happy hookah, Lee?”

“Can’t we be adults about this?” he answered.

Recently, Jane and Dick’s pizza orders have arrived hours late. And just today, the Lady Lahore Spa informed Jane it was booked solid until May.

THE pick-up games at the 13th Street Mosque have been one of the few things that’s kept Dick sane since he and Jane self-exiled to Columbia Heights.

A year without work takes a toll.

Although Dick has a platinum pedigree and a BMW to match, he was welcomed on the courts as one of the guys. Friendships were in the works.

The nightly matchups can get competitive but fouls go uncalled until they cross an unspoken line.
One Friday evening Dick limped back to Kenyon Street after taking more than his share of hits.

After several nights he realized he was being singled out. Blindsided by screens and clobbered on the boards by both the shirts and the skins.

He still plays but is mostly frozen out of the action. He misses being part of the trash talk about physical prowess and erectile dysfunction.

No one’s told Dick what’s going on. Or why.

JANE knows too much.

There are people desperate to get to her before she’s subpoenaed by the House and the DOJ. Rudy is just the latest to get served.

Trump insiders want her to testify that the election was stolen. Proud Boys want her to swear her boss ordered them to riot. GOP lawmakers stay awake praying she perjures herself.

She and Dick have recently been receiving “friendly advice” about staying healthy.

“I don’t know who I’m afraid of most, “ Jane told Princesa Yolanda, ”Did you see the twisted faces on those guys at the Capitol?”

“Relajate, hija.” Yolanda cackled. “I cast big bubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble,” she cackled again, “I make whole clusterfuck go away.”

“A spell that lasts 7 years, okay?” Jane insisted.

JANE AND DICK met on their first morning at the White House, hired as communication staffers by the newly elected president

They were at an all-day workshop to gin up hysteria about stolen elections. It was basically a dry run for the Big Lie used four years later.

“Nothing’s too ridiculous for our base,” the thirty or so participants were told. That set off a competition in Conference Room B. Who could make the blatantly untrue sound true? Recognizing each other’s God-given gift for bullshit, Dick and Jane fell in love.

They skipped out after lunch that first day to conduct their own one-on-one breakaway session at the Happy Hour Motel out off of I-95.

It was a productive afternoon. The results were worth every taxpayer dollar spent.