As soon as Marc Villano hung up the phone, announcing that he was on his way home, Jus and Noah began badgering their father.

"If Lacey has puppies, can we have one?" Noah's eyes were glowing, thinking of the fun he and his brother would have playing with their own brown-eyed puppy, especially if he was Lacey's. They had spent the night sleeping with her in their bed and they almost got away with having her eat with them, but their dad put an end to that the moment they put their bowls of Cheerios on the floor.

"Dogs eat on dog food the floor. Boys sit at the table and eat their cereal. Sit." The moment Ed said 'sit', Lacey sat up and everyone laughed.

"I sure hope Villano gets home soon."

"I hope he's don't, then we can keep Lacey."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marc Villano was waiting by his front door, as the Lynches approached. When he saw Lacey, he whistled one long and two short sounds and Lacey raced to her master.

"Was that part of the training? Jus asked.

"Not exactly. It's more like our own special sound. Lacey comes running when I make those sounds."

Noah wondered if he could imitate the same sounds and if Lacey would run to him when she heard it.

When they got inside, after the boys had begged Villano for the first of Lacey's puppies, Marc explained that Lacey had been fixed. "She can't have puppies, but if you play your cards right, I bet your dad will get you a dog. Just be good boys, okay?"

"Okay," Jus said, pouting.

"Do you think this might help? Do you think having a bazillion dollars will help us get a dog?"Noah showed Villano his treasure map. "Look at all them X's. I bet they're places where the pirates buried treasure."

"Four of them. Me and Noah counted."

Villano studied the map carefully. "This seems familiar. That red line means something. I'm not sure if it's treasure, but I know it means something." Villano pulled out a copy of the street atlas and flipped it to the first big map, the one showing downtown Washington. "Look at this, boys, your red line is right on top of Constitution Avenue, and it twists past Fourth Street and comes out at the foot of the Capitol. There's something about this, something I remember. I saw a map like this at Union Station once. It showed a canal that flows beneath the city. I bet this isn't a treasure map at all, it's just a copy of an old city map with canals on it."

"I dunno 'bout that," Jus was worried.

"Then the treasure is in the canal," Noah said, "we can Scuba for it. That'll be easier than digging anyway."

Villano ignored the boys, more intrigued with the map than he should have been, "But why would anyone carry a map of D.C.'s canals?"

"It's not no canals," Noah said, more perplexed than his younger brother. "It's a treasure map just like what Jim Hawkins found when he lived at the Admiral Benbow."

"Until Long John Silver took it."

"But they all found the treasure in the end."

"Just like us," Jus added.

They've been fantasizing about Treasure Island too long. I need to get some rest. I need to get them out of here.

"So it's not a map of any stupid canals. It's a treasure map like me and Jus been saying. See, here's the line to the treasure. All we gotta do is walk here and run over there and if we take our shovels-"

"Or Scuba gear."

"And dig here," Noah emphasized the word 'dig' "and here, and here, until we find the treasure."

"All for ourselves," Jus said.

"Without no tax," Noah added.

"I don't think you boys can dig-" Marc wanted to be nice not only because they'd taken care of Lacey but because he could remember the time he got caught with The Magician's Nephew, and spent half a summer rummaging around in his grandfather's wardrobe looking for the forest, the witch, and that stupid lion. These boys deserve the best. "We can't dig without permission. The District's finicky about that. They want everyone to dot their Eyes and cross their Tees."

The boys stared at Villano.

"I mean there are rules about digging in public. You have to get a permit."

"Why?" Jus asked.

"Why?" Vollano repeated, trying to find an explanation-any explanation-that would satisfy two little boys. "Well, because if everyone just started digging holes all over the place, old people and blind people and little kids would fall in them, and somebody might get hurt. That wouldn't be good would it?"

"It would be if we found the treasure," Noah said. "Then we'd have enough money to fix everyone back up again." Noah dreamed of being a paramedic and driving a big emergency vehicle down the side streets in his development.

"We could even fix up the blind beggar in Treasure Island."

"Right." Villano was grasping at straws, trying to end the discussion, get the kids out of his house, settle down with Lacey and get some rest, "But it might take a while to find the treasure." He paused, "In the meantime, I'll check into it, okay?" Marc handed the map back to Noah and walked the boys to the door. "Thank you for taking care of Lacey. You can visit her anytime, just call first, okay? She's a bomb sniffing dog and-"

"We know, you told us that a thousand times."

"Then you know she's a working dog, but I tell you what. After we find out about the digging permits, I'll talk to your dad about getting you a dog." Go tell your dad he's calling you. No, you're too old for that. "I'm tired, you need to go, but you can come back tomorrow, okay?" Marc closed the door as they left, glad they'd been around to help, sorry he'd gotten involved with their quest for lost treasure.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The cops were late showing up at Sissy's house, but they had their warrant, even though it was for a deadbeat dad, one Thomas Benjamin Finan, which was enough to get them in.

"I'll kick the door down if I have to." Corporal Angela Hearne laughed, knowing there was nothing a District resident could do even if the cops kicked in the wrong ghetto door, beat up the wrong ghetto person, or killed the wrong ghetto man. The warrant protected the police as much as it discriminated against their victims.

"This guy hasn't paid child support in over a year, and he has sixteen outstanding warrants."

"Sixteen? Don't let that get out; the public already thinks we don't do our jobs."

"That's why this case will make the papers. No matter what we do, we'll get our man," Corporal Hearne sprayed Officer Everley with her spit as she laughed through the wide gap in between her front teeth.

"Police! Open this door. Now!"

Jason, clad only in brown socks and Rudolph the Reindeer boxer briefs, the ones Sissy had given him because of the long nozzle in the front, jumped out of bed. "What the fuck? What the cops doin' here? They can't be finding me so soon." Jason ran into the bathroom, grabbed his pants and jumped out the window. The moment he landed, however, he was surrounded by a half dozen police officers.

"Thomas Benjamin Finan?"

"No, man. You got the wrong brother."

"Do you have any weapons on you? Any knives? Guns? Needles? Syringes? Drugs?"

"No, man, I' m clean 'n my name ain't no Thomas Benjamin Finan."

Officer Angela Hearne patted Jason down, squeezing his nozzle extra hard, wanting to rip off his boxers and do a complete cavity check, knowing she'd have plenty of time to do that later at the station. Then Officer Ron Everley searched Jason's pants and tossed them to him. The only things Everley found were Jason's wallet and a folded piece of paper with a red line bleeding through it. "Let me see your ID," Everley said as he tossed Jason's wallet at him.

Jason hopped from foot to foot as he juggled his trousers, flipping them in the cops' faces as if he were a Ringling Brothers Indian club juggler and they were sitting in the front row. Then he handed Everley his expired Maryland driver's license.

"Says here, you're Jason Brown. Why'd you run?"

"You be the cops, man. Brothers run from cops."

"You're not the man we're looking for, but I'd watch my attitude if I were you. The man we're looking for is Thomas Finan. He's listed at this address: 1463 Sherman Avenue. That's why we're here; we're looking for him."

"Oh, you're looking for Tommy the Fin. He ain't living here, man." Jason paused, playing the cops, wishing the clock could spring forward a week so he could enjoy their ineptitude during the upcoming disaster. "He done move to Kansas, man. I think he be clicking his fucking heels together and flying to fucking Kansas, that's what I think." Jason walked away, turning his ass abruptly toward the faces of the white police officers, wishing he had as much gas as they did so he could generate a fart stinky enough to blow them all out of town, then remembering, They be dead soon anyways. Let it go. Let the God damn fuckers go.

Officer Everley looked at the folded map, "Hey, Brown, do you want this piece of paper or is it trash?

"It be trash, man," Jason said without thinking, Just like you, man, you all be mother fucking trash, at least until next week, than you'll all be dead, and besides David's got a stack of them ten feet high.

Everley looked at the uncut grass and debris around him, the broken bottles and trash in the alley and realized he couldn't toss one more piece of litter into the street. I'll trash this when I get back to the station, he thought as he turned to his partner, "I don't like his attitude. Let's see if we can arrange a tail. I think he's hiding something."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The captain and the best detectives on the force were gathered at the Marion Barry Building, the main headquarters for the D.C. Metropolitan Police, examining the map they'd found on the Metro, as Eliot Scanlon, a rail thin nerd cryptologist and the only Ivy Leaguer (in fact the only college graduate) ever hired by the D.C. police force, explained the meaning of the numbers on the map.

"It's a simple code," Scanlon said, "look at the numbers in the corners of the document. The number three is on the top left hand side, followed by a dash and the number four. The numbers zero one are on the top right; the number twenty is on the bottom left and the number fifteen is on the bottom right. Substitute letters for each of the numbers and one is A, two becomes B, and so on. So our code breaks down to 3-4, 01, 20, 15." Scanlon looked up at a sea of drowning faces and spoke slowly. "Substitute the letters of the alphabet for the numbers and you'll come up with C. D. A. T. O. That's our suspect, ladies and gentlemen. Someone by the name of C. Dato."

Officer Herne opened her laptop during the lecture and was already pulling out the people in the Metro area with Dato as their last name.

"That's a wild idea," Phyllis Luckett, the Assistant Chief of Police, said, "I mean you are stretching it, aren't you?"

"I've got it," Herne said, "Charles Dato, 1839 East Capitol Street. That's not far from where I used to live: it's just across the street from R. F. Kennedy Stadium."

"That makes sense," Scanlon said, "look at these doodles: a couple of hot dogs are next to the number 15 and below that there's a shed or house and damn, that's the stadium below that-that's RFK, damn straight!"



(The bottom of the map)

Or a doodler's nightmare, Luckett thought.

"And a bunch of letters and numbers: C3H5N3O9/C3H5(NO3)3. Get a chemist to look at this formula-it must mean something."

Hearne wondered why Scanlon hadn't noticed the formula before he called the meeting. It is his job to figure these things out, isn't it?

"In the meantime, we'll try to determine the meaning of the rest of these symbols, but for now, we've identified our man as Charles Dato. I'll dispatch a force to watch the place. Hearne, you've got a handle on somebody at Justice. Get down their pronto."

The drool slithered out of the gap in Angela Hearne's teeth and dribbled down her chin. She hated being the center of attention, unless it came with an extra pay check or a roll in the hay.

"Get a warrant," Luckett continued, "as soon as we've got the paperwork, we're going to bust this guy and bust him good."

"Wait a minute. What's this?" Scanlon looked carefully at the marks on the bottom left corner, "Those things look like Islamic symbols to me-half moons, and are those scimitars to the right? Is this some holy war?"

Captain John Garner moved in to take over the day-to-day from the assistant chief. "You're right-three half moons, three stars and look at all those double yous in the middle-obviously representing war. Three moons, three stars, three scimitars, it must mean World War Three. I bet this Dato character is a fucking Islamic terrorist."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rhonda Wilkerson was two rooms down from John Hinckley's Suite in St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital, a Victorian fortress overlooking downtown D.C., most of the major memorials, and the skyline of Northern Virginia.



(The view from St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital)

Kiefer stood to one side as the doctor finished his early morning examination, prodding and poking Rhoda from one end to the other.

"Is all this necessary? I said I was sorry. I'm upset; I'm not mental. Okay?"

Yeah, yeah, Dr. Leonard Bryce thought. That's what they all say.

Kiefer, who was holding his wife's hand, squeezed it gently and stared into her deep black eyes. For once in my life I have to be a man. No matter what she's done, I love her; I have to protect her. "Don't help the doctor, sweetie, just be still."

Rhoda glared at Kiefer. She had never heard him take command and she wasn't about to let it happen: she would remain in control even if she had to spend the rest of her life confined in the most notorious mental hospital in the world.

Dr. Bryce's hard contact lens shot up inside his left eye and he paused a moment, blinking, looking up, then down, down, down. Then he made a few quick notes on the chart and left, not exactly in a huff, just annoyed. He didn't want to waste his time on a third-rate loony. Hinckley was his calling, not this worthless woman thing, he thought, as he left Kiefer alone with the inconsequential nut case.

Kiefer, wondering how long the doctors would put up with Rhonda's craziness, swatted down beside her and whispered, "Sweetie, you have to calm down. John Hinckley's only two rooms down. You know that, don't you?"

"He's here because he's a God damned nutcase. I'm here because you're a nut. If you'd been man enough to put us in the God damn cab and take us to the airport I wouldn't have been trapped on that God awful Metro."

Kiefer knew better than argue with Rhonda. "You're right, sweetie, but calm down. I want you out of here. The boys need you . . . I need you."

Rhonda huffed. She knew the boys needed her. She knew Kiefer needed her as well, but she wondered if she needed any of them. "I'm not afraid of that lily-wristed fool down the hall any more than Jody Foster or Ronald Reagan was. Hinckley's unarmed and de-balled."

Kiefer had no idea what Rhoda was talking about. Perhaps it's the medication. Perhaps it's-

"Are you listening to me? I said I want you to go to the head nurse and get me discharged."

"The head nurse isn't the decision maker here, sweetie, you'll have to be cleared by the police and a team of psychiatrists." Kiefer cleared his voice and lowered it half tone. "These things take time, sweetie, they take time."

Rhonda stopped glowering. She didn't like the thought of being cleared by a team of psychiatrists, but she hated this new Kiefer-this deep throated man who loomed over her. "If there's one thing these doctors should know, it's that I'm not crazy." Rhonda thought she heard the Hallelujah Chorus playing in the room next to hers. "Everyone else in this fucking place may be crazy, but I'm not." She tried to stand to honor George Frideric Handel and King George the Third.

Kiefer walked around the room, looking for hidden cameras and microphones. The Hinckley Suite is just down the hall, they must have taken precautions. Kiefer wondered how he could make his wife understand who Hinckley was and why he was locked up. Maybe I can write her a note, no, it's too Hollywood. "Listen, Rhoda, you have to be careful, you know the government bugs rooms like this. I'm sure this room isn't bugged," he winked at his wife, hoping she'd have enough sense to look at his face for a moment, but she didn't. "Be careful. You never know who's listening."

Rhonda seemed to take the hint-at least for the moment-as she backed down. "You're right, and I do want to get out of here. What's the story with the cops? Have they charged me with anything?"

"No, that's the good news. They thought about charging you with disorderly conduct, but I talked them out of it."

"You?"

"Yes! me. I can stand up on my own, you know."

"Right!" Rhonda thought back to their honeymoon when she mounted him and shoved his cock deep inside her taking his balls away forever.

"If you can convince the doctors that you're not posing a threat to anyone, you can be released later today, but you have to behave-or pretend to behave. Can you do that? Can you be a good girl for the next couple hours?"

Rhonda smiled, batting her Scarlett O'Hara eyelashes, feigning her southern charm, "Why yes, Rhett darlin', I can be a good girl . . . for you and Ashley. We can keep the God damned Yankees far away from Tara."

"Hush!" Kiefer nearly shouted. "Don't make an ass of yourself. You're not going to jeopardize our family any longer."

"I'm not jeopardizing anyone. Life's a game and I'm going to play it to the hilt."

"Play it on your own time, out of public view, and don't drag my family onto your muddy playing field." Kiefer paused, stretching himself to his full six foot six inch height, "Do you understand me?"

Rhoda backed off-temporally-but it was an unused skill, something she hadn't practiced since early childhood. "What do you want me to do?" She wasn't exactly pleading, but she was convincing enough to let Kiefer know she was willing to play his game for a while if she had to.

Two doors down the hall, Dr. Bryce stopped in on John Hinckley, Junior, "How are you today, John?"

"The same as usual, doc. I get high looking at Van Gogh paintings, answer Jody Foster's incessant stream of emails, put an E-Bay bid on one of John Lennon's guitars, watch reruns of Gilligan Island, pig out on Big Whoppers, and scarf my meds."

Dr. Bryce laughed. Both he and John knew that once a man could make fun of his environment, laugh at it, and be one with it, he was on the way to recovery. Why can't those God damned judges trust my judgment and let Hinckley go? He's saner than half the politicians in Washington and he's a hell of a lot saner than that Wilkerson woman down the hall.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Camilla Peterson spent the morning with her girlfriends at the Ninth Street Beauty Salon, in the two-story Federal style townhouse across the street from Banneker Senior High School on the corner of Ninth and Euclid Streets. The interior of the shop was as shoddy as the neighborhood, littered with bottles, used condoms and Kleenex, but the girls giggled and laughed during Camilla's presentation of Jason's love making techniques. "First, he picked me up and carried me into my apartment, then he laid me down on the sofa and knelt beside me, then he started to kiss me from my feet all the way up to my-"

"Jason, did that?"

"Yes," Camilla felt her orgasm coming on, thinking of Jason's hands, his tongue, his thrusts. "He kissed every part of my body, slowly stripping me, holding me, hugging me."

"God damn, girl," Sissy Noland said, wondering how she could spend time with Jason, making love his way.

Camilla's eyes glazed over as she continued, "He stripped so fast I didn't know he'd done it, then he lifted me up on to his dick, thrusting me higher and higher into the air and his dick grew so big I thought it was going to come out of my mouth."

"Well, he is a brother and besides sisters don't fuck with Niggers unless they got a foot-long dick, but this Nigger sounds like he's got enough to handle the whole neighborhood." I gotta get me a taste of that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Danh knew he was crossing into uncharted territory by disagreeing with Captain Garner, but he was a man of principles. "Captain, I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but you can't condemn an entire religion because of a few bad eggs."

"And just where are you going with this, Danh?"Garner raised both eyebrows and looked at him over the top of his glasses as if he was his third grade teacher and Danh had asked a question about human copulation.

"You're assuming the perps are Islam," Danh said. "We don't know that. All we know is that we have a map with drawings on it that you assumed resembled a scimitar and half moons and stars. Now you're assuming we're in the middle of an Islamic plot-World War Three, no less. This entire episode might be nothing more than a red herring, you can't-"

"I can do any God damned thing I want in my department, Nguyen, and the city will back me up!" Captain John Garner took a long deep breath, trying not to turn as purple as he normally did when he bellowed at his officers, "Have you mentioned this to anyone else?"

"No, sir." Danh felt like saying Duh.

"Good, then I didn't hear you say it-make sure you don't think like that again. Got it? Who in the fuck's more prone to violence, anyway? Me or the God damned A-rabs?" Garner pronounced the first "A" long.

They're not A-Rabs, they're Al Qaeda you freaking A-hole.

"And if you come to me with your bullshit again, I'll bust you lower than my God damned toe jam. Got it?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sissy wriggled on Camilla's sofa, jiggling her tiny ass up and down on the soft cushions, wondering if she should continue her plan or just find a better way to get Jason inside her panties. "Here's the five dollars I borrowed. I bet you forgot all about it."

Camilla stuck the bill in her bra; she had, indeed, forgotten all about it. I never lent Sissy any money-since before her operation. What's this all about? Is she trying to tell me something?

"You got a beer?"

"Sure, hold on."

As soon as Camilla left the room, Sissy shoved her empty wallet in between the seat cushions. That should do it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Kiefer lay naked on his bed at the Omni Sheraton, wondering how his life could have been different if he'd met a man like Jason before he'd married Rhonda, wondering what it would be like to spend some quality time with the hunk who caused so much chaos on the Metro. Perhaps he did us all a favor. After all, Rhonda did end up in the nuthouse. Thank God, I sent the kids to my sister's house in Bethesda; it'll give me time to sort this mess out.

Kiefer stretched out his full six foot six inch frame on the king sized bed, kicking off the covers, rubbing his ass against the silk sheets, as he pictured his legs up over his head, and Jason thrusting deep inside him, filling him with his yard-long spear, wondering what it would be like to French kiss this sexy African-American man, to be his bitch, to live with him, I'll hand wash his jockey shorts, I'll be his bitch, if only . . .

Kiefer came to his senses the instant he came, filling the sheets with his semen, wishing he was with Jason, wondering how they could meet, what they would do afterwards. I'll settle for a day . . . an hour. That's all Jason would need. Once he fucks me, he'll never leave. Kiefer grinned, picturing himself free of the mewing backbiting bitch he'd married, dreaming of living in his own fantasy world of men.



(The Capitol and the Mall with the Tiber Canal system in the background.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Inside David Burns' living room, five photographs lined the walls. His favorite was a blow up version of a best seller: showing the Tiber canal-and what the city might look like once the Mall collapsed into the marsh, but when he gazed at the one showing the White House sitting just yards from the Tiber-he nearly giggled. The Oval Office, The West Wing, shit, the entire building's gonna slide back into the slime it crawled out of.



(The White House along the banks of the Tiber Creek, c. 1825)


(Near the foot of Capitol Hill-the old Tiber Canal-site of today's Botanic Gardens)


(Pennsylvania Avenue, June 2, 1889)


(The Jefferson Memorial, nearly up to its ankles in water)

No matter how this turns out, I'm a winner. David bit into his Krispy Kremes, at peace with the world.

Adman came out of the kitchen with a six-pack a moment after Jason entered from the rear. David didn't like the men smoking in his house-outside was fine, as long as they blew the smoke toward the fags in Dupont, but the only smoke in his house came from him-after sex!

Terrill knocked at the door and David let him in quickly, "I said take five, not ten." David led Terrill into the grand salon of his Massachusetts Avenue mansion and motioned for the men to sit down. "Good job yesterday. We've completed Phase One," David winced, Phase One was the name of the most notorious Lesbian bar in D.C.-he hoped the others didn't know that. "We've broken through to the canal. Next week, we'll set the final explosives and open the Tiber Creek from the Potomac to the Capitol and-"

Adman couldn't contain himself, "We'll hear the plop, plop, fizz, fizz of the Federal buildings falling in the swamp."

"Our long national nightmare is over," David had been a Gerald Ford fan since the day he pardoned Richard Nixon. "And all the poodle-skirted faggot protesters will fall into the sewers and wash out to sea."

The four men laughed so loudly the chandelier seemed to sway.

"I still don't understand how it's gonna work," Terrill said. "I mean all we're doing is dynamiting. They must have dynamited a thousand places when they dug the Metro."

David tried not to sound exasperated. He'd gone over his plan every day for nearly a year until both Jason and Adman understood not only the details, but the overall master plan, but Terrill was too thick to understand. If he hadn't been such a homophobe, I never would have offered him this job, but it's done now: he's part of the team. I'll have to give it one more try. "Washington's built on a swamp. Two hundred years ago, our leaders decided to fill it in, but the only form of transportation was by water, so the planners turned the Tiber Creek into a canal. That canal flows from the Potomac River, here," David pointed to his map, "down Constitution Avenue, past the Capitol, all the way to the Anacostia River. By blowing a few holes in select spots we can open the canal, split the city in two, and watch the homo marchers and half the public buildings fall in the river." Burns pointed to several key locations on the canals-on South of the White House, one at the foot of the Capitol, and the other on the Eastern Branch. "The Eastern Branch is the old name for the Anacostia River-we're going to open the flood gates from all three sides."



(Plan of the City of Washington, showing the Tiber Canal and its branches)

All three branches? Jason wondered, David's holding back something-where's the third water gate? Where's the third flood coming from?

"Yeah, I got that part," Terrill said, although he really didn't, "but what's the point? Won't that just make the faggots mad-won't it make them-?"

"There won't be no faggots left," Jason said. "They all gonna be dead along with their fucking lifestyle. They all gonna be fucking dead." Jason's smile mesmerized Terrill.

"I got all that," Terrill said, for the hundredth time, "but so what? Why destroy the city? I live here."

"So do I, God damn it!" David was yelling now, his mania overtaking him; it was as if he'd flushed his medication down the toilet. "This is my God damned city. Or it was, back in the 1800's, when my great-great-great grandfather owned Tiber Creek and all the God damned land around it."

"Right!" Terrill lip-synced, knowing he was supposed to know all this, wishing he could remember. "It was your family's, so you get to destroy it." Luckily, David wasn't able to decipher the sheer look of stupidity on Terrill's face.

"Exactly," David tried to calm down but the adrenaline was flowing. "This has always been my city, but George Washington cheated my ancestors when he made them give him the deed to the Burns family farm. This is my land. And if I can't have it back, I'll destroy it."

Adman thought David resembled Dr. No, or one of those other crazy characters from the old James Bond movies, but he ignored it; he was having too much fun thinking about destroying all the fags in America, picturing himself as Lord of the land once the government fell and David set up the new regime, so he bit into another Krispy Kreme, glad that he grabbed an entire handful before the others arrived. He had been through these lessons so many times; he never understood why David bothered trying to get through to Terrill.

David wished he could find a fast moving train and push Terrill under it. You could cut a hole in his head and drop in a cassette and he still won't get it. Why the fuck do I bother? David turned red and looked as if he was going to explode.

Jason looked at Terrill, "We'll be done soon. Just follow orders. Don't try to think. Next week, the city will be ours."

"Or what's left of it," David added with a smirk. David held up his coffee cup. "A toast, gentlemen: to Washington and the man who's going to reclaim it."

The men held up their Sprite bottles and Styrofoam coffee cups.

"On the afternoon of June ninth, Washington will be no more." David lifted his cup high and toasted, "to a glorious eight day adventure! Bon voyage!"

Besides David, only Jason understood the humor . . . but neither man laughed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Alejandro hurried back to the gay conference planning meeting. He was convinced that the abstinence booth would be a major success, but he was concerned about other issues. He glanced at the program. We've covered everything: legal rights; gay marriages; armed forces policy changes; even adoption. I wonder if Carlos would like to adopt a child? Alejandro's mind trailed off. I bet we'd be better parents than ours were.

By the time Alejandro arrived, Sunugya Tinsulanonda was standing on the stage practicing his keynote address. Sunugya had mastered the art of public speaking while serving in the Thailand National Assembly, but he had been forced to flee Thailand when The Nation, Bangkok's leading newspaper, broke the story about his involvement with another man which forced him to drop all aspirations of becoming Thailand's first gay-friendly Prime Minister as he sought political asylum. Alejandro, who had met Sunugya at the International Gay Conference in Singapore, was instrumental in procuring the necessary references that allowed Sunugya safe harbor in the US.

If he speaks as well as he normally does, Sunugya will be able to use the gay platform as a stepping stone to political office. I wonder if he'd consider running for the Senate.

Sunugya Tinsulanonda spoke with in a crisp British accent, "This week's march will bring together the largest number of people in history. We expect twelve million gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people, along with an additional twenty million supporters. And what are we going to do with thirty-two million people? I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to overturn this government. That's what we're going to do. We're going to close this city down. That's what we're going to do. We're going to demand this government take a stand for human rights. That's what we're going to do." Each time Sunugya spoke the words 'that's what we're going to do' he 'heard' thirty-two million voices shouting with him, feeding from their energy, so he could send it back to them. "We're going to flood the Metro with thirty-two million riders. That's what we're going to do. We're going to bend the steel of the second biggest Metro system in the country. That's what we're going to do. We're going to fill the Mall with a sea of humanity vast enough to be seen from outer space. That's what we're going to do. We're going to close this city down. That's what we're going to do. We're going to fill the halls of Congress with an ocean of voters. That's what we're going to do. But," Tinsulanonda paused, looking each pretend audience member in the eyes, and his voice got softer and softer until it faded away in a mere whisper as he continued, "we're going to wait here peacefully until we do that. That's what we're going to do. We're going to sit here until we do that. That's what we're going to do. We're going to rise here until we do that, that's what we're going to do." Then he paused, standing quietly, planting his feet as if he was the Colossus of Rhodes. "We're just going to scream and yell until we are equal." And then he screamed, "That's what we're going to do" He stood majestically, waiting for the earth to move, waiting for his pretend crowd to respond just as loudly, just as ferociously, "We're going to smother America's heterosexuals with our love. That's what we're going to do. That's what we're going to do. That's what we're going to do." Each of his chants became softer and softer as he continued in his faintest whisper, with his voice in his lowest timbre, he repeating the phrase four more times, louder and louder, until-along with his listeners-there would be a crescendo thundering across the Mall, echoing from freedom loving Americans to the men and women who created change and wrote the laws affecting human dignity. That's what we're going to do. That's what we're going to do. That's what we're going to do. That's what we're going to do. That's what we're going to do." Raising his voice word by word, pitch by pitch, he continued, "That, my friends, is exactly what we're going to do." As he finished, he imagined thunderous applause breaking out across the city. Now, it filled the Hannah Scales Vittum Gay and Lesbian Center as the staff rose to their feet, screaming and applauding their hero.

From the next room, Alejandro heard the band rehearse 'Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory' and he wept, wishing Carlos had been with him, sensing the power of the upcoming march and the ultimate victory of his people

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Terrell Johnson had been waiting in the Metro Employment Office for over an hour. All this to get a janitorial job, he thought. I wonder how long it takes to become the boss?

"Mr. Johnson, we are pleased to inform you that you will be starting on the evening shift as an assistant platform sanitary engineer tomorrow at midnight. Please complete this health benefit application, sign your IRS withholding statement, and consider enrolling in our Christmas Club Savings Plan. Your position is contingent, of course, upon your completion of a ninety-day trial period. During that time, if you have no demerits and if you show up on time each and every evening," Johnson spoke to Terrell as if he was a five-year old, "you'll be on board for Metro's five weeks of annual leave, three weeks of sick leave, twelve paid holidays, a complete health care package including dental, maternity and adoption leave, season tickets to the D.C. National's baseball team, and complimentary Metro rides. Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah, what do you mean by complimentary?"

Terrill knew the word, but he also knew he had to ask something, otherwise, they'd think he was nothing more than an ignorant fool.

Now all I gotta do is plant the smoke bombs in the false bottoms of the Washington Post recycling bins and enjoy my Christmas Savings Club. Terrill laughed to himself, wondering how ignorant David and Jason were. Wondering why everyone perceived him as being the stupidest man in Washington. They'll find out how smart I am. Just wait 'til I'm President and whip the white folks. They'll be my slaves working in the marsh to rebuild the this entire city just for me. Terrill snickered, wondering what the beds in the White House felt like-wondering how many white women he could lure under his sheets in the middle of the night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Back in his Massachusetts Avenue mansion David Burns wondered if Terrill had gotten the job as Metro janitor. I can control the entire operation on my laptop, David thought, as long as that stupid shit doesn't fuck everything up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sissy was too horny to care about her friendship with Camilla any longer. She grabbed her cell, "'Milla, you're not going to believe this, but I think I left my wallet at your house." Sissy tried not to stumble, "remember when I returned that five? Well I might of left my wallet on your sofa. Did you find it? I bet it slipped in between the cushions. Are you home? Jason's there, right? Is it okay I call him so I can pick it up? Cool. See you later, sister."

Sissy dialed Camilla's home and when Jason answered, she nearly lost her nerve. I want him more than I've wanted anyone my whole life. "Jason, do me a favor, sweetie, look inside the sofa cushions and see if you find a wallet. Yeah, I'll hold. You found it? I'm so needing it. Do you mind if I come get it now? You was sleeping? Well, that's okay, I've seen tons of hard naked men before. I'll be right over, okay?"

Jason didn't need a second invitation, he stripped off his clothes, jumped in the shower, shaved, doused himself with body wash and put on a loose fitting robe. I be ready for the bitch when she be getting here. I just hope she be ready for me.

David Burns hit the Goggle search button on his laptop, seeking the formula one more time, I made a dozen copies of that map and the moment I need it most, I can't find one. I - luckily, the search came up with the formula before David could complete his thoughts and the copied maps, along with his doodles, faded from his mind. His only concern was to finish building the bombs so he could get them in place by the end of the week. As soon as he finished Googling, he returned to his screensaver: a 1790's map of Maryland where the only settlements in the as-yet unplanned city of Washington were the towns of Georgetown, Carrolsburg, and Hamburg, along with a dozen farms. The largest farm, highlighted in yellow and situated on both sides of the Tiber, was owned by David Burns's great-great-great-great-great grandfather.



(The Burns family farm, circa 1790)

Burns pressed the slideshow button and watched the ancient map dissolved into his "mug shot", the one showing him standing on his ancestral land and holding the U.S. Capitol Building in the palms of his hands.



(David Burns on his ancestral land, holding what rightfully belongs to him)

"Damn, I want it back! I want it all back" Three tears rolled down David's left cheek. Perhaps I should just annihilate the God damned city-nuke it to hell. David shifted his eyes to the most recent copy of the Washington Blade, it's all their fault. Those queers control overstepped their bounds after Sonewall. Now they want to run the whole God damned city. I won't have it. I'll destroy it before I let any of them step on it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Charles Dato and his three children were watching TV in their second floor apartment at 1839 East Capitol Street, when all hell broke loose as a battering ram broke through their front door and all the windows were smashed open. Then they heard the bullhorns and the helicopters.

Dato forced his children into the pantry, "Hide and don't move, don't make a sound, I'm calling 911-but if anything happens, if you hear gun shots, stay low and don't move." Dato dialed 911 as he crawled to the dining room on his stomach, slowly hoisting himself up to the window ledge, looking out, praying to Allah that no one would hurt his children.

A dozen FBI agents scrambled up the back stairs, guns aiming in all directions, looking for Dato just as his oldest daughter, Fatima, grabbed the mop handle and pulled it toward her chest to steady herself.

Dato inched up the wall and peeked out the window where he saw a dozen cop cars and a hundred policemen storming his building. Each officer was dressed in a bullet proof vest and carried a shield.

"What the fuck?" Dato pissed himself. "What's going on?" Dato flattened himself on the hard wooden floor as he dropped the phone, unable to figure out what was going on. He reached into his pocket and found a white handkerchief, whacked off the leg of a dining room chair and placed the rag on the end of it. Then he hung it out the window and keeping his face below the firing line shouted, "I give up. I give up. I'm unarmed. There are women and children here. Do not harm us."

It took less than a second for Captain Garner to lift the bull horn to his lips. "Hold your hands above your head." We are in your building. We are in your building. Keep your hands where we can see them. We will shoot on sight if you drop your hands."

The last few drops of urine oozed down Dato's right leg. All he could think about was his children dying in another random act of American violence.

Nine men raced into the dining room where Dato stood, hands above his head, in pants wet, sweat rolling down his armpits.

"I am here," Dato shouted. "I am unarmed. My hands are above my head."

Corporal Angela Hearne was the first to reach Dato. She grabbed him and swung him to the ground, forcing his hands behind him as she mounted him and held him to the hundred-year oak floor Dato had so painstakingly restored.

Officer Nat Miller put the cuffs on Dato as Hearne said, "You have the right to remain silent, if you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand your rights?"

"I didn't do anything. My children are here. My children are-don't let them see me like this, don't let them-"

As soon as the lights came on in the kitchen, lighting up the pantry, Fatima dropped the mop handle.

Fatima fell to the kitchen floor as thirty bullets filled her from head to toe. Later, the coroner ruled that her death was instantaneous, but to Dato, it didn't matter, his oldest daughter was dead-dead because the FBI and the District Police had invaded his home, arrested him, handcuffed him, and forced him to lick the dirt from his freshly polished hardwood floors.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The gunfire was heard for a six block radius-all the way down East Capitol Street to Lincoln Park, where the nannies and pet sitters were picking up chestnuts and reading Time Magazine and enjoying the backdrop of the Capitol dome and the Washington Monument. "It felt as if World War Three started," Lynette Weedermann told the Washington Post. "I thought the terrorists were destroying the city. I looked up at the Capitol dome to see if it was still there, and when it was, and when I realized the sound was coming from that God awful derelict neighborhood around RFK Stadium, I sent an S.O.S. to Jesus, thanking him for removing one more gang member, thanking him for restoring law and order."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Alejandro was dead tired, but too exhausted to sleep, still wondering and worrying about his lover, Carlos, as he hurried home and closed the door. Carlos's fragrant musk filled the room, such a sloppy man, Alejandro thought, as he spotted a pair of Carlos's boxer shorts on the floor, reached down, picked them up and sniffed them. Such a sloppy, sloppy man. Thank God, he's mine. Alejandro carried the boxers to the bedroom, placed them under his pillow and instantly fell asleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Right Reverend Billy B. Abel didn't waste time flipping through the concordance of his King James Bible. He knew the exact verse he wanted to share. "Jesus spoke to me and the face of the Lord shown down upon me, hallelujah. And Jesus told me to wipe the dirt off my shoes and bring the word of the Lord to the heathen in Rwanda."

No one moved a muscle. The hundred and thirty-five members of The Right Way Bible Church knew the Lord spoke directly-and only-through the Right Reverend Billy B. Abel.

"Where's Rwanda?" Floanda Jones asked, turning toward her husband.

"It's in Africa, and the Lord and Reverend Abel will get to that if you give them time." Zeke Jones had been a member of the flock for five years and had led his wife to the Lord just last week. She's a baby Christian and needs time to grow, Zeke thought, but at least her heart's in the right place and in the arms of the Lord where Jesus is king. Zeke took his wife's hand, holding it as if she were his child instead of his wife of thirty-eight years.

"Jesus came unto me in the darkness of the labyrinth of the Metro tunnels and revealed his power and majesty to me, his humble servant. Do I hear a hallelujah?"

One hundred and thirty-five voices rejoiced as one, shouting praises to Jesus.

"The Lord God Jehovah told me I must go into that tunnel-into the dismal darkness and depravation of the devil. I must journey into remotest Africa, into Rwanda, to preach to the heathen Hottentots. Now, you ask me, where is Rwanda? And I asked the Lord that very same question, because being a mere soul in God's infinite universe, I can only rely on the wisdom of the Lord to show me the path of righteousness for his name's sake, hallelujah. I said hallelujah! And the Lord led me to a giant book, an expensive leather book published right here in Washington D.C. by the National Geographic Society. And a voice said unto me, 'this is good.' It is good for the Lord to provide an atlas for his name's sake, hallelujah. And the Lord God lifted up my hand and the book opened to Africa and the Lord led my trembling finger as if grasped in His Mighty Hand down to the coordinates Q-12, Q for the quiet gentleness of God, twelve for the blessed apostles. And I looked, just like the ancient prophets of old looked, and I beheld the city of Kigali and I asked the Lord to open up my mind unto his mercy and goodness. And the shadow of the Lord fell upon me and the Lord revealed his wisdom unto me and I understood. K-I-G-A-L-I. That's the place I saw on God's holy map. Substitute words for letters in God's message and here's what the Lord said unto me: K stands for Know, I stands for I'm, G stands for God, A stands for And, L stands for Love, and I stands for Individuals. So here is God's holy message revealed unto you for the very first time: 'Know I'm God and Love Individuals.' No, my brothers, it's not a question. It's an answer-a sacred answer from our Living God. Do I hear Hallelujah? For we already know God loves individuals, because that's the message I've preached for the past six years: There is but one way to come to the Father and that is through the Son, on an individual basis. And that's the key-individual, because we are all individuals! But now I have been commanded by God Himself, Hallelujah! to go to Africa and show the heathen Hottentots the Holy Word of God. I have been commanded to show them that God loves the individuals of Kigali, Rwanda just as much as he loves you and me. Do I hear a hallelujah?"

Hallelujahs filled the church as Zeke and Floanda Jones wept along with the rest of the congregation and the visions of the Lord filled the basement of the old Kresge's Five and Dime Store. And then, for the briefest of moments, Zeke saw an orange and golden halo emanating from the face of the Right Reverend Billy B. Abel, blinding those who were truly faithful.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Let's play Viet Kong!" Danh Nguyen laughed as he raced from the kitchen to the bedroom looking for his lover, and before Michael could open his mouth, Danh had striped him naked, roped him, and tied him to the bed.

"This is an easy game," Michael giggled, as Danh made love to him. "You have to do all the work," Michael's laughter filled their apartment, oozing out the half-opened windows, echoing up and down the alley, "and I get to have all the fun."

"That's for me to know and you to wonder about, white man," Danh said, remembering the day they first met-at the Clayton Moor-Jay Silverheels Lone Ranger Festival at the Uptown Theatre. "Do you remember the first joke we shared?"

Michael was laughing too hard to respond but he knew the joke by heart, "It's the one where the Lone Ranger and Tonto were surrounded by a hundred thousand Indians and the Lone Ranger looked down at his gun and realized he had no bullets left. 'Looks like it's just us against a million Indians,' the Lone Ranger said as Tonto replied, 'What you mean us, white man?'"

"Yeah, I remember," Michael laughed, running his hands up and down his lover's body, showering his 'Lone Ranger' with kisses.

An hour later, after two magnificent ejaculations, Danh slipped into his part-time job uniform. "I have to head down to L'Enfant Plaza," he laughed, "to make sure the escalators are free from lint and loose change." Danh untied his lover, kissed him a dozen times, and walked to the door. Then he ran back and gave him a dozen more kisses. "I hope I don't have to work two jobs the rest of my life. I want us to grow old together."

"Jesus," Michael said, "you sound like you're dying. You've already worn me out; I'll be asleep in three minutes. Go to work, just make sure you're naked when you come to bed . . . and have something big waiting for me."

Danh kissed Michael two more times for double good luck and headed out the door. At this time of night the traffic'll be minimal and I'll be at L'Enfant in ten minutes, clock in, sit at the front desk, and hope to God the phone won't disturb my sleep.

Eight minutes later, Danh pulled into his private parking place at L'Enfant Plaza. As he walked to the security door, he noticed a light-colored van with We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! written on the side panel.

That must be the same exterminator I saw at Dupont Circle. That's a good omen and cute-it looks like the gods are following me. I'll have to play the 'bug game' as soon as I get home.

Danh didn't notice the men loitering in the parking lot.

"Did you see the way he wiggles his ass? What a fag?" Terrill holstered his gun, glad he didn't have to use it, wishing he had another way to deal with the swishy Asian fag.


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June 1st
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May 30th
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