00 Something

00 Something

by Rick Bramhall

copyright 2018

This is a work of satire and any names or characterizations of real people in this work are not meant to be the literal truth. Usually. Besides, who in their right mind would admit to being one of these characters?

This novel was completed on March 1, 2018. As such, it doesn't not deal with events that occurred after that date. Certain chapters are also notated as having been written before certain things happened. For example, almost all of this book was completed before Hope Hicks announced her resignation.

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In Memory of my Father, Grover Bramhall, 1924-2018

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Acknowledgments

Other Works by the Author

About the Author

Chapter One

My name is Rick, Rick Bramhall. I'm a secret agent in a little known, poorly understood organization know as the General Public. When the boss called me in, I knew he had a case for me. I just hoped it wasn't catching.

George Soros(1) was in his office, in the fourth stall, as I sauntered in. I noticed he looked less tense as he finished up the paperwork(2) on the last case. I thought he looked relieved to see me, but that could have simply been the medication.

I began our conversation with my usual witty banter. So, Soros, are you going to pay me this week?

Do I look like I'm made out of money?

Not literally, no.

I've got a case for you, 00 whatever-your-number is.

I couldn't blame the chief for forgetting my number. I'm bad with numbers myself. Am I going to be taking on Trump? I asked eagerly.

No, replied Soros, I've already got an eight year old cub scout on that and he's more than enough. Instead, I'm assigning you to the Congressional Intelligence Committees.

That sounds like a tough assignment, Chief, I said, squinting. I may be walking into an oxymoron there.

He handed me the necessary paperwork and I backed out of the office. And put on your glasses, he called after me. You look suspicious when you squint.

I checked into the Watergate Hotel(3), a notorious den of corrupt lobbyists and back-stabbing thieves. I knew that they knew me and vice-versa, but that wasn't how the game was played. Nobody knew anyone or anything.

Hey, Rick! the receptionist greeted me cheerily.

As I scribbled my name on a blank check, a dangerous perfume sidled up next to me. I turned around to eye the goods. She was about 5'10" in her stocking feet but would have looked better in heels.

Is that Rick, Rick Bramhall? she asked in a sultry voice. I eyed her again, this time in alarm. I saw the usual young brown-skinned beauty with long black hair. She looked like she'd been poured into her dress and someone ran out of paint just in time. I decided I wanted to see what she weighed in nothing but a towel.

I asked her her name and in a background voice she purred, Lola,(4) or something like that. It was very noisy in the lobby. I put on my glasses but was too late. She'd already stopped moving her lips.

I escorted her lips, hips and everything else up to my room. Deciding to get down to business, I ripped off my clip-on tie and threw it on the bed.

She raised one carefully manicured eyebrow. Do you expect me to follow that?

Not really, I replied. That's my last tie and I don't want to get it rumpled.

We stepped out onto the balcony. The night was so clear you could actually see the blinking lights of the airplanes as they soared by.

Will this do or do you want to see me in a towel? she asked. Either she'd been carrying a can of turpentine with her or that dress hadn't been paint. The result fogged up my glasses.

Ooo, it's so big, she gasped.

I hate to disappoint you but that's my wallet.

I know.

After we had a roll in the hay, conveniently left on the balcony by the hotel staff, I stepped back inside. I had a sneaking suspicion I'd have to step into the shower while someone took a potshot at this lobbyist. By the time I got out of the shower either she'd been shot and fallen over the balcony or she'd moved on to fresher hay.

The next morning I headed for Capitol Hill, my clip-on tie looking even more impressive on a dress shirt. The security guard at the metal detector made me check my AK-47(5) with him. He assured me I could have it back on my way out.

It was easy to find my way to Mitch McConnell's office. All the slime trails converged right outside his door. I eased the door open, not quite sure what to expect.

What I found was an attractive blond wearing a boy scout uniform sitting behind the reception desk. She looked up from her Day of the Dead podcast. Are you a lobbyist? she asked, squinting.

I squinted right back at her, even though I was wearing my glasses. I decided to bring out my best weapon. No, I'm not, I said truthfully.

As usual, the truth totally caught the enemy off guard, bewildering the young lady. She climbed off the desk and put her knees back together. Yeah, right, she said finally, I've heard that one before. Go right in.

The inner sanctum was accessed through a set of heavy curtains and a metal door with real oak studs inset in it. As the door swung open, a gong went off somewhere.

Behind a large teak desk, a pair of bespectacled eyes peaked over the top. As soon as he saw that I saw him, the eye stalks withdrew behind the desk. Come on out, McConnell, I said in my best tough-guy voice, I know you're in here.

Instead, an Oriental lady of indeterminate age, wearing a traditional Chinese dress, stepped out from behind another set of heavy drapes. You know no such thing... Rick, Rick Bramhall.

Right about now I wished I'd had that drink the waiter offered me at breakfast. Here I was face-to-face with the infamous Elaine Lan Chao(6), wife of the Republican Senate leader and, more to the point, eldest child of the Chao shipping conglomerate(7). I'd already been informed by certain members of the General Public that her father had personally risen her husband from the impoverished levels of a six-figure income to one worth more like $25 million.

No wonder they had made her Secretary of the Department of Transportation(8). I could see it in the faint orange tint of her skin and the clearly marked white mask around her eyes. She and Trump were obviously tanning buddies.

From behind her a silver-haired gentleman carrying a woman's purse peaked out. She said something sharply in Chinese and he scurried from the room. In the meantime, I'd located her fuse. It was so short it was hard to differentiate from her hairdo.

How much is Soros paying you for this? she demanded.

Paying? I wish! Slowly, carefully, fully aware of her short fuse, I pointed down to my Vans(TM)(9). The quick, unthinking whipping out of the truth seemed to have saved me again as I witnessed the puzzled look on her face.

Don't mind me, lady. I'm just looking for the Senate Intelligence Committee.

She laughed so hard I thought she was going to have a coughing fit. Oxymorons do that to some people. I quickly backed out of the room.

Back out in the main lobby, I almost tripped over a tiny white man with curly hair. I knew a Rand Paul when I tripped over one. He looked up at me hungrily.

I'll give you a personal tour of the Senate for five bucks, he asserted. Or, I could teach you how to whitewash a fence for ten.

I'll take the five dollar tour, I answered. I'm in a hurry.

He shrugged his well-tailored slim shoulders. It's your funeral. Then he scurried off. I checked all my pockets. I must have left my wallet back at the hotel.

Waiting for an elevator, I bumped into a hollow shell. Hello, Senator McCain*, said I. My voice echoed in his shell. He didn't bother to reply. He probably was able to figure out I wasn't one of his constituents from Arizona from my lack of leathery skin.

I followed him into the elevator and got out where he got out. Then I started looking for that mythological committee. When I found a room labeled Intellegence, I knew I'd found the right place.

I entered to find a group of sour-looking old white men sitting around a round table, passing around what looked like a decanter of Scotch. Most would pour some into their glass and then pass it on. A few drank directly from the slim, fluted top of the crystal carafe.

Is this really how you spend all your time? I demanded.

One old codger who seemed to have grass woven into the last wispy remains of his hair replied. The others nodded their glum, grim faces in silent agreement as he spoke.

The alcohol keeps us out of trouble, he explained. Drink enough and you can't get it up. Keeps us from having sexual scandals.(10)

Really? That's the only way you can think of doing that?

The senator shrugged and wiped some drool from the corner of his mouth. Either that or do it by the convict method. Like Young Ryan.

I'd heard of the convict method. Basically the theory is that if you exert enough physical effort during the day, you'll be too tired for sex in the evening. There's a reason you always see guys in prison pumping iron all day, every day -- and it's not so they can land that role on the next TV reality show.

After checking the directory and seeing that there was no member of Congress named Young Ryan, I decided to check out the alleged majority leader of the House. After all, I knew where to find him. He sent out posts every hour, on the hour, showing shots of his buff body as he worked out.

I followed a janitor with a mop and pail on his journey down into the bowels of the building. My boss had assured me this was just a metaphor and that the building wouldn't really try to digest me. I brought along a supply of Tums(TM) just in case.

The smell of locker room hit me long before I heard the clang of metal against metal. The odor of sweat socks sweating combined with that peculiar fragrance of institutionally-cleaned towels was forever etched in my mind as a waste of time. I'd seen one-too-many heart attacks in middle-aged joggers to change my mind now.

I found the legally-named Speaker of the House on his favorite mount, the DC1000(11). He was pressing two large metal plates towards the middle of his chest, apparently in a misguided attempt to center himself. Seeing me, he stopped. It was slightly alarming that his pectoral muscles continued to jump.

So is it true? I peppered the politician.

It is, he freely admitted after checking me for recording devices. I don't care what the boss says, I'm going to have to bill the General Public for my dry cleaning. Do you know how hard it is to get sweat stains out from a dress shirt and clip-on tie after a guy whose wrists spurt perspiration pats you down?

The difference between me and Anthony Weiner is that my photos all stop at the waist. I don't need to advertise for sex partners. I'm so pooped at the end of the day, my Secret Service agent has to carry me into the house. I made a mental note to check with the Secret Service to see where they get their laundry done.

I developed the distinct feeling that Ryan was about to shout out, Drop and give me ten! any second. So I split.

I spent the rest of the day trying to track down the elusive Nunes, theoretically the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee. Where's Nunes? I would whisper in an urgent tone. Mostly I just got shakes of the head. Those who answered said he'd gone MIA.

Missing In Action? I don't think so. That was mainly for people with guts.

Back down on the ground floor, I was about to check out for the day. Psst, a tiny voice said, I know where Nunes is. At first I thought it must be my conscience, but then I remembered my conscience didn't know jack shit.

The sound seemed to be coming from the ground of the ground floor. But then he moved his head in a distinctly pixie-ish kind of way and I saw him. He was so tiny I had to bend down and scoop him up in my hand.

It never entered my head to question what the Keebler(TM) Elf(12) was doing in the building. He made as much sense as anything else I'd seen that day. I brought him up to eye level so I could examine him more closely.

Cute, up-turned nose -- check. Pointed ears -- yup. Small, twinkling eyes -- two of them. Pointed cap...wait a second.

I thought you were supposed to be dressed in green, I pointed out.

I switched to all white, he explained, to protest chocolate's discrimination against white folk.

That's pretty weak, I had to admit. But you say you've got the goods on Nunes?

I know for a solid fact that he's hiding out at the White House, he nodded. Fat chance that will do him, though, once Stephen Miller figures out he's Latino.

I made a note of this in my notebook and thanked the little man. I asked him if I could give him a ride home and he said sure. I slipped him in my coat pocket and headed out the door. I have to give him credit for not complaining once about the wood stock of my AK-47 bouncing off the back of his head as I walked out to my car.

I sat him down on the passenger seat. So, where do you live?

He looked up at me with these twinkling, little, innocent-looking eyes and said, I...I don't remember. So I kicked him to the curb.

Once I got back to the hotel, I typed up my report and emailed it in to the office. If they'd told me there was typing, I probably wouldn't have taken the job. Noticing the staff had not replaced the hay on the balcony, I fell asleep on the bed -- gently setting my clip-on tie aside.

Soros read my report and sent it back to me the very next morning. He'd corrected my math, laughed at my spelling and given me a B-.

Best grade. Ever.

Footnotes for Chapter One

1. George Soros. Born in 1930. Considered one of the most successful investors in the world, he is regularly listed in the top 30 richest people in the world. He's a well-known liberal who has given billions of dollars to progressive causes. Donald Trump often accuses protesters of being in his pay. I wish. ibid.

2. paperwork. Probably Charmin(TM). A Proctor & Gamble product. This paper comes in seven styles, apparently to meet the sensitivities of your particular butt. It also comes in flushables which, as explained on the TV show Adam Ruins Everything, means that they are flushable in the same sense a bowling ball is flushable. For a free sample, try http:///www.wipemyassdomcot./refrigerator.

3. Watergate Hotel. In another one of their brilliant moves, the Democratic National Committee decided to located their headquarters in this building. Naturally, the Republicans robbed them. Getty, Marco Polo, et al. Cesspools of the Modern World. McMillan and Nieces, New York, 1979.

4. Lola. A song written by Ray Davies of the rock and roll band the Kinks. Released in 1970. Broke parole, back in jail by late 1971.

5. AK-47. The automatic Kalashnikov, a semi- or automatic rifle built by this Russian guy named Kalashnikov to help his country defeat Hitler. It was not used in combat until 1948, hence the name. Scribner, Ian My All-Time Favorite Ways to Kill People, Putney and Swope, New York, 2016.

6. Elaine Lan Chao. Born in 1953 and still alive. Secretary of the Department of Transportation (see footnote 8). Eldest daughter of James Chao, a shipping magnet and magnate who founded the Foremost Group, which both Trump and I thought delivered milk. Married Mitch McConnell when he was not yet a millionaire. Go figure. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elaine_Chao. and Buck Rogers Meets the Chinese Dragon, RKO'D Pictures, 1937.

7. Chao shipping conglomerate. Still run by James Chao, who was born in 1927. He became one of the youngest marine ship captains in the world at the age of 29. One of his first actions was to sail to Taiwan. Foremost Group, founded by him, does shipping, trading and finance but apparently not milk. He gave his son-in-law Mitch McConnell enough money to make him a millionaire. Shortly thereafter the other senators stopped picking on him and elected him Majority Leader of the Senate.

8. Department of Transportation. Like we really need a department for this. If they did something useful, like design flying cars, that would be different.

9. Vans(TM). As of this writing a pair of Vans Unisex Authentic Skater Shoes can be purchased on Amazon for $13.92. It's probably more politic to describe them as inexpensive rather than cheap.

10. sexual scandals. Full notes on this subject would take up several large rooms. Suffice it to say, the more a candidate talks about family values, the greater the chance he's cheating on his first, second or third wife. If he also goes off on the LGBT community, in part or as a whole, then he is cheating with another man. For a brief history of the subject see Rand, Annie Hypocrisy, fifth edition (abridged) Bantam-Weight Books, New York, 2017.

11. The DC1000 is a chrome-plated monster of a weight machine for those heavily into masochism. The weights don't have numerical values on them. It's like prices in a fancy restaurant. If you have to ask, you can't handle it. I have it under poor authority that this product is made by Hasbro, manufactured in Tasmania, Transylvania or one of those countries starting with T. I would like to thank Rand Paul's investigative team for their help with this note. But first, I'd like to find them, as would the police.

12. the Keebler(TM) Elf. The Keebler(TM) Elves were born in 1968 and they make delicious cookies. Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III(14), on the other hand, was born in 1946 and tastes like piss, vinegar and 500+ years of Southern inbreeding.

13. Fear of the number 13 was promoted by the relatively new patriarchal religions in an effort to discredit their competition, the matriarchal religions. Goodrich, Norma Lorre, Priestesses. Under matriarchal religions, the number 13 was considered holy because it is the number of lunar months in the lunar year. Frazer, Sir James, The Golden Bough, abridged.

14. Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III. He is most notable for being the first sitting US Attorney General to have a lobotomy, causing his memory to completely fail, while in office. Unusual for Southern aristocracy, his family can only trace their history back three generations. Before that, we have only his great-grandmother's sworn assertion that a horse was out of the question, as she was afraid of all barnyard animals. Veneble, William. The Lovable New Ku Klux Klan. Moron House, 1973.

*This chapter was written before McCain was diagnosed with brain cancer.

Chapter Two

The next day being the first Monday of the month, I checked in with George Soros' receptionist/gatekeeper. Ms. Pennywhistle(1) looked me up and down in that asexual way that she had and then snarled, So, 00 whatever-you're-going-by-today, how's your sex life?

You know that's an agency secret, I bantered back. I had to admit she was looking rather resplendent in a mint-green blouse and sky-blue skirt tight enough to hold an alibi, over red, striped boxer shorts.

We were about to lock jaws with agency-issued Yale(TM) combination locks when the usual plumbing noise indicated the chief was ready for me. He's ready for you, Pennywhistle panted.

I couldn't think of a good repartee and so entered Soros' office unencumbered. So, I said, stretching my luck, I guess you liked my last report.

I went over to his desk and let him scratch me behind the ears. You're a good agent, the chief admitted. He patted me on the head and I looked up in expectation of my next assignment.

You've earned a tougher assignment, he barked at me, and it's only partly because no one else wants it. The other reason is that most of the staff is on vacation.

Who do I get to kill, Chief? I have to admit I almost drooled on my clip-on tie.

Soros gave me his pained expression. 00 Whatever, you know we don't kill people. We're the General Public -- if anyone gets killed, it's us. He handed me a dossier and explained again that I was supposed to read it first, then burn it. The boss showed me the door which, since we were a semi-secret organization, was well camouflaged.

Following my secret instructions, I presented myself at the west entrance to the White House the next morning. I shouldn't have been surprised that the agent who met me there was an eight year-old cub scout. You're my contact on the inside? I asked.

My name's Brannigan(2), he snarled. But you can call me Ace. I'm working as a tour guide and you're a tourist. I'll get you to your station on the inside, but then the rest will be up to you.

As usual, I checked my AK-47 at the metal detector. What the guard didn't know, though, was that I had another AK-47, this one minus its stock and with a sawed-off barrel, up the left sleeve of my coat. I explained the stiffness as tendinitis(3).

I know what you mean, the guard laughed. I got the same problem in my right arm.

Since I am used to laughing when I'm confused or don't understand what someone else is saying, my reaction fit right in with his. Ace, being but 9 years-old, had no idea what we were talking about and retained his usual serious countenance.

Once we were past the guard, Ace switched entirely into his disguise as a tour guide, pointing out every painting on the wall, every pot on every table and every security camera in every corner. I took notes.

We took the stairs upward. The stairs were spiraled, meaning that there where no corners, making the placement of cameras much more difficult and therefore rare.

Ace explained. In case of emergency, I want you to become familiar with all the stairs here. The elevators cannot be depended on, especially in cases of emergency.

He did not need to elaborate. I still remember the case of agent 031, who had an emergency while on assignment. I will never forget the look of surprise on his face, nor the bullet hole in his forehead.(4)

The distance we traveled upward seemed to be based more on me being gassed rather than Ace having a particular floor in mind to start with. He was a remarkable little boy who seemed clinically interested in my wheezing. Once I was done making noises, we stepped out of the circular stairwell and into a hushed hallway.

Oddly enough, there were no works of art in this hallway. The white-paneled walls were blank, panel after panel. There were the usual security cameras, though. Their occasional random and unprofessional movements suggested someone down in the monitor room was becoming bored.

Ace didn't talk now and our footsteps were impressively muffled by the soft, thick carpet. We walked quickly, now that I had caught my breath, and we made good time going somewhere. It didn't occur to me that we hadn't passed any doorways until my guide stopped in front of one.

I'm going to have to ask you to pick the lock, he explained in a whisper. I haven't earned that merit badge yet.

Having locked myself out of my apartment innumerable times, this was skill I was well-versed in. When the lock clicked, it too was in hushed tones. The door opened silently inward.

Brannigan closed the door behind us firmly and we both surveyed the scene. It looked like a conference room and a fairly large one at that. A long rectangular table dominated the room.

Then I noticed a large wet bar and decided that maybe that dominated the room. I missed it at first because it was receded into the wall. Further down the same wall, a machine was also receded into the wall.

My first impression was that it was an ATM machine, but it wasn't like any ATM I'd ever seen. Then I thought maybe it was a slot machine, but then there was no arm to pull, or any colorful flashing lights. I put my dime back in my pocket, disappointed.

This, Brannigan hissed, is the cabinet meeting room and this machine is an ATM. So much for my instinct of abandoning my first instinct. There are several features of it, though, which make it very unusual.

He pointed to some of the writing on the machine. I've taken only two semesters of Russian, but I remembered enough to recognize the language when I saw it. Russian, huh?

And that's not all, he added, punching a long, elaborate code into the keyboard. Obviously he already had his merit badge in this. Languages have to be taught starting at a young age. They say it over and over again and I believe it.(5)

Then, this time with a not-so-hushed little squeak, Ace swung the front of the machine open. Is this what I was here for, to steal rubles?

A man about six inches shorter than me stepped out of the interior of the machine. I recognized him but couldn't place the number. He looked me up and down.

Good luck, he said, you're going to be cramped in there. With that he passed quietly out of the room, silently closing the door behind him.

I looked into the interior and saw a roughly human-shaped chamber with a padded seat across it. It all looked rather alarmingly like an iron maiden. I quickly checked for spikes.

There's going to be an important cabinet meeting in here within the next 24 hours, Ace informed me tersely. Your job is to take notes. Use your phone to take pictures, if necessary.

What if someone wants to use it as an ATM machine?

He was prepared like a scout. He handed me a thick wad of rubles. Then he handed me a bottle of Simply Lemonade (TM) lemonade(6).

Don't drink it all at once, he advised. But then again, make sure you drink it all before you need to fill it up again.

On that cryptic note, he shoved me inside the machine and quickly slammed the front of the Russian ATM shut. Amazing strength for one so young. A soft white light blinked on overhead.

I peered out into the room through the one-way glass. I didn't have long to wait. Unless you want to consider two hours a long wait when you're crammed into a small space and left with nothing to do.

Just as I raised the lemonade bottle to my lips, the door at the other end of the room open. A secret agent looked in, scanned the room and then quickly backed out. I could tell he was Secret Service because who else wears sunglasses inside?

From somewhere came a short trumpet blast and then President Trump waddled into the room. In profile he really did look fat. I suspect it's from all his inactivity since he's been president.

I instantly recognized the man who followed him into the room as Scott Pruitt, head of the EPA. He was easy to recognized from the