Jo ran down a dark alley and quickly ducked behind a dumpster. Shots rang out from the street as bullets ricocheted off the walls. She covered her head as the police on the streets passed her by. She checked her hands. Both were bloody.
"Damn," she sighed as she assessed the damage. "At least I'm not shot."
No. Scaling a barbwire fence that held in the "undesirables" had cut her hands.
"I wish I could say the same," Tootie glanced up at her as she held her side.
Blood gushed from her friend's wound.
"Jesus, Tootie," Jo blanched at the sight of her blood. "C'mon!"
She lifted Tootie and dragged her down the alley, pounding on a side door. An "Only I Can Fix It!" Trump poster rattled in the wind as Jo knocked louder. The door opened a crack as a sliver of light fell upon them.
"It's me!" Jo whispered hoarsely.
"Quick!" a young woman responded. "Get in here!"
"She's shot," Jo rested Tootie on a chair. "Get Cliff off the swing!"
"Thank you, Jo," Tootie grabbed her hand.
"For what? Almost getting you killed?"
"For getting me out of the gulag. You shouldn't have risked your life," Tootie's eyes drifted shut.
A very attractive man in a gold G-string ran in.
"Move away," Cliff commanded as he entered the room. When he didn't have to perform for a living in Jo's club, he was a doctor, he reminded himself. He quickly assessed the wound.
"We need to move her to the sterile environment, Jo. I'll need the blood we've been storing."
They were in the back of the club. There were three rooms: the one they were in, which served as a storage area, an office, and another, which had been converted into makeshift medical area for the many without legal healthcare and for those whom the police hunted. Cliff chose to think of this as his "sterile" environment, although it more closely resembled a M.A.S.H. unit from a war.
"Molly," Jo called out to the young woman who had opened the door. "Get the blood."
Jo and Cliff carried Tootie to his "sterile" room.
"Is she going to make it?" Jo asked as she helped him position her on the table.
He didn't answer as he adjusted his G-string and began to cleanse and investigate the wound.
"Molly, I'll need to begin an I.V. drip and get me the sterile instruments from the kitchen. Also, bring me my scrubs!"
"Jo, the police are here," Boots St. Claire informed, breathlessly, as she entered the room. She let out a small gasp as she viewed Tootie.
"Shit," Jo exhaled. "Play for time, Boots. I've got to get myself together!"
"Oh, um, okay," Boots covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to let on how upset she was.
"Now!" Jo demanded.
"Um, right, Boss," Boots exited quickly.
Salacious Showers was Jo's bar. She had taken it over and renamed it after the original owner had been arrested on the suspicion of being Muslim and it had been abandoned. It was now one of the most popular and trendy bars in New Trump City. Jo was known as the hostess who welcomed all, so long as they were rich folks, white supremacists, or Russians. Salacious Showers was a place where the ruling class felt comfortable and pampered by their very solicitous hostess while they indulged some of their more prurient pastimes. Jo could not let them see the blood and cuts on her hands. She rushed into her office, washed her hands and face, reapplied her make-up, and brushed her hair. She pulled on a blue jacket, which she figured would please the police, with long sleeves that could hide her bruised and bloody hands. She entered the main floor of her bar completely composed and casual.
"Gentlemen," she smiled broadly as she greeted the police officers. "So glad you could make it tonight!"
"Are you kidding?" a corpulent officer enthused. "This is the only place in town where you can see a flesh show and a zombie Ted Nugent!"
It was true. The old rock star, Ted Nugent, had accidently shot himself through the head with a hunting arrow many years ago. He had made plans to cryogenically freeze himself, but something had gone terribly wrong, and now… he was a zombie. The strains of "Stranglehold" began to ring out. The achingly haunting lyrics "Some people think they gonna die some day, I got news, ya never got to go," drifted over the crowd as the zombie rock star with an arrow straight through his head rocked ominously upon the stage, his guitar playing oddly unencumbered by his lack of a brain.
"Hey, where's that cute guy with the gold G-string?" another macho cop with a gun slung about his waist queried.
"It's straight-night, tonight," Jo informed without thinking.
"Hey! We're straight!" several cops hollered at her over the music.
"Right! We're all straight here!" Jo immediately recognized her mistake.
"Damn straight, sister," the corpulent cop threw his arm over her shoulder.
"Hey! I've got the best seats in the house waiting for my special friends from the police force!" Jo announced as she led them to a table with a smile. "The drinks are on me!"
"Right on, Trump," they gave her a fascist fist salute.
"Right on, Trump!" she saluted them back cheerfully.
Jo's smile faded as she motioned for Jeff to come over.
"You're off shift now," she whispered to the waiter. "Tootie's in back."
"What?" he questioned over the din of the music.
She pulled a small notebook out of her jacket pocket as he followed her to the bar. Tootie's in back she scribbled and handed it to him. He eyed it curiously as he scratched his head.
"Oh for crying out loud," Jo complained as she waved Boots over to her. "Take him in back, discretely."
"Right, Boss!" Boots nodded as she linked her arm with Jeff's.
"Aah, Ms. Polniaczek," a sleazy, balding man with horrible lower teeth accosted her. "Your club is hopping, as usual."
It was the mayor of New Trump City. He, technically, had been elected; although the persistent hacking of voting machines made his victory dubious, to say the least. His "victory" came after the city was forced to change its name because of a Supreme Court ruling that New York was no longer, legally, entitled to the name "New York." She glanced at him, barely able to conceal her disgust. It was not that Jo had forgotten how it had become fashionable for the elite to completely whiten their top teeth and leave the bottom row as dirty, rotten reminders of who they really were, but it still repulsed and shocked her every time she saw it.
"Mr. Mayor, so good to see you again!" she feigned delight.
"I just love your place," he continued to smile. "Almost naked girls and boys swinging on ropes overhead, rock n roll, alcohol! What says America more than that?"
"Liberty and justice for all?" Jo mumbled under her breath.
"What?" he questioned.
"I said that Libertarians, juiced, just ball!" Jo lied.
"They do at that," he agreed as he eyed her lasciviously.
"Mr. Mayor," Jo slapped him on the back. "My bartender has come up with the most amazing drink: lemonade, bitters, American sarsaparilla and Russian Vodka. What could be more American than that?"
"Sounds intriguing," the mayor smiled his most stomach-turning smile as he flashed his hideous lower rack of teeth once more.
"Extra bitters, George," Jo nodded at her impossibly good-looking bartender.
"Right!" George winked as he reached under the bar for a bottle labeled "urine."
"Why… this is excellent!" the mayor held up his glass after taking a swig. "Jo, I think you've got something here!"
Both Jo and George stifled a laugh as the mayor drained his drink.
"Another!" he proclaimed as he slammed his glass upon the bar. "And one for my friend, here," he nodded at Jo.
"I'll settle for a shot of bourbon," Jo grinned at her bartender.
"To Blair Warner!" the mayor lifted his glass to the huge, electronic, three-dimensional image of Blair posing with President Trump behind the bar. "The very essence of American womanhood!"
Every hour, on the hour, like a demented cuckoo clock, the holographic image of Blair would manifest itself. It was the same all over New Trump City. Blair Warner, flashing her million-dollar smile and stating: "This is our country, people! It's all about us! Be proud! And don't forget to tweet!" At that, the apparition would dissolve into the 3-D image now displayed behind Jo's bar.
"To Blair!" Jo raised her glass.
May she rot in hell!
"Would Mademoiselle like another drink?" the waiter asked in English.
Damn, how does he know I speak English?
Blair was frustrated and perplexed as she sat in an outdoor Paris café. She was wearing a huge hat and sunglasses with a scarf hiding her hair. She thought she had disguised herself quite well! At this point she was suspicious of everybody, absolutely everybody... her waiter included.
"Un de plus, merci" she answered in her best French.
"Oui, oui, tres bien," the waiter bowed slightly as he traipsed off to fill her order.
"Enchanté," a man appeared behind the waiter as he took her hand and kissed it.
"Enchanté, my ass, Kevin!" she retorted angrily. "Where have you been? I've been waiting here for over an hour!"
"Hey! I got held up a little. It's Paris. Whadda' you want me to say?" he sat down beside her.
"This is important," she lowered her sunglasses enough to look him straight in the eyes. "Did you get it?"
"Yeah, whatever it is," he slid a small package over to her.
"Don't be so obvious!" she hissed as she quickly placed the item into her bag. "People are watching!"
"No they're not, Blair! This is France! We're free here!" he relaxed back in his chair and placed both hands behind his head.
"Don't say my name out loud! You are such an idiot!" she rose in disgust as she threw money on the table. "I've got a drink coming. It's yours."
She left the café as discreetly as was possible, considering her outrage at Kevin's lack of discretion. She hailed a cab, but where to go? She had to make sure that no one was spying on her, looking over her shoulder.
"Bois de Boulogne," she stated.
As she exited the cab, she checked to see that no one was following as she rented a rowboat and made her way to the middle of the lake. It was then that she opened the small package. She checked to make sure she was completely alone before she inserted the flash drive into her enhanced super-smart phone.
"Hey gorgeous," the familiar face of George appeared on her screen. Blair couldn't help but smile as she traced his handsome features with her fingers.
"This isn't going to be easy," he continued. "By the time you get this, it may already be too late. But, hey, we have to try, right? You are to meet an artist under the Arc de Triomphe on Bastille Day. He will be painting a picture of you. He will give you a very important package that has to make its way back into the United States… such as it still exists. You cannot fly commercial. You'll have to use your Trump connections over there to enter the country privately. Leave immediately after you receive the package. The Empire Suite has been reserved for you at the Carlyle. Wait for instructions there."
"But what is this package, George?" Blair whispered to herself.
As if he could hear her, the image of George replied: "I know you're wondering what this package is. Don't worry. It's not dangerous."
"Well, at least there's that," Blair rolled her eyes.
"This next part is very important, Blair. Are you listening?"
"Yeah, I'm listening," she responded as if the recorded message could hear her.
"As much as you may want to, do not contact Jo," he continued. "Both your positions could be compromised by any contact between you. You're both great fighters in this struggle and neither of you can be lost."
"As if Jo would even take my call at this point," Blair pouted. "She hates me."
"Whatever you're thinking right now, Jo doesn't hate you," the message continued. "She just doesn't know you're on the same side."
Blair stared at her phone. She lifted it over her head to check it for bugs. How could he know what I was thinking?
"By the way, Blair, this message will disintegrate your phone in 5, 4, 3…"
"Shit!" she furiously pulled the flash drive from her phone. She couldn't get it out of her hands before it started to catch fire. She tossed it into the lake, licking her burned fingers.
"You couldn't have given me a ten-second countdown?"
Natalie reclined on the skimpy pad of her bunk and stared at the mattress over her head. She genuinely liked the woman who lay above her. She was smart, funny and used to be one of the leading voices of the resistance (as far as that went in mainstream media) before she was arrested. Now, she was just another prisoner, like her. The only problem was, sometimes she talked too much.
"Nat!" she leaned over the edge of her bunk to engage her.
"What is it, Rachel?"
"I've been thinking," she jumped down to sit beside Natalie.
"Uh-oh," Natalie thought. Usually when Rachel had been thinking, it entailed a long, drawn out theory based upon obscure facts that went on forever.
"About?" Natalie sat up beside her.
"Your friend, Blair Warner."
"Hey, whatever she is, she's not my friend anymore. All those photos with Trump! Are you kidding me?"
"No, just hear me out," Rachel protested.
Nat lay back on her bunk and placed her arm behind her head to prepare for the onslaught of information she was about to receive.
"In 1973 the Justice Department sued Fred Trump, Donald's father, for housing discrimination against blacks. One of the lawyers on that case was a young attorney named Cecil Broadbent."
"So?" Natalie yawned.
"A little known fact is that Cecil Broadbent was a lifeguard at a private beach in 1965: the very year that David Warner, Sr. fell off a pier in the Hamptons, hit his head, and was resuscitated by a lifeguard. It has never been verified, but the long-standing rumor is that Cecil Broadbent was the lifeguard who rescued David Warner, Sr."
"Okay… and so?"
"What's interesting is that also in 1973 Richard Nixon's Vice President, Spiro Agnew, was charged with bribery. Back then, it was Watergate and…"
"You're about to lose me, Rachel," Nat complained.
"Follow me," Rachel gave her a sincere look. "It's about Blair Warner."
"Continue," Nat rolled her eyes.
"So, where was I?" Rachel seemed momentarily confused. "I don't have my notes."
"If we could skip over the Spiro Agnew part and just get back to Cecil Broadbent, I'd be good," Nat nodded.
"Okay then… after he left the Justice Department, Cecil Broadbent became a lawyer for Warner Industries, noted rivals of the Trumps."
"Yeah, everyone knows Blair's Dad hated Trump. But he's like disappeared, Rachel. Get to the point."
"David Warner, Jr. did hate Trump, on many levels. Yet, when Trump came to power and David disappeared, Cecil Broadbent became a part of the new administration."
"Meaning that Cecil Broadbent may be a plant?" Natalie's eyes widened as she sat up.
"Someone working on the inside: stick a pin in it!" Rachel pronounced proudly.
"So that would mean…"
"That maybe your friend, Blair, is a plant, as well!"
"You mean she may be working on the inside?"
"I think it very likely," Rachel confirmed.
"Yeah, but all those photo ops with the orange anus, I mean…"
"She's selling her role big time!"
"Geez," Natalie gazed at her incredulously. "If this is true, I owe Blair a big apology for all the name-calling I did on social media. Of course she wouldn't work with Trump!" she slapped herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand.
"It's just a theory," Rachel pointed out.
"Yeah, but I know Jo Polniaczek is working for us. She's part of the underground. It would make sense if Blair and Jo were working together. They always did everything together!"
"It goes without saying that we have to keep this between ourselves," Rachel whispered.
"It does go without saying," Natalie smiled at her broadly.
Just then a guard walked in and started hitting their bunks noisily with a baton.
"Dykes, Jews and Fake News reporters," she announced loudly. She stopped, suddenly, and smiled… as if she had unexpectedly amused herself. "What am I saying? You're all the same scum! Time for work duty!"
"Tough night, eh Boss?" George sat across from Jo at her desk as she tended to the books after closing.
"It's always a tough night having to pander to these fascists while inside I just want to kill them all!" she responded vehemently.
"Yeah, I know. It's not a pleasant business," he agreed. "How are we doing on the counter-hacking attacks?"
"Well, I got a bunch of kids over at Ivanka Marie Trump Middle School No. 113 working on it. How 'bout from your end?"
"I've got my former military intelligence insiders working on it, as well," he assured.
"So, our best hope is the middle schoolers, then," Jo nodded.
"Can't argue with that," he agreed.
"You never did tell me how you came to know all these military intelligence guys, George," Jo queried.
"Hey, I was in the Middle East, remember? No one is there without a covert purpose."
"Which I don't want to know about, right?"
"It would be better," he gave her a rakish smile.
"Any word from California?" Jo asked.
"Still cut off," he replied. "The Wall's not completed, yet, but… "
"We can't afford to let California be walled off," Jo shook her head.
"The Russian cyber attacks have been focused intensely on Silicon Valley. They're trying to take control of the Internet, itself, it seems. Many of the companies out there are busy fighting that each day. The only thing that's still functional is social media. Twitter is under the Presidential Police protection 24-7 at this point. Hollywood is dependent on Silicon Valley since the airwaves have been taken over, so…"
"Keep trying," Jo sighed. "We need them."
"You know I will," he affirmed.
"Maybe I should get some of the middle schoolers on it," Jo offered.
"No," George objected. "You know we need our best cyber counter-insurgency warriors focused on the voting machines here!"
"Yeah, so anyway," she sighed. "On the medical front, I'm close to being able to buy the liquor store next door."
"That would be a good cover," George agreed. "Cliff's been chomping at the bit to set up an underground medical facility."
"Yeah, well, he's still going to have to strip for the crowd here," Jo eyed him. "He's one of my top draws."
"C'mon, Jo," he chided. "Anyone can be replaced. Are you sure this isn't about something else?"
She stopped her calculating long enough to look him in the eyes.
"Blair?"
"Forget Blair, Jo," George advised.
"How can I forget her? Her image is all over the place?"
"I only meant to let it go. It eats you up to hold on to past resentments."
"Past resentments?" Jo was irate. "We have to live with her image as Trump's perfect woman every goddamn day! I still can't believe how she betrayed us! Did I even know her at all?"
"It must feel terrible to you," he sighed resignedly. "I know you loved her."
"Hey! Who said I loved her?" Jo protested.
"You did, as I recall," George informed. "I remember you two as quite close."
"Yeah, well," Jo returned to her books. "That's all gone now. I still can't believe how she betrayed us… especially after her father was disappeared. She is dead to me. And if I ever see her again, I'll make good on that."
"So, how's Tootie?" he changed the subject.
"I checked in on her before I came over here. Cliff says she's going to make it. Jeff's with her now."
"Good news," George nodded.
"Yeah, but the whole operation was botched tonight," Jo punched in numbers on her calculator. "What was supposed to be a simple infiltrate and extraction turned into a bloody shootout."
"But you rescued her none-the-less, as always," he glanced at her bruised and bloodied hands. "Hey! Why didn't you have Cliff take care of this?"
"What? My hands?" she shrugged.
"Yes, your hands," he rounded the desk and took both of hers in his.
"It's nothing, George," she winced.
"No way, get over here," he led her to the bathroom in her office and began washing and disinfecting her hands.
"Ow! That stings!"
He ignored her as he applied healing ointment and bandages.
"This is completely unnecessary, you know!" she continued to gripe loudly.
"Yeah, I know," he ignored her.
"So, anyway, did you get Ted squared away?" she asked in a more calm tone.
"He's back in the freezer," he reassured. "But his back-up band is bitching for more money."
"Ah, give it to them," Jo shook her head. "I don't need the headache."
"Right, Boss," he smiled at her as he completed his bandaging and patted her on the hand.
"Natalie's next," she eyed him sincerely. "I need my most trusted people around me."
"I know how much you care for your old friends," he smiled as they reentered her office.
"All except one," she began her books again.
Blair rolled over as the sun streamed through her open window. The morning light felt comforting as it caressed her naked body. A gentle breeze lifted the lace curtains allowing her intermittent, unobstructed views of the Eiffel Tower. Paris. She did love Paris. What a beautiful city! Yet, there was a shade which crossed her heart. It wasn't her father. She knew where he was and why he had to remain hidden. They would speak periodically on burner phones. He had to stay on the down-low now for her to accomplish her mission. Her mission: half the time she questioned what that really was. She had been instructed to stay close to Trump, which she had done, having to fight off his disgusting advances half the time. But that wasn't it, either. No. It was her friends. They all thought of her as a traitor. Both Natalie and Tootie had told her off through social media before severing their accounts from her and being arrested. God! They were in gulags in America… for what? This weighed on her greatly. But the shadow that darkened her heart this morning was the same one that had sent her to a place of gloom every day since this whole nightmare began. She would wake up and, for a second, not remember the horrible thing that had happened to her country. It was the only truly happy moment of her day. It would be then that it would hit hard, cascading in like an avalanche of sorrow in her heart: America and, right behind it, as if they were inextricably linked… Jo.
"Mon cheri," the woman beside her caressed her shoulder. "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?"
"Nothing's wrong, Marie" Blair turned to her as she wrapped her in her arms and kissed her. "C'est une très belle journée!"
"Oui, oui. It is a beautiful day. Yet your heart is troubled," the dark haired young woman glanced at her with concerned eyes.
"It's nothing," Blair returned her glance to the window.
Marie placed her hand on Blair's cheek and gently beckoned for her to meet her gaze.
"Every night, you give me your body," she glanced at Blair longingly. "And it is lovely and amazing and très, très bien."
"It is very good, Marie. I love being with you."
"But your heart," Marie placed her hand over Blair's left breast. "You do not give me your heart."
Blair sighed deeply as she turned to face the morning light once more.
"Who is this woman who possesses your heart, Blair?" Marie demanded.
"It's no one," Blair turned back to her and kissed her cheek, her lips. "There is no one."
Cliff looked around his makeshift clinic. He glanced at his patient, Tootie. The bullet was a through-and-through; she would be fine. He noticed the tender, loving affection Jeff showed her.
"What happened to me?" he questioned.
He was on his way to becoming a surgeon in Dallas. It was a part of Texas that, at least, he knew still existed. He couldn't be quite so sure about Austin. And Blair?
"Blair," he breathed out heavily.
What had happened to her, that when the country had been turned upside down, she became part of the problem and not the solution? It just wasn't like Blair to do such a thing. He couldn't reconcile it. Ever since healthcare had become illegal for those making under $250,000 a year, he had devoted himself to caring for all he could. When Jo contacted him about setting up a secret clinic within her club, he was thrilled! He never dreamed that stripping would be a part of the deal. His stripper days were supposed to be behind him! He got it that Jo had to maintain the facade of a salacious club. That was the name of her establishment, after all. But that he had to swing on wires every night in a gold G-string and smile for the privileged few who were allowed freedom in what was his country: unbelievable! It was even worse when he had to do "private" shows for them. He didn't want to have to remember that part, although he always would. But it was worth it if Jo could establish a clinic for him. He was wiling to make the sacrifice.
But… Blair? Since when did she care about impressing these buffoons and liars? This troubled his soul. Anyone who really knew Blair knew that she didn't give a rat's ass about appearances.
"That looks nothing like me!" Blair objected as she stared at the portrait an artist under the Arc de Triomphe was painting of her. She had risked her life scampering across the most insane roundabout in all of Europe… for this? "This is insulting!"
"Mademoiselle," the artist protested quietly. "As I am sure you are aware, this is not about your image."
Blair ignored him.
"My nose is not that big!"
"It would be best not to draw attention," he tried to caution her.
"And I wouldn't have a coif like that on my worst hair day!" she continued loudly, undeterred.
"Perhaps, Mademoiselle would like to check my paints," he gestured towards the table sitting beside him.
"Oh, um, perhaps Mademoiselle would," Blair recovered herself, turning her eyes from the painting as she remembered her mission.
Suddenly, the artist stood, knocking over the table and spilling its contents onto the ground.
"Let me help with that," Blair offered innocently as she bent to pick up his paints.
"Take this," he grabbed her arm and eyed her seriously.
She quickly stuffed the package into the oversized purse she was carrying.
"Now be off, before we are noticed!" he warned.
"Right," she nodded as she rose to leave.
"Blair!" her name was called out.
"Damn! I've been discovered!" she thought.
She turned to see Marie, her lover, standing before her.
"You are leaving me?" Marie questioned loudly.
"Why would you think that?" Blair asked.
"You have packed your possessions and had them sent to the airport!" she replied in a desperate voice.
"Oh, that," Blair bit her lower lip. "Well, um…"
Before she could finish, Marie pulled a gun out from her purse.
"You will not leave me, Blair," she stated plaintively, her eyes filled with tears. "If I cannot have you, no one will!"
A shot rang out, echoing through the hallowed structure of the Arc de Triomphe!