"What the fuck, Marie?" Blair screamed as her girlfriend sent a shot over her head. As much as she eschewed profanity, getting shot at could definitely bring it out of her! The bullet had ricocheted off a wall and knocked her portrait to the ground.

"Oh, mon chéri, I love you so much," Marie ran towards her.

"Meanwhile, you've managed to destroy a portrait of me," Blair complained as she lifted the painting and placed it back on the easel. She turned her head sideways as she glanced at it. The paints had smeared so as to give the painting an abstract impression "Oh, wait, this might be better!"

"This is a disaster!" the painter complained. "My artistic vision is destroyed!"

"Um, you're artistic vision was way horrible," Blair complained. "If I had nostrils that big, I could've sucked up half of Paris!"

"No, no, mon chéri, your nostrils are perfect!" Marie grabbed her.

"Of course they are, Marie," Blair huffed.

"Do not leave me, Blair," Marie pleaded. "I love you."

Blair regarded her with sincere affection. She really did love her. She was just not in love with her.

"Marie," she placed her hands on her shoulders. "I love you, too. But, I have important work to do."

"For Monsieur Trump?"

Blair looked away, unable to lie to her face.

"Yes," she bit her lip as she whispered.

"If I cannot have you, I might as well be dead," Marie placed the gun to her own head.

"No! No, Marie," Blair placed her hand on the gun and gently lowered it to her side. "You are so beautiful, inside and out. You have to go on without me for a little while. I'll be back to Paris… soon."

"You promise, mon chéri?"

"I do, my love," Blair kissed her lips.

Just then, an unimaginable series of flashes occurred. Marie thought it was her love exploding in lights about them! But, no: it was the paparazzi that constantly dogged Blair around Europe taking pictures.

"So much for discretion," the artist complained.

The Second Amendment had replaced the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States. At this point, the Second Amendment had replaced all other amendments to the Constitution and was the only amendment left. Congress passed it, it was affirmed by the Senate and signed into law by the President. That people could be slaves again? Well, there were all those great professional athletes and African Americans behaving themselves, so maybe not blacks… but children? That was a possibility! Women's rights? What a joke! And gays could go fuck themselves, as was their wont. So it was that, bereft of a First Amendment right to a free press: newspapers and media outlets ran underground. The underground headlines were scathing:

"Trump Collaborator Blair Warner Caught in Lesbian Kiss" – The New York Times.

"Trump's Sweetheart Exposed as Lesbian" – The Washington Post.

Only the official state newspaper, The National Enquirer, put a positive spin on the story:

"Patriot Blair Warner Sucks Truth Out of French Lezzie about European Plot Against President Trump!"

Jo perused the newspapers before her.

"What the fuck?" she complained.

"Stop looking at that," George advised her.

Jo eyed him incredulously.

"George… why is Blair, America's Sweetheart, over there in France kissing girls?"

"Hey, it was only the New York Times and Washington Post saying that," he cajoled. "You gonna' believe everything you read?"

"There's a photo," she glanced at him more sternly.

"Photoshop?" he shrugged.

"Even The Enquirer says it's true," Jo protested.

"Look, Jo, you had your chance with her and you didn't take advantage of it!" he collected the papers from her desk. "Get over it. We have important work to do!"

"I blew my chance," Jo whispered.

"Let it go, Jo. We have Mumbles coming in today. It's important to keep up the facade."

Mumbles was the Emperor of the Senate. He had no chin, no lips, and looked like the head of a turtle placed upon an ill-fitted suit. He also had the creepy habit of mumbling his words as he eviscerated the Constitution, hence the nickname. Of all the slime she had to glad-hand to maintain her facade of happy hostess, he was the one who made her skin crawl the most. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. It wasn't just that he claimed to be a "Christian" and acted as if that gave him some God-given right to dictate to others how they should behave while he did whatever the hell he pleased. No. They all did that. It wasn't his lack of lips or a chin, either (although that was pretty creepy!). Somehow, she felt, that he gripped his own hands too tightly under the table whenever he visited the club. It was as if he didn't do this, he would reach out and grab something… but what? The most obvious answer was her dancers. And no one touched her dancers! She made sure of that. But, still, she couldn't be sure what those hands desired, that he had to grip them so tight that his knuckles turned white. She was almost afraid to turn her back on him: scared that he might reach out to choke the life out of her with desperate, evil, hungry hands. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up with creepiness whenever he was around.

"Mumbles," Jo shook her head. "Completely creepy."

"Ah, but you're the hostess with the mostest," George grinned.

"That's me!" Jo smiled ironically as she rolled her eyes. She stood and faced herself in the mirror. She was wearing an elegant white suit replete with tails and a bow tie. She looked very stylish and sophisticated, she thought to herself. If Blair could see this, she wouldn't be kissing other girls in Paris. What was she thinking? Blair didn't care about her anymore! How had that stray thought even entered her brain? She had no feelings for Blair, she reminded herself.

"I just hope we're making a difference," she sighed and tugged on her vest.

"I have a feeling we will… very soon," George winked in the mirror behind her as he massaged her shoulders.

The phone under the bar rang. George picked it up.

"Outside… now!" was the terse command.

"Hey, Boss," George waved Jo over. "Gonna' take a break!"

"No way, you're not leaving me alone with Mumbles!"

"C'mon," he smiled. "He's not even here yet. I'll just be a minute!"

"Okay, then" Jo nodded. "But don't go far."

As George walked outside he was abruptly shoved against the wall.

"You had a job to do!" a young man shouted into his face.

"And I'm doing it," George defended himself.

"Let him go," an older man approached.

"You wrinkled my work clothes," George stated flippantly to the younger man as he released him. He straightened his jacket and tie. "I won't forget that."

"George," the older man approached. "Your mission was to get inside and find out what this lady was up to, remember?"

"I remember," he smirked.

"So?"

"So I've been keeping an eye on it."

"And?" the man lit a cigarette.

"And she's running a club with underground connections."

"We knew that," the older man exhaled a stream of smoke. "What else?"

"She's rescuing people from the gulags."

"How the hell is she doing that?" the younger man blurted out.

"With grit and blood," he responded.

"Listen," the older man poked into his chest with a lit cigarette in his hand. "We need more information from you than that."

"It's the best I can do, for now," George responded.

"Not good enough, my friend," the man took another drag off his smoke.

"Whadda' ya want from me?" he shrugged.

"We know something is about to go down," the older man threw his cigarette to the ground and extinguished it with the toe of his shoe. "You have to get us that information."

"I will," George stated resignedly.

"You better," the older man's eyebrows rose as he gave him an ominous glare. "If she becomes a problem..."

"She won't," George tried to reassure.

"But if she does? You know what you have to do. Your life hangs in the balance, as well," the older man threatened.

"Just get out of here," he smirked at the both of them dismissively.

With that, both men turned, walked a few paces down the street, and entered a waiting car. George watched as the vehicle took off and disappeared into the night.

"Shit," he exhaled loudly, adjusted his tie, and proceeded back into the club, not noticing a pair of eyes that had observed him closely from the shadows.

Blair entered the private jet at Charles de Gaulle Airport with her usual élan. She had kept her oversized purse with its secret contents slung over her arm. She gripped it tightly.

"Blair Warner!" a balding, short man approached her enthusiastically. "My friend, Donald, has described you correctly!"

To her horror, she was face-to-face with Vladimir Putin, himself! Aside from the flight attendants, they were alone!

"So nice to meet you," she recovered herself quickly as he took both her hands in his own.

"Allow me to show you photos," he led her to a seat. He whipped out his smart phone and began to produce a series of pictures of himself shirtless: on a horse, next to an obelisk, by a rocket, eating a hotdog in front of the Washington Monument and with an oddly shaped teapot with a prolonged spout.

"You are very attractive shirtless, indeed!" she tried to be polite.

"I am masculine!" he stated proudly. He slid closer to her as he whispered in her ear. "I am available for the mile-high club. Just for you!"

"Oh, um, I'm sure," Blair stammered nervously. "But, I'm not inclined on this trip."

She rubbed her stomach.

"Bad French food," she begged off.

"No matter," he dismissed her abruptly as he eyed an attractive male flight attendant passing through the cabin. "I will make do."

Once the jet gained full speed and they were airborne, Putin followed the male flight attendant into the galley. The door closed. There were noises that she hoped, someday, she could forget… although she probably never would.

As the flight continued, the noises became worse. What were they doing back there? OMG! Were they peeing on each other? Blair couldn't stand it. She had to distract herself. She looked in her bag. The package was there. Should she look? She was told not to… but what could it hurt at 33,000 miles up over the Atlantic? She opened it and what she saw shocked her!

"Girl Scouts of America: Eyes Only!"

"Rachel, get down!" Natalie hissed back at her friend as they crawled along the fence line at night. The gulag searchlight was about to hit them.

"But, Nat, I think I've found something here!" Rachel called out.

"Shhhh!" Natalie cautioned. Just then, her reporter curiosity got the better of her. "What is it?"

"It's a fortune from a fortune cookie!"

"Are you kidding me? We're about to be caught!" Natalie covered her as the searchlight passed over them.

"It's the third one I've found," Rachel continued. "It can't be a coincidence."

"Well?" Natalie rolled her eyes, not believing she was asking. "What do they say?"

"The first one says: Patience is a virtue. The second: All good things come to those who wait. These seem to be messages."

"And the third?" Natalie questioned eagerly.

"You think he loves you, but he does not," Rachel read. "That seems to be an anomaly, here."

"To say the least," Natalie rolled her eyes.

"The history of fortune cookie messages is very interesting, by the way," Rachel continued. "Fortune cookies were first made by a San Francisco bakery in the 1890's. David Jung, founder of the Hong Kong Noodle Company in Los Angeles, made a competing claim that he invented the cookie in 1918. San Francisco's Court of Historical Review attempted to settle the dispute in 1983…"

"Rachel!" Nat stopped her. "I do not need the history of fortune cookies right now! I just need to know if someone is trying to get a message to us, particularly Jo. That's why we came out here tonight, right?"

"Right. Of, course," Rachel agreed. "I think the first two are possibly messages, but the third?"

"This was probably a bad idea," Natalie shook her head. "I just wanted to check and see if the underground was trying to communicate with us. No stone left unturned, right?"

"It was a noble effort," Rachel acknowledged.

"Back to the barracks?" Nat shrugged.

"For now," Rachel agreed.

Blair settled into her suite at the Carlyle. She showered and, dressed only in her robe, reclined on an overstuffed chair as she received a foot massage with a soothing eye treatment over her face. Calming music emanated from the suite's speakers as she attempted to forget the horrific plane ride she had just experienced. One could tolerate many things, but the lack of the most basic comforts? She sighed as she relaxed back into the chair. Her phone chirped as a text message was received.

"Shall I stop while you check your message?" the masseuse queried.

"No," Blair yawned. She lifted her eye treatment momentarily to take a sip off of her gimlet and give a quick gaze and smile to the very attractive young woman rubbing her feet. "It can wait."

She shut off her phone, replaced her eye treatment and relaxed back into the chair. What a day! She had a secret rendezvous with a horrible Paris artist, was shot at, photographed kissing another woman, subjected to crude advances by a leader of state (not to mention having to listen to him having sex… just eew!), and now was waiting for "instructions" (whatever that meant) in a hotel room! Yet, she reflected, it was nothing compared to what her former friends were putting up with. When would this nightmare be over? She drifted into a fantasy:

She was alone on a road, shrouded by fog… lost. She turned slowly as she heard the roar of a motorcycle behind her. It was Jo: a vision in white! "Hop on, Blair," she gave her a crooked grin. The fog disappeared. Blair wrapped her legs around her as Jo gunned the engine. "But, where are we going?" she asked. "I'm taking you away," was the answer as they took off at a furious pace. "Away from here." Her arms clung tightly about Jo's waist as she rested her head between her shoulders, feeling safe, secure, and…

"Away from here," she sighed.

A loud knocking on the hotel door jolted her from her reverie.

"Oh my goodness!" the masseuse jumped up, startled.

Blair removed her eye treatment and sat up.

"It's okay," she reassured the young woman. "I have a pretty good idea who it is. Hand me my slippers, would you?"

Blair walked casually to the door as the knocking continued.

"Who is it?" she asked sweetly.

"You know goddamn good and well who it is!" came the gruff reply.

"He get's so angry when I won't answer my texts," she shrugged at the masseuse as she opened the door.

Cecil Broadbent entered the room in a huff.

"How many times do you have to be told not to turn off your secure phone, Blair, really!" he complained bitterly.

"Calm down, Cecil," Blair advised. "You're going to give yourself a coronary. I was receiving a foot massage from this lovely young woman whom you've frightened half out of her wits, by the way."

"Will that be all, Ms. Warner?" the young woman looked at her apprehensively.

"Thank you, yes," Blair held the door open for her. As the masseuse exited, Blair slid a huge tip into her hand. "I might need your services later," she nodded towards Cecil. "I feel a pain in my neck coming on."

"Very well then," she smiled broadly at Blair.

"Operatives must keep their phones on at all times!" he barked at Blair as she shut the door.

"Okay, first of all, I'm not an operative," she barked back at him. "And second of all, no one living in the civilized world leaves their phone on during a massage!"

"Blair," he exhaled deeply as he calmed himself. "Nevermind. Just give me the item."

"All this fuss over a little package for the Girl Scouts of America," Blair tossed it to him. "I don't get it."

"Blair!" he eyed her incredulously. "You were not supposed to look inside!"

"So what? Now you're going to have to kill me?"

"Did you open it?" he glanced at her suspiciously.

"Of for crying out loud, Cecil, I've seen enough spy movies to know what Eyes Only means! I was never a Girl Scout, so I didn't open it!"

"Well, I guess that makes sense," he scratched his head.

"What's in it, anyway?" she asked.

"Top secret, as you said."

"Look," she became irritated. "I'm tired of all this hush-hush stuff. I've been given the worst job in the world, cozying up to Trump and Putin and their ilk. All my friends believe it! The whole world believes it!"

"Well, probably not anymore after your public indiscretion in Paris. It's all over the press already. What were you thinking, Blair?"

"Ah, that's no big deal," she waved him off. "Join the 21st Century, Cecil. And just exactly what was I supposed to do all that time in France, by the way? Twiddle my thumbs in an artsy café waiting for instructions? I have needs like everyone , The Enquirer will parse it out so that I'm a hero, somehow."

"They already have," Cecil acknowledged begrudgingly.

Blair shrugged and gave him a superior look as if to say: "I told you so."

"It does suck, though," she sighed.

"What? The Enquirer?"

"No! That news about me in Paris beat me across the Atlantic!"

"It did," he eyed her and shrugged. "Digital age: can't be helped."

"I don't like it," she bit her lower lip. "I get enough bad press as it is."

"The underground press is having a field day," he shook his head disapprovingly.

"Anyone reading the underground press doesn't care that I kissed a girl, I can assure you," she retorted angrily as she recovered herself.

She retrieved her gimlet and plopped down on the couch. Jo read the underground press, she assumed. What would she think of her kissing a beautiful woman in Paris? Ah, what did it matter… she was dead to Jo, her fantasies aside, and she knew it.

"Nevertheless, you have to be more discreet," he cautioned. "Your part in all of this is important. You're an insider. You can glean valuable information for us."

"I don't even know who us, is!" she complained.

"Us, you know, The Underground," he clarified.

"Yeah, but who's running this show, Cecil? Who's in charge here? Do you even know?"

He sat down beside her and let his guard down for a moment.

"Honestly, Blair, I don't," he sighed as he rested his head on the couch. "I'm not even sure I want to."

"Jesus, Cecil, how do we know we're not working for Trump's people at this point?"

He laughed a little.

"Because they're not smart enough to run an operation like this."

"You're right, of course," she gave him an ironic smile.

"All I know is that your father contacted me before he had to disappear. He put me in touch with some people who wanted to save our democracy."

"And you have no idea who they are? CIA? FBI? NSA?"

"Definitely not NSA. They're still spying on us all for their own purposes at this point. But rogue elements within the intelligence community who actually still believe in the Constitution? That's a definite possibility."

Blair rose, walked over to the bar and poured him a drink. She sat down beside him again as she handed it to him.

"And let's not discount the Girl Scouts of America!" she gave him her most charming smile.

He raised his drink and clinked it against hers.

"To the Girl Scouts!" they toasted together.

"Mumbles, er um, Senator," Jo quickly corrected herself as she greeted him at the door of her club.

"Mmm, what did you say, young lady?" he murmured in a voice so low and muddled she could barely understand him.

"Grumbles. I said that the ladies of Kentucky must be in a state of grumbles to miss your delightful company tonight!"

"Yes," he nodded absently.

"Your regular table, Sir?" she smiled pleasantly.

"Of course," was all he offered as he and his entourage were shown to a table in back, in the shadows, as he preferred.

"I would like a special drink tonight," he grabbed Jo's arm. "One that only I can have, and no one else can partake in."

"Of course, Senator," Jo smiled graciously. "I have just the thing!"

As she turned to leave, he yanked at her wrist.

"I want you to bring it to me personally," he demanded.

"I wouldn't have it any other way!" Jo forced the fake smile that had become second nature to her.

As she approached the bar, she saw George returning from his break.

"Good, you're back," she rounded the bar and approached him.

"I see Mumbles has arrived," he smirked.

"Get this, George. He wants a special drink: one that no one else can have," Jo shook her head in disgust.

"Load it up with urine, Boss?" he winked.

"Let's get some of Cliff's blood reserves in it, as well," her eyes narrowed. "Just for color, you understand."

"I do, indeed," George nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. I want lots of agave sweetener to hide the taste and give him the shits later."

"Any preference on the alcohol?" he queried.

"Kentucky Bourbon, of course," she smiled.

Jo returned to Mumble's table with her new drink concoction. She placed it before him.

"I call it To Your Health!, Senator. It's unique, only for you. Let me know what you think of it!"

"Sit down," he gurgled.

"What?" Jo didn't understand his monotone command.

"Sit down, girl," he repeated more audibly.

Jo hated almost every second of her charade as the club owner who catered to the ruling class. She was not an actress, like Tootie, for cryin' out loud. She had learned how to smile and be pleasant for the sake of the cause. But… taking orders? This was something new. She swallowed hard.

"Of course," she managed to choke out as she sat beside him.

He took a sip of his drink and eyed her. His hand made its way over to her knee.

"Um, Senator," she objected.

He squeezed her leg hard as he glared at her over the wire-rimmed glasses that hung from his elongated ears.

"Pray with me," he intoned seriously.

"No, I think not," Jo responded cordially.

"If you won't pray with me, you are anti-Christian and, therefor, anti-American," he insisted in his emotionless monotone. "All Christians pray together."

"I'm Catholic," she responded coolly as she forcefully removed his hand from her knee. "As if that should matter. Italian/Polish to be precise."

"A mongrel, then," he took another sip of his drink casually and placed his hand back on her knee. "The mongrel races were not what the Christian framers of the Constitution had in mind. But I enjoy the native depravity from time to time."

Jo was dumbstruck. She couldn't fathom what he was talking about and didn't know how to respond. At long last, her anger got the better of her. She jumped up. Her face was red and her fists clenched. She wanted to rip him apart limb by limb. She thought about the stash of weapons that she had collected upstairs… just in case. She could take this limp piece of crap out with one shot. Then, she thought about the cause she had devoted herself to over the past few years: restoring freedom to America. She calmed herself.

"No one is allowed to touch anyone in my club: not me, not my dancers, not my servers. I have very few rules, but that what happens outside, stays outside and that no one inside gets touched. I appreciate your patronage and hope you will continue to feel at home here, Senator. But everyone has to respect the rules or it doesn't work. Your friends Rudy, Paul and Sean have all agreed. I am going to have to ask you to respect those rules, as well."

"Rules don't apply to me," he mumbled as he looked away. "You'll soon find that out."

The band began to play.

"Enjoy Ted Nugent," Jo eyed him as she turned on her heels and quickly made her way back to the safety of the bar. George could see she was upset.

"Mumbles give you a hard time?" he asked as he placed a supportive arm around her.

"The worst," Jo complained as she shook her head. "Sometimes, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore."

"Me neither," he agreed.

It was 3 a.m. Closing time for Salacious Showers. Jo leaned on her office desk with her head between her hands: what a day! It started with pictures of Blair kissing a girl in Paris and ended with Mumbles touching her! Her skin crawled at the thought of it. There was a knock on the door. George entered.

"Got the cash for the night?" Jo looked up.

"Credit card receipts, as well," he nodded.

He noticed her gloomy disposition.

"What's bothering you, Jo?" he asked pleasantly.

"Everything. Are you kidding me?" she responded.

"You can't let Mumbles get to you, Jo," George advised.

"It's not just that," Jo replied. She eyed him intently. "Listen, I've got a lot of things set up to topple this phony government, George. It's just that I'm not sure how it's all going to turn out, you know?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning… is it going to come to a physical, guns-blazing revolution or will we be able to do this legally, peacefully?"

"I can't help you with that. I don't have a crystal ball," George shook his head. "But, are you ready?"

"For the guns-blazing part?" Jo exhaled loudly. "I mean, physically, yes. But emotionally?"

"Yeah, who would want to have to take their country back that way?" he agreed. "But, you've got a lot of weapons?"

"You know this, George. Remember?"

"Not enough by my calculation, unless there's something I don't know."

Jo shrugged.

"You know how you don't tell me about all those things you did in the Middle East?" she smiled at him broadly.

"Yeah," he drew out.

"Well, back at you, George."

"Okay, Boss," he stood to leave. "Got it."

As he left the office, Boots made her way in. She eyed him suspiciously as she entered.

"Hey, Boots," Jo nodded as she sat down. "Did you deliver the message?"

"I did," Boots checked to make sure George had left. "I delivered three messages."

"What?" Jo was upset. "I only asked you to communicate one message to Natalie: be patient, help is on the way!"

"That was before," Boots looked over her shoulder again.

"Before what?"

"Listen, Jo, I've been spying on George."

Jo rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair, exasperated, ready to listen to whatever hair-brained idea Boots had in her head next.

"I've overheard things… like tonight. He was out there with two Men In Black asking about you and making him promise to do things to you if you try anything."

"Yeah, well, George has a lot of strange contacts," Jo yawned. "He wouldn't betray me."

"Don't be so sure, Jo!" Boots was emphatic. "These men directly threatened you!"

"And George said?" Jo questioned.

"Well, um, he said you wouldn't be a problem. But they said that if you were, he would know what to do and that his life was in danger, as well. That indicates to me, Jo, that George might be a mole and may possibly do you harm!"

"And you've followed him before this?" Jo asked.

"I've seen him with Men In Black before, yes!"

Jo rocked back into her chair again.

"I don't know what it means, but I'll find out," she sighed deeply. "Meanwhile, about the message…"

"Oh, I took extra precautions. I dropped three fortune cookie messages!"

"What?!" Jo sat up and stared at her incredulously. "You dropped fortune cookie messages? I asked you to drop a message written on the masthead of the Times or Post so they'd know it was from me!"

"But, don't you see, Jo? This was better? We don't know whom we can trust at this point. It was completely cryptic!"

Jo shook her head and rubbed her brow.

"Dare I ask what they said?"

"I was so brilliant, Jo! The first one said: Patience is a virtue. The second: All good things come to those who wait."

"And the third?" Jo eyed her in disbelief.

"You think he loves you, but he does not," Boots was particularly proud of this message.

"Meaning?" Jo was confused.

"It's about George, get it?" Boots smiled proudly.

"And you sent that message to Nat because she works with him everyday?"

"Oh," Boots considered. "Right. I should have saved that one for you."

Jo was speechless for a moment.

"Correct, that should've been the fortune cookie message you saved for me," she finally recovered herself as she shook her head ironically. "Listen, thanks for the intell, Boots. You're a team player. I can always count on you."

"You got it, Boss!" Boots stood, feeling proud of her contribution to the cause as she left the room.

"Oh my God," Jo whispered to herself as she gathered the night's cash and entered the dark closet which contained the club's safe. "Could tonight get any weirder?"

She opened the safe and deposited the cash. She scrambled the combination as she closed the door. Damn! She had forgotten the credit card receipts that she had placed in her pocket. She dialed open the safe once more. As she placed the slips of paper into the box, she felt a sudden chill and a disconcerting sense of unease. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

It was then that cold fingers closed about her neck.