MAGA Chronicles: The Enemy Within
S02E10: CSI Washington D.C. – Purity Crime Division
Disclaimer: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Unfortunately, no payment or sponsorship was received for any accidental mentions of brand or product names, either from corporations or from terrorist organizations, real or alleged.
“When I was younger, I loved fucking my couch. Like most young men, I developed a quite sophisticated masturbation ritual over the years. On Sundays, when gran went out to church, I would sometimes pretend to be sick to stay at home alone. First, to get me in the right mood, I would light some candles and play the Whitney Houston Bodyguard soundtrack on the stereo. Then I would shove an inside-out latex glove (the extra thick ones from Walmart) between two cushions, and slowly start [...]. And still until today, there is no greater pleasure for me than to fap a few loads into the couch whenever Usha and the kids are out.” — JD Vance, unedited manuscript of Hillbilly Elegy (pp. 179–181), available in the White House Library
The Enemy Within
Residential Area in West End, Washington, D.C., shortly before sunrise
The pneumatic system of the stairmaster is groaning in the gym room of the White family’s house in the early morning. Not from the negligible weight of its user, but from the years of wear and tear. Supreeya White, daughter of Indian immigrants, wife to James Donald White, and mother of three adorable mixed-race children, is working the machine for a good one-and-a-half hours already this morning—like every morning for the last ten years.
Above all else, Supreeya White is a career woman with a healthy American attitude toward meritocracy. The so-called glass ceiling in the professional world exists only in the fantasy of women who are too lazy to put in the work. There is no elevator to success. If you want to make it to the top, you have to walk every step of the way yourself.
The first rays of sunlight enter the room through the blinds on the windows looking out over Rose Park in the direction of the White House. It is a theoretical line of sight from the House of the White family to the presidential White House. A coincidence? Maybe. But in Supreeya’s line of work as a crime scene investigator, mental alarm bells go off every time somebody just mentions the word. So, maybe no coincidence after all.
Supreeya grabs a fresh white towel from the FJÄLLSTARR product line and wipes the sweat from her face. The combination of the soft material and the sophisticated texture has a slightly arousing quality to it. She passes the living room. James is sleeping on the couch. He must have just come home, another long, late nighter. But JD does it for the family; his contented smile as he snuggles into the cushions is proof of it.
Supreeya enters the bathroom, tosses the towel in the FYLLEN washing basket, and proceeds to the shower. Nothing sharpens the mind like a cold shower in the morning. The freezing water feels like a reward on her burning legs. A short gasp for air. The ice-cold water runs over her head and down her ripped body.
Supreeya uses a simple block of natural soap for both her hair and her body, nothing else. The phone vibrates on the RÅGRUND bamboo shelf. Work. She reaches out of the shower. A message from Frank: another attack on a 24-hour IKEA store out in Potomac Mills. Be there in 30! Supreeya quickly washes the soap from her body.
In front of the mirror, she puts a generous amount of white makeup onto her face, making sure no harsh edges show against her natural brown skin. This is her chance. Solving this case will be the most important step up the executive ladder toward her goal: the White House, Presidential Security Advisor.
IKEA Store Parking Lot, Potomac Mills, D.C. Metropolitan Area, 8:05 AM
Supreeya steps out of her Dodge Durango, shutting the door while balancing a Starbucks paper tray with two coffees. A look toward the entrance of the store provides a first overview of the extent of the attack.
The area around the IKEA entrance is widely secured by local police. Medical and psychological teams provide first aid for a vast number of traumatized early morning shoppers who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Behind the security perimeter, the press, local and national news channels are craving for new, disturbing details to spin their stories. Abandoned furniture box sets lay across the parking lot area. Unfortunately, a more than familiar picture by now, but despite all the evidence from previous incidents, there are still no major leads or even suspects in the case.
Supreeya walks across the parking lot, passes by a group of ICE agents racial profiling some of the IKEA employees, hoping to catch one or two Swedes without proper papers to push this month’s quota. She walks by the news vans and passes through the crowd of reporters. Someone grabs her by the shoulder.
“Agent White, right…? Care to give a statement about the latest terror attack targeting yet another IKEA store on American soil?!” snaps the slick asshole of an anchorman that somehow found out Supreeya’s name since last week’s investigation down in Portland.
“No comment,” replies Supreeya firmly, looking at the hand grabbing her shoulder and then back up, straight into the grinning face of the newsmaker from America’s most infamous cable television network.
“Jesse, we are on air in 10…” says the cameraman with the flashy AmeriKKKa TODAY hat to the anchorman.
Supreeya holds the anchorman’s killer gaze until the last second when he finally lets go, turns to the camera and reports with a professional smile: “We are reporting live from a 24-hour IKEA store in Potomac Mills, just a few miles outside of Washington, D.C. Here America is witnessing its fifth domestic terrorist attack directed against the Swedish IKEA corporation, and more importantly, the American Constitution in just the last couple of weeks. While federal police forces are still in the dark about the origins of these series of attacks, AmeriKKKa TODAY received exclusive information that attributes the attacks to a terror organization by the name ANTI-ANTIFAP. The information we received from an anonymous source strongly suggests that the ANTI-ANTIFAP terrorist group acts with the goal to destroy the American Constitution, and especially its most recent, 28th Constitutional Amendment, by using the most disgusting and despicable forms of violence against couches and other seating furniture in public places. The so-called ANTIFAP Amendment was added to the Constitution three months ago after evangelical groups held a religious conference at the newly opened White House Ballroom, advocating for stronger purity laws throughout…”
Fake news. Ridiculous. Supreeya rolls her eyes, straightens her blazer, and continues her way through the press. At the security perimeter, she shows her badge, a young policeman lifts the tape for her to slip through. She walks by the mobile first aid stations. Most eye witnesses are white like ghosts, staring apathetically into the void. Post-traumatic shock, no surprise, considering what they must have witnessed. Some of the witnesses, however, try to find their voice again between the sobbing and stuttering: “And then, … and then he pulled it out, … it was horrible…” Agent White shivers, but shrugs it off and walks straight toward the IKEA main entrance.
Shameful silence drenches the store. Nobody speaks a word; only the speakers still play their music with detached indifference to what happened. The food corner near the entry: abandoned. Half-eaten plates of Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes and peas lay scattered on the ground—dying American consumerism, a still life.
The policemen securing the floor look down, avoiding eye contact, but pointing the way for Agent White along the winding paths of the IKEA showrooms. Bathrooms, kitchens, home office spaces… Getting closer…. Children's rooms, bedrooms. The walk takes longer than expected. Supreeya feels her thigh muscles burning from the stairmaster training in the morning. The sound of Brian Eno’s “Music for Elevators” is mocking her walk through the seemingly endless maze of empty furniture landscapes. Keep walking. Focus on the task ahead.
Crime Investigation Scene, IKEA Living Room Landscape, 8:30 AM
The crescendo of shutter snap sounds from the crime scene photographers is reminiscent of a biblical locust plague. It lets Supreeya anticipate the magnitude of destruction that waits for her around the corner in the living room section. But seeing the crime scene with her own eyes quickly puts things into perspective: reality is much worse than every imagination.
Supreeya swallows. Keep calm. You can do this. Luckily, she spots her partner, Detective Frank Tripp, a burly, horseshoe-bald Texan with black sunglasses. Surrounded by forensics in white protective coveralls, he stands in the center of the mess, holding an IKEA umbrella in one hand to cover his head and a hot dog in the other. Supreeya gathers her strength and heads toward him, but her determined walk is abruptly interrupted: “Excuse me, Ma’am,” a young officer with a strong Texan accent stretches his arm out in front of her.
Supreeya sighs. Another southerner who probably just arrived in D.C. due to the national officers exchange program. She pulls her badge from her belt and says, “Federal purity crimes division, young man. I’m working here.”
“Just one moment, Ma’am.” The young officer kneels down on the floor, pulling some IKEA band from the roll, and biting it off with his teeth. He then marks a twenty-by-twenty-inch spot of transparent white liquid on the floor. Supreeya looks up. The spunk is dropping from the ceiling!
“Evidence, Ma’am,” the officer says, getting back up and clearing the way.
“Oh great!” Supreeya curses as she steps around the spot. Carefully, she continues her way toward Agent Tripp, who is talking to one of the guys from forensics about last night’s Rangers game. As she slips under Frank’s umbrella for protection, the two men interrupt their small talk for an awkward moment.
“What a fuckin mess!” greets Frank, turning to Supreeya.
“Morning, Frank,” replies Supreeya, and hands him the lukewarm coffee. He hands her the umbrella in exchange, shrugs, and dunks his IKEA hot dog into the cup.
“They really don’t know how to make hot dogs in Sweden.” A short, challenging look, and as Supreeya doesn’t object, he continues: “But they sure as hell know how to drive the customers fucking crazy with their couches!”
Supreeya knows she needs to get this over with as fast as possible: “Alright, Frank. What do we know so far?”
Detective Tripp pulls his sunglasses up on his head and slowly turns around the scenery. He takes another bite of the hot dog and starts his rant, spitting bread crumbs: “Same pattern as the previous attacks. Single perpetrator. White, middle-aged man. Walks in, flashes his wiener, and starts fucking the furniture in a sexual ecstasy like he snorted a line of Viagra all the way through the IKEA pathway.”
Agent Tripp catches the judging look of his partner and continues trying to stick to the facts: “Complete destruction of the whole living room section in just 10 minutes. Couches, convertibles, sofas, futons, chase longs—”
“Chaise longue, that’s French”, interrupts Supreeya, regretting the comment immediately.
A short, derogatory look from Frank before he continues: “Whatever you wanna call it, the guy fucked the freaking filler material out of it. Every category of seating furniture was targeted. The fucking pervert didn’t even leave the loveseats untouched!”
“Okay, what else?” Supreeya shivers under the umbrella. She just wants to leave.
“Eyewitnesses are too traumatized to provide any more details right now, and we are still waiting for the store’s camera footage. But judging by the levels of destruction and the loads of spunk, the guy went by material. Fabric, and Polyester first, then moving over to linen and saving the best for last—the real leather couches.”
Agent Tripp points with his hot dog across the room toward a shell of a former couch, ripped apart to the frame, and cocooned into crystallizing layers of spunk, forming a dripping tube up to the ceiling: “Model STOCKHOLM, XXL size, finest white aniline leather. Absolutely killed that one. Total fertilization.”
Frank stuffs the rest of his hot dog into his mouth.
“Disgusting!” mumbles Supreeya, trembling as she looks around, getting lost in the scenery from a horror movie.
“You know… if the DNA samples from the last attacks all didn’t point to different attackers, I would have said, this is the signature of only one guy, a very sick individual, a serial couch fucker who is clearly just getting started…”
“What are you trying to say? Come on, Frank. Spit it out!”
“Well… maybe the press ain’t completely wrong on this one and there really is some kind of organization behind these attacks… Maybe there is such a group called the ANTI-ANTIFAP terror organization—Yeah, I know, we found no evidence of its existence…”
And with a slightly lowered voice and suspicious look, he adds ominously: “Or… what if, a seemingly legit, but foreign organization would make the people do these things…”
Supreeya listens with quiet skepticism to yet another of Agent Tripp’s frequently shared theories, as suddenly the elevator music is turned down and a voice with a Swedish accent starts talking over the speakers:
“WELCOME TO IKEA WHERE LIFE HAPPENS, AGENT WHITE… (static pause)... THE MANAGEMENT OF THE STORE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A WORD WITH YOU …. (another pause) … TO SUPPORT IN THE INVESTIGATION, OF COURSE… PLEASE TAKE THE ELEVATOR TO THE BASEMENT FLOOR, AND GRANT US A VISIT AFTER YOU COMPLETED YOUR DUTIES IN THE CUSTOMER AREA… THANK YOU, AGENT WHITE.”
“There you go… “ comments Frank, smugly lowering his sunglasses.
“Ah, shut up, Frank! Let’s catch up after I’ve seen the tapes. And please—take these stupid sunglasses off, we are not in CSI Miami here,” says Supreeya, relieved about the excuse to leave the crime scene.
TO BE CONTINUED…??