BILLINGSGATE POST: The wings of the hummingbird fluttering outside the window of John Bolton’s Washington office were squeaking, not humming. Bolton awoke from his brown Naugahyde BarcaLounger with a start. A workman with a can of WD-90 approached the ersatz bird with caution. Spraying a fine line of the lubricant on the joint immediate to the fuselage of the bird provided instant relief to the distressed coupling. But it was too late.
Spy vs Spy chronicles had referred to this phenomena during the Cold War as the Quasimodo Effect. Unknown to even Kremlinologists high in the CIA, Bolton used these hummingbirds to pass messages to drop-spots usually frequented by carrier pigeons. In these clandestine operations, they were known as “hummingbird drops.”
Not a fool, Bolton bore-sighted his Remington Model 870 pump-action shotgun at the unsuspecting hummingbird.
“That sum b*tch is mine,” chortled the little man hiding behind the greying mustache. Eschewing his blue and white seersucker suit for a more comfortable standard issue Dickies Short Sleeve Mechanics Coveralls, the bi-swing back and elastic waist inserts allowed a generous fit in the shoulders and chest; the perfect uniform for his mission.
Pumping the 12-gauge, small artillery piece like a demented chipmunk, he fired round after round of birdshot into the hovering hummingbird, until only the wires and microphone were left dangling in the wind.
John Bolton was perceived as a “Hawk” by his enemies. He was not happy with Trump. In fact, he couldn’t understand why the President didn’t nuke Iran just for target practice. But this was just a show for the conniving Bolshevik. He had crossed over years ago when Vladimir Putin promised him a dacha with hot and cold running water outside Moscow. All he had to do was undermine President Trump anyway he could.
Slim: “I’ll bet the little bastard will spill the beans on the Trumpster.”
Dirty: “Yo, Dude. I would like to address this issue epistemologically when I have more data.”
