The Beltway Battlefield's baleful glow receded in the Patriot Pickup's rearview like a bad breakup—full of fireworks, false promises, and a lingering scent of scorched bridges. Jax Hawthorne floored the accelerator, the old heap protesting with a symphony of squeals and shudders, as if the engine itself had voted "abstain" on this whole escapade. The gala's glitter clung to their tux-rags like guilty glitter: sequins on Lila's slit-dress sparkling like fallen stars of scandal, Theo's bowtie dangling like a noose of nerd rage, and Bubba's stretch-suit split at the seams, exposing a "Don't Tread On Me" tattoo that now read "Don't Thread On Me" from the rips. Cal, rebound in the truck bed with zip-ties and a fresh gag (a "truth serum" sock soaked in Auntie's joe for irony), bounced like a bobblehead of bitterness, his muffled moans harmonizing with the hum of highway hypocrisy.
"Liberty Landing torched? Slate's got balls bigger than her budget overruns," Jax growled, eyes flicking to the burner phone's map—flames emoji-pinned on their HQ, courtesy of Murray's frantic forward from a Dysfunction City fire drone feed. "That strip mall's seen worse—remember the 'Great Psychic Plumbing Purge'? But this? Arson with a side of subpoenas. We're homeless, hunted, and probably on a watchlist for 'excessive patriotism.' Author, if you're eavesdropping—throw us a bone. Or a bunker. Hell, a bad motel with free continental bullshit."
Lila Vargas, feet on the dash in a power pose that defied the seatbelt laws of physics, refreshed her phone with a swipe that could summon storms. Debtzilla's wheel spun in her lap like a hamster-powered hurricane, chittering at the screen's glow. "Homeless? Pfft—nomad ninjas, baby! Check this: #BountyBurn trending harder than Cal's comb-over in a windstorm. Fan theory: Slate's minks did it—'Furry Fiends Strike Back.' And look—go-fund-me for 'Eagle Rebuild: Tacos Not Taxes.' We're at 10K already! But real talk: If my slingshot stash went up in smoke, I'm slinging Slate's spleen."
Theo Beaumont, laptop throne precarious on a pile of pilfered gala swag (champagne flutes for lockpicks, a donor envelope stuffed with "anonymous" hundreds), cross-hacked fire cams with Beltway traffic feeds. His glasses reflected the dashboard's doom-scroll: drone footage of Liberty Landing engulfed, flames licking the "Psychic Plumbing" sign into prophetic puffs, the Bald Eagle Bounty HQ—a storage-unit shrine to shortstacks and swords—reduced to a bonfire of bad decisions. "Confirmed: Slate's handiwork. Traced the accelerant drones to Senate surplus—'Eco-Friendly Incendiaries: For When Compromise Fails.' Casualties? Minimal—Auntie's diner next door's intact, but our gear? Toast. Katana stands, slingshot spares, my quantum ledger... poof. And that dossier? Updated in real-time. 'Priority Purge: Ronin Recall Imminent.' We're not just wanted; we're 'warrant-worthy.'"
Big Bubba O'Malley, half-in the cab via the rear window, nursed his violin case (bat secure, with a new notch for "Slate's Symphony of Suck") and a flask that sloshed like liquid libel. Cal's crate rattled beside him, the tycoon's eyes pleading over the gag like a puppy in a pantsuit. "Purge? Sounds like her Tuesday to-do. Viper's playing hardball— or should I say, hardballot. Liberty Landing was our Alamo: Alamo of alimony dodges and auntie alibis. Without it? We're ghosts in the machine—haunting highways till we hit her nest. White House funhouse? That's the Oval Outhouse of outrages. Moats with Secret Surfboards, Rose Garden rigged with rose-thorn tasers, and a Lincoln Bedroom that's more 'haunted by hookers' than history."
The pickup veered off the interstate onto backroads that wound through the swampy sprawl of Shitholia's underbelly—Potomac potholes and forgotten federals, where the American Dream drowned in a puddle of its own excess. Jax's burner buzzed: Auntie, voice crackling like overcooked bacon. "You featherless fools! Your hole-in-the-wall's a hole-in-the-ground now—flames higher than a filibuster on firewater. I saved what I could: Your shortstack fridge (miracle of miracles) and that cursed bird's perch. But Slate's goons? Left a calling card: A serpent sigil torched into the tarmac. 'Viper's Vote: You're Next.' Get your asses here—I've got a safe room under the pie case. And pie. Desperation cherry."
"Copy that, Auntie—ETA twenty, with a side of vengeance," Jax replied, veering toward the diner's glow: a neon oasis in the noir night, "Auntie's All-Night" sign flickering like a lifeline to lunacy. They screeched in, Cal unceremoniously unloaded into the men's room (locked, with a "Do Not Disturb: Deal-Making In Progress" sign), and piled inside—Auntie's battle-ax bulk behind the counter, apron singed but spirit un-singed, sliding plates of "Rebuild Special: Freedom Fries and Fury Fudge."
"Look at you lot—fancy as a filibuster flop," Auntie snorted, eyeing their gala garb. "Slate's got the feds frothing—TweetFart's got your mugshots memed with 'Wanted: For Crimes Against Complacency.' But eat first; plot second. My safe room's got walls thicker than a lobbyist's lies and a bunker-brew coffee that'll wake the dead. Or at least the donors."
The crew crammed into the pie-case vault—a 1950s fallout relic retrofitted with Theo's tech traps and Bubba's booze bar—collapsing around a Formica table scarred with knife-fight footnotes. Lila shoveled fries like fuel for filicide, Debtzilla commandeering a nugget like a conquered castle. "Okay, brain-dump: Slate's in the Outhouse, puppeteering the Prezident's Parade. Phase Five: 'Viper's Vote'—hunting us? Means bounties on our bounties. We hit her there—katana the Oval, slingshot the Situation Room. Boom: Viper VIP'd."
Theo booted his laptop, screens blooming with hacked House feeds: blueprints of the funhouse maze, guard rotations (Surfboards on shifts like surfers chasing scandals), and a shadowy "Serpent Sanctum" under the East Wing—"Slate's slither-spa: AI incubators for avatar afterbirth." "Viable, but volatile. Perimeter's a perimeter of pain: Drone dragons, mink mechs, and a moat that's motion-sensored to summon SWAT sharks. Infil? We need a Trojan—something big, bold, bait-y. Cal? He's our in: 'Defector Delivery.' Feds love a flipper."
Bubba uncorked the flask, passing it 'round—moonshine that hit like a motion to table. "Bait the viper with the rat? Poetic. Cal's got Oval access—'emergency consult' on his 'unjust impeachment.' We smuggle in as his 'entourage of experts': Me on 'enforcement ethics,' you on 'exotic escapes.' But Slate? She's got eyes everywhere—cameras in the creamed corn, mics in the mints."
Cal, dragged in ungagged (under duress, with Bubba's bat as "encouragement"), slouched in a booster seat like a chastened child-king, comb-over combed but crestfallen. "Team up? Fine—Slate stiffed me on the Whopper deal! Promised eternal endorsement; delivered eternal enmity. Oval's her lair: Prezident's a puppet, strings to her sanctum. I get you in—Situation Room side door, 'plumbing emergency.' But if she bites? You're chum. And I want amnesty. Plus, a franchise. 'Cal's Clean Conscience Burgers'—healthy option: Tofu Treason."
Jax leaned in, shortstack bar crumbling under his glare. "Amnesty? Earn it, Cheeto. You play decoy—distract the Surfboards with your schtick. We snake the sanctum, smash the slate servers. Deal?"
Cal nodded, tan twitching. "Deal. But hurry—Slate's 'Vote Harvest' launches at dawn: Avatars auto-enrolling every undecided in her echo chamber. No vote? No voice. Just venom."
Dawn crept like a congressional creep, the crew kitting out in Auntie's "contingency closet": hazmat hybrids for hazmat heists (Jax's tux over tactical, blade belted), Lila's dress modded with grenade garters, Theo's bowtie now a bomb-bay, Bubba's suit reinforced with rebar ribs. Cal, in a fresh polo ("Reformed & Ready"), led the "entourage" to the White House gates—limo loaned from a gala getaway (keys "borrowed" from Vic's valet).
The funhouse facade loomed: columns like candy canes of corruption, lawns laser-lined, the Oval Outhouse a revolving riddle of rose-tinted windows. Surfboards scanned Cal—beeps of begrudging clearance—then the crew, badges spoofed as "Crisis Consultants: Phase Five Fixers." Inside: Marble halls echoing with empty oaths, portraits of past prezidents winking like they knew the joke, air thick with the tang of "power perfume" (eau de entitlement).
They slunk to the Situation Room stairs—Cal's "plumbing ploy" flushing a john to jam the johns—descending into the sanctum's stink: Serpent servers humming hate-code, Slate at a console coiled like her coif, avatars birthing in blue-light litters. "Cal? You sniveling— and them? Ronin refuse!"
Jax burst first, Liberty's Edge flashing: "Refuse? We're the recycling—your slate's scrap!" Blade bit cables, avatars fizzling like faulty fetuses.
Lila followed, garters grenading: Aerosol assails shorting screens, slingshot singeing serpents. "Piñata time, pantsuit! Candy? Or cyanide?"
Theo terminal-tackled, bowtie bombing the boot sector: "Harvest over—your vote venom vaporized!"
Bubba barreled, bat bashing backups: "Vote this, viper!"
Slate spun, cuff-cannon crackling—energy lash lashing out, singeing Jax's sleeve. "Fools! The Viper's Vote is viral—avatars already in the veins of the nation! You cut one cord; I weave a web!"
Cal cowered, then... charged? Tiny hands grabbing a loose wire, yanking with a yell: "For my franchise!" Sparks surged; Slate's console cratered, avatars avalanching into digital dust.
The sanctum shook—alarms awailing, Surfboards swarming. Slate snarled, slipping a side vent: "This coil uncoils elsewhere—Phase Six: The Serpent's Summit. Global gala, Geneva. You'll slither to me... or sink."
Escape erupted: Stairs stormed, Oval Ovaled in chaos—Prezident's puppet peeking puzzled from his parlor. They burst groundside, limo leaping the gate as drones dogged.
Back on the blacktop, Cal panted passenger: "I... helped? Amnesty?"
Jax grinned grim. "Earned a nugget. But Phase Six? Geneva? That's international intrigue— Interpol, intrigue, and infinite idiocy."
Lila whooped. "World tour! With Whoppers?"
Theo's screen pinged: Summit invite—forged? Bait? Their faces, front row.
Bubba chuckled. "Summit? Sounds like a trap. The kind with teeth."
Eddie screeched overhead, dropping a global glob: "SERPENT SUMMIT: SWISS STEAKOUT."
The road wound worldwide. But Slate's shadow? Stretched longer than a filibuster's filch.