by Burghal Hidage
Underneath it all she had always been a petulant little witch. The type who at the age of twelve and a half was permitted to join the adult table, yet could not simply content herself with the honor. She doesn’t even bother with the makeup any more. She’s been exposed to all, to the most intimate detail. She still carries the same skin, even if all of the dough beneath has settled to form unsightly bags and cellulite deposits. In her own mind she’s still all that. Where this is present in some it inspires a certain admiration for such security in one’s self.
In Gazette’s case it can but inspire pity, for we see not a woman liberated of her inhibitions; instead, a woman drunken on her former glories. She longs to once again feel that intoxication experienced in her heroic age, the days of The Pentagon Papers and Watergate, not realizing that this dragon will ever elude her grasp.
She is one of them now, the predictable fruit of every other revolution. We needn’t feel embarrassment for her, our pity is to be reserved for those more worthy of such tender mercies. Gazette now seeks neither sympathy nor solace. She has grown petty and thin-skinned, her only purpose now is vengeance. Throughout her sordid history she has (for convenience, amusement or both) made her bed with some equally unscrupulous characters. In her glory years these were singular encounters, a darkened rendezvous with a Deep Throat. As her star faded she had morphed into just another useful tool, until she graduated to a full on gang bang with the Deep State.
Gazette’s real kink has always been about being on the inside, recipient and disseminator of rumor, gossip and palace intrigue. Being invited to and becoming the life of all the best DC circuit cocktail parties. In her day she was the Grand Mistress to all, the whore incarnate within her home circles; while posing the Madonna face to the contemptible masses, cooing her gentle, motherly scold to the unwashed curs for their ignorant transgressions against the public virtue of the day. Her manipulations were masterful, her physical dexterity superhuman: contorting to any position required that might offer an orifice to all comers. And this was how she was to be repaid? No, no, no….not her. This will not stand.
Make no mistake, my friends. This lady still has more tricks in her. One does not rocket through her orbits and not come into the possession of certain, shall we say “leverage points”. In days of old these might still hold some currency. Had she kept her circle of friends to a more exclusive membership she might still be able to survive with this play. Not so in today’s world. She has left herself too widely exposed. The parties inside of her bubble may not hear much of anything that comes from outside of it, but they certainly do one hell of a lot of talking within it. Gazette always wanted to have her cake and eat it too. She wanted to enjoy the privileges of being on the inside without having to assume any of the risks. She realizes now, too late, that with her sources compromised she is no longer any value and, by extension, no threat. She is equally compromised, fully implicated and in short: reduced to an accomplice.
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