'That woman is a lunatic,' Clark announced, between panting breaths.
The Civilian had recovered from the lethargy that had possessed him earlier and was leading his wonk through the crowded streets of Washington. His stated intention was to buy Clark dinner at 'a really amazing titty bar I know just around the corner' where apparently the Russian waitresses barely spoke English and didn't yet know you weren't allowed to touch them. Clark was looking for a way to gracefully bow out but in the meantime he had to hurry to keep up with the Civilian's long strides. Compared to the (erstwhile) laid-back streets of Denver, everyone seemed in a hurry in Washington.
'Oh, she's nuttier than the combined scrotums of the Boston Red Sox. She's also a close personal friend of the Second Lady. The Veep loves Purslane Dunnstreet and when the Veep loves somebody the SecDef loves them too, and as for me, well, I love everybody. It's less of a timesuck than hating them. Come on, last one there buys the lap dances.'
Clark redoubled his pace and followed the Civilian into a dark, smoke-free den of booming techno music and strobing lights. A skeletal woman in a tight dress printed with hammers and sickles handed Clark a plastic martini glass. 'O, Kapitan, my Kapitan,' she sighed, and dug her fingers inside Clark's uniform shirt to touch his solar plexus.
While he stood there stunned the Civilian crammed in between the two of them. 'You're wasting your time, sweetheart. He'd rather be cleaning his own weapon, if you know what I mean.' He lead Clark to a bar at the back of the room where a number of suited men sat deep in conversation. A woman wearing nothing but panties and a Russian fur hat swayed back and forth listlessly over their heads.
'I assure you, the plan we just heard will fail,' Clark shouted over the music. The Civilian waved a finger at the bartender. 'I've seen how these things fight. I've shot them myself. This woman's ideas are useless to us.'
'Harsh words, Clark, from the great hero of Denver. You proved it's possible to prevail against the dead, didn't you? Not one man lost. You should be more proud of your accomplishments.'
The lights in the strip club dazzled Clark. He looked at the martini glass in his hand'it was dry.
'You're supposed to fill it up at the bar and bring it back to her. That means you want to take her upstairs to the Martini Room.'
Clark set it carefully on the bar, out of the way of the dancer. He suddenly and pangfully missed the Brown Palace's restaurant, with its nineteenth century decorum and its perfect slabs of beef. Gone now, most likely forever. With the rest of Denver.
'If anything,' he said, quite careful with his word choice, 'I proved that it is possible for the most heavily-armed, best-trained veteran warfighters in the world to survive in the midst of these things, and that's assuming they can bug out when things get too hot.'
The Civilian scowled at him, a cold, reptilian look that made Clark's skin feel filthy. Clark had the sudden and repugnant thought that he was finally seeing the Civilian's true face, the one behind the epoxied-on smile. It was horrible to behold. 'You're talking as if there were an alternative.'
'There must be! Anything would be better than that Dunnstreet's suicidal plan!'
The Civilian gestured for a woman wearing a Soviet tank commander's soft helmet to come and sit next to him. She pulled her dress up over her head and he leaned into her breasts, inhaling long and hard. 'Nobody else has ever thought it through. I'm serious. No policy group, no strategic envisioning team, nobody at the Pentagon or West Point or OpFor or anywhere else has ever bothered to sit down and figure out realistically how to fight a war on American soil. It has always been unthinkable.'