Quinn Perkins slaps a photo of a nice white lady onto the wall of the conference room for Olivia Pope and her associates to see. “Our newest client: Linda Cameltoe. 46 years old, turning 3 in January due to unfortunate leap year timing.”
“Ouch,” remarks sassy Abby, and her tasteless comment earns her a dirty look from Olivia.
“Continue, Quinn,” instructs Olivia, calmly, yet clearly tired of Abby’s bullshit.
“As I was saying... Linda, a butterfly fisherwoman turned ex-Mormon, has a cat: Bungus. Current location: top of the Washington Monument.”
Olivia’s face contracts as she thinks, harvesting the energy of her flawless side-profile. “Huck, see if Bungus has a record.”
“Already done, he’s clean.”
Linda, who has been in the room the whole time, speaks up like her opinion matters or something: “Bungus has never done wrong! He’s stuck because he’s a curious little guy…”
After Linda shows the gang some photos of Bungus the Cat, Olivia begins to pace back and forth. They’d need to retrieve Bungus from the top of the Washington Monument. There was only one question: how?
“Huck, we need to locate Bungus and determine his location.” Ah, yes. Olivia Pope, at it again.
Abby pipes up, as if she’s even remotely qualified to challenge Olivia Pope, her literal classmate at the same law school long ago. “Olivia, we know Bungus is at the top of the Monument.”
“Abby…” Olivia seethes, appropriately.
Sassy Abby begins to realize her mistake as Olivia gears up to deliver some of her favorite words: “What did you say when you started working for me?”
Abby sighs and submits. “I’d follow you over a cliff.”
“OVER. A. DAMN. CLIFF, ABBY! Here’s the plan. Huck and Quinn, locate Bungus. Abby, get the President’s office on the phone, now.”
Olivia Pope stands outside the Oval Office, not quite yet ready to face Fitz, the President of her nation and the Chancellor of her pussy. They had fought the day before, the same fight they have every time they fight, a fight she senses she might have to endure again once inside the President’s office. But, she needs him. For the client. Of course.
“You can go ahead in,” says the parrot trained to be Fitz’s Chief of Staff after Fitz realized he had some #hardcore trust issues.
Olivia opens the door and looks into the President’s dreamy, dreamy eyes…
“Fitz. I need a favor. It’s for my client.”
“I don’t know that I owe you anything, Olivia,” says Fitz, like a big dumb baby.
Olivia realizes what she must do: use some more of her favorite words: “What do you want?”
“You!” says Fitz, predictably.
“I’ve asked you countless times to move into the White House and be with me, for real,” explains the dumb baby.
“Fitz. What about Mellie?”
“Mellie doesn’t matter,” Fitz says about his wife and the mother of his three children.
“Fitz.” Olivia’s about to get real. “It doesn’t matter if Mellie doesn’t matter. It only matter if when matter with the difference. It’s like you don’t even know the wrong level when ZERO of now goes there. ZERO!”
Olivia begins to cry. “You already know how I feel. I don’t want to be Mellie. I don’t want to be the First Lady.”
Fitz’s heart skips a beat when faced with the idea that Olivia wouldn’t give up her entire life for his baby-ass. He’s probably like, what do women even want these days? Not your baby-ass, Fitz!
Olivia continues through her tears: “Last week, I watched Mellie pick out china for a state dinner per First Lady Tradition, and it took her six hours because per First Lady Tradition, she has to kiss every baby born at a nearby hospital, fresh out the womb.”
Fitz looks at Olivia, puzzled, and horny, spacing out as Olivia went on.
“There were six hundred types of china to pick from. Six. Hundred, Fitz. And, Mellie had to ask the opinion of every baby she kissed as she did it, per First Lady Tradition. And, all the babies had different tastes in china, and…” Olivia breaks down and sobs, unable to continue speaking (not that Fitz is even fucking listening, of course).
“I hate how you’re always right, Olivia,” says Fitz upon narrowly detecting it to be his turn to talk. But, alas, Olivia’s already strutting down the hall and out of the White House.
The President was a bust. Olivia realizes that there is only one way to rescue Bungus the Cat from the top of the Washington Monument. She begins to shudder at the thought, though. If she did as she is thinking, she’d send herself even further down the path to darkness, to becoming a monster like her own father. Olivia longs to wear the White Hat, to seek justice, not revenge. But, sometimes, clients must come first. Knowing she needed her evil father to validate her evil plan, she called him and spoke his favorite words to hear: “Sunday dinner?”
Eli Pope, wearing a polite sweater and using his utensils like a good boy, remarks to Olivia in his wannabe Morgan Freeman as God voice: “The wine you are sipping now is from seventy million years ago. The Triptotopticatonic Period, to be exact! Straight from the Queefasaurus we just put up for display at the Smithsonian.”
Olivia enjoys hearing about her father’s fake job. It allows her to pretend that she doesn’t have daddy issues. Did I mention her mom is a terrorist? Anyway, Olivia chuckles by force and chugs her glass of weird dinosaur loopy-juice. After putting down her glass, she is ready to ask him for what she needs. She looks up, straight into her father’s eyes while impressively suppressing a burp, and utters softly: “Dad…”
Eli begins to get pumped for his upcoming wannabe Morgan Freeman as God if God Were an Evil Dick, Which He Kind of Is, I Guess, monologue. He forces a chuckle of his own and clears his throat elegantly, even saying the word “ahem” aloud.
“I know why you really invited me to Sunday dinner, Oh-Livia.”
Indeed, Olivia was too trusting to realize that Eli had programmed an Amazon Alexa device to listen to the thundering of her innermost subconscious. How? Leaders of secret government spy organizations tend to have access to the latest technology much earlier than the general public. Tech experts estimate that by about 2023, Jane Doe will be using Alexa to figure out if that fuckboy is ghosting her or “just bad at texting.” To be fair, we both know homegirl doesn’t need Alexa to tell her the answer to that one.
“Dad,” says Olivia. “I can’t kill Linda. It’s wrong.”
As if he had just eaten one of those mushrooms that increases Super Mario’s big dick energy, Eli slams his utensils down, shaking the table and being very rude to everyone else at the restaurant.
“Oh-LIVIA. You always speak of this ‘wHiTe Hat,’ and yet you came to me, COMMAND!
I, my darling Oh-Livia, run an organization that assassinates world leaders AND covers up the evilest of deeds committed by none other than our VERY! OWN! U.S. government! My organization gives out mariJUANAA! edibles to trICK or tREAters, and claps between movements at orchestra concerts. Movements, Oh-Livia. ALL FOR THE GOOD OF THE REPUBLIC!
It’s a bit funny, you, here, with me, in a way, ha, haaa...
Yet, you, Ohhh-Livia, want me to tell you something ~naaaaice,~ right? Something that will just waaaaarm up your heart, right, Ohhh-Livia?
‘oLiViAAA, dOOOOn’T kILL LiNdA, tHeRe’S LitEraLLy nOOOO rEASON, jUsT gEt bUnGus fRom tHe toP of tHe mOnUMeNT, wHy wOuLd yOU eVen ConsIDER! dOiNG murdeRR???’
Woe is you, Oh-Livia, Woe. Is. YOU!
And you will do what you know, deep down, is the only thing that will feed that hideous m o n s t e r within you. You will feed! that fire, in your twisted, lost soul.... all while asking yourself, dear Ohhh-Livia, why you’re reeeeeeally doing it, if maybe there's some way to justify it, if maybe, just MAYBE! there’s a CHANCE you are wearing your silly wHiTe HaT after all… what does it matter, Oh-Livia, when it’s too DARK to SEE!
… Don’t worry. I promise you, Oh-Livia. One day, soon...
you will no longer even THINK! to ask those questions.”
“We are NOT the same!” Olivia throws the rest of her dino-Merlot on Eli’s polite sweater. It even kind of looks like blood, which is spooky. On her way out, Olivia sets a reminder to compliment her father’s rant once things die down. Of course, Eli and Alexa already know she loved it.
As Olivia heads back to the office, she thinks about how she will kill Linda, since she has to, obviously. Still, she hopes that Huck and Quinn have already solved the problem in another, less immoral way, without murder. Even though she knows she’s the smartest bitch of all of them, she prays for a miracle as she opens the door.
Tough shit, Olivia. Linda’s lying in a pool of her own blood, right on the conference room table.
“Is she dead?”
“Yes…” reply Huck and Quinn quietly, ‘cause they just got busted.
Olivia begins to fume, but is secretly pleased that the deed was done by anyone but herself. Of course, she has to yell at them anyway, because killing is wrong.
“How… did this HAPPEN!?”
Quinn and Huck look at each other like two high school dimwits trying to present a Powerpoint. Finally, Huck begins:
“We tried using QR Facial Recognition Software to locate Bungus using our hacked street cams and CCTV footage from local businesses. Our algorithm couldn’t recognize cat faces, so we started to hack into the Pentagon when Linda sneezed. She said, ‘Excuse me! Sorry, I’m allergic to cats,’ and Quinn and I knew something else was up.”
Quinn picks up her slack to ensure she gets her participation points: “So, we thought, if she’s allergic to cats, then why would she even have Bungus? Not to mention, how is she possibly having an allergic reaction if Bungus is on top of the Washington Monument?”
“We needed answers, Olivia,” continues Huck cryptically, which instantly explained to Olivia why the drill by Linda’s body was all bloody and gross.
“She wouldn’t talk, so we kept drilling into her thigh, but it was like she was trained. Not a word. Then, Quinn realized we didn’t take the tape off her mouth, so we ripped it off and Linda started giving us the intelligence we needed. She told us that we were valid in our feelings and experiences, which we really needed to hear at the time, actually. But, that was also weird as fuck, so we kept drilling.”
Quinn watches Olivia react to Huck’s story. Honestly, Olivia was kind of turned on by it all. Just kidding. Quinn continued: “We didn’t realize she would die if we drilled into her abdomen as much as we did, but now we know… Anyway, so then, we kept drilling into her dead body and we found something.”
“A lamp,” says Huck, wondering why Quinn didn’t just say that. “We took it out and a genie flew out and offered us a single wish, which was kind of a rip off, but still, we finally had our way out of this mess. We wished that QR Facial Recognition worked on cats, and the genie made it so. We ran the algorithm for 20 minutes while we ran out for lunch, and —”
“It found Bungus,” Olivia suggests, showing off her superior logical reasoning skills. “Where?”
“Right under Linda’s shirt.”
“That’s why she sneezed,” says Olivia, two for two!
“We drilled more until we got Bungus out from under Linda’s shirt. We had already drilled for a while, so nothing was where you’d expect it to be…”
“Gross, keep going,” says Olivia, admiring Quinn’s and Huck’s dedication to their craft.
“Bungus knew we weren’t fucking around with the drill, so he spilled: Linda was paid by none other than Abby to trigger your deadly cat allergy.”
Olivia can hardly believe the words coming out of Huck’s and Quinn’s mouths in alternating fashion. Her face is like the shocked emoji, this one :O
“Where is Abby now?”
“She’s in the wind, Olivia,” says Huck, or Quinn, does it even matter?
Olivia starts to laugh all creepy, like a cliche villain in the hit TV-show Scandal. Once again, Olivia’s gut was right, all along. Even though Linda said Bungus was on top of the Washington Monument, Olivia still told Huck to locate him using technology. Olivia realizes why Abby was protesting her instructions! It wasn’t because Olivia is a dumbass. It was because Abby is a traitor. Once more, Olivia gets to use her catchphrase that she definitely actually uses in Scandal:
“Get Pope’d, Bitchez!”