At Summer Solstice, 2012, Great Aunt Sophie and her cronies Gertie and Maud cast a spell over “that nice young man with the white hair.”  Two days earlier, Julian Assange walked into the Ecuadorian Embassy in London to request political asylum. Ecuador’s President Rafael Correa appointed a team to study the U.S. threats against Assange. The U.S, Sweden, and Great Britain continued to deny there was a Grand Jury investigation against WikiLeaks, and to call for Assange’s extradition.

In July, the three assangistas del norte gather to watch “Oor Jules” give a speech from the balcony of the Embassy. He’s been inside for a month, unable to see the sky, feel the sun or the rain, or touch the earth.

The protection spell seems to be working, though: he hasn’t been arrested, even though the building remains surrounded by London Police, at a cost of eleven thousand pounds (sixteen thousand seven hundred dollars) a day. “The women of Sweden must feel ever so much safer now,” says Maud.

But Gertie fears they’ve been threatened with a


“Drop it, goddamnit.”

Maud is trying to separate Little Fudgie from the rear half of a dead badger he has dragged home.

Gertie runs down the hall. “Hide the Willendorf! Where’s my wand?”

“In the top drawer,” says Maud. She grabs the Corgi by the scruff of the neck and carries him into the bathroom. “Next to the vibrators. What’re you on about?

“Obama,” says Gertie, out of breath. “He’s gonna send us to Guantánamo.

“The lawyer told us they won’t go after supporters,” says Maud. “It looks bad.” She deposits the dog in the bathtub, turns on the water, and covers  him with shampoo.

“Julian said so, from the balcony. ‘The United States must renounce its witch-hunt against WikiLeaks.”

Gertie was burned at the stake in 1487 and has never gotten over it.

“It’s a metaphor, for fuck sake. Fudgie, stay.”

“You tell ’em it’s a metaphor when they break down the door and nuke us with tasers.”

“Have you taken your meds?”

“I took my vitamin D. Coppers try to put a surveillance tag on me, I’ll kick ’em in the…”

“How about a nice cup of tea?” Maud lifts a squirming Fudgie from the tub. He bolts from her grasp and rubs back and forth against the bathroom walls, growling.

“Cover the pteranodon skull. Put the black candles in the emergency drawer. You try explaining metaphor to a predator drone.”

Maud lunges for Fudgie. “Good dog. Stay. Sweetie, don’t you think you’re being a wee bit paranoid?”

“It’s not paranoia, it’s realpolitik. Julian’s been manacled for six hundred days for shtupping a couple of groupies.”

“It’s more complex…”

“Nothing complex about it. Karl Rove can’t get it up. Oysters, rhubarb, Viagra, it just hangs there like a banana slug. Two blonds jump on Julian, they put out an Interpol Red Alert.”

Maud closes the bathroom door, dries her hands, and goes over to her laptop. “Let’s watch the speech again.”

“Don’t like the haircut.”

“At least he lost the beard.”

“Why are his ears red? Why isn’t Sarah wearing any clothes? Why didn’t they invite us?”


Vive Rafael Correa, rumbala rumbala, rumbala

Vive Rafael Correa, rumbala rumbala, rumbala

Cantar con las Assangistas, oi Obama, oi Obama

Venceremos les fascistas, oi Obama, oi Obama

 “Help me lift the Kali statue. Put it in the kitchen cupboard with the riding broom.”