Name this book!

Seriously. I’m at 43,000 words and I don’t have a title. Here’s a teaser from Chapter 109.

The White House, Washington DC

It was four miles from the White House to a bar and grille in Arlington, where an Ivy League educated economist had been ensconced for the past hour-and-a half.

Carmen boarded the same housekeeping maroli she’d used twice, once earlier in the day, for the purpose of signing documents in her own hand. The machine was off-duty, in a dark closet, sipping nutrition through a straw out of a crushable plastic box.

She wiggled her avatar into the maroli’s form factor, arms operating two large tentacles on the top row, saying, “Hello again. Are you finished with supper?”

It tossed the box into a waste bin. “This device has eaten.”

Carmen glided down a hallway toward a night shift Marine guardsman, who acted nonchalant until she came within striking distance, at which point he said, “Maroli. Halt.”

She replied, “Sorry. It’s me, Carmen Benequista. Tonight’s recognition code is ‘stupendous’. How are you this evening?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Fine, ma’am. You gave me quite a start there.”

“Sorry about that. May I borrow a riot baton?”

He nodded. “Cloakroom. Please follow me.”

Armed with a striking weapon, Carmen flew the machine as fast as it would go, backwards in order to protect its bioform plug from bird strikes, avoiding well-lit buildings, because a maroli did not have invisibility technology.

When ordered to descend at her destination, the machine’s Oma knew how to compensate. It dropped out of the sky like a boulder, braked hard two meters from the pub’s rooftop, and came to rest next to a kitchen exhaust stack. Nobody saw it.

Carmen said, “Now you’re going to smell like cooking oil.”

It replied, “This device will take a shower.”

A maroli has good hearing. The man she wanted to punish was tossing down martinis at the bar, bragging about how, “We’re going to take that stupid bitch down.”

Carmen thought she’d have to wait longer for a cue. She pedaled her legs, launching the maroli off the roof.

It drifted down to the parking lot. She felt ghost feet touch pavement, lurched around a corner on ghost legs, and walked in the front door of the pub.

Patrons near the entrance scattered like cockroaches. A few paces away, barflies turned around to see what was going on. 

Carmen trotted up to the bar, snatched her victim off his stool, and punched him in the stomach with one end of the baton. He crumpled into a ball on the floor, vomiting.

The bartender gave her maroli the eyeball. “You got a beef, take it outside.”

“Nope, we’re doing it right here.” Carmen gave her victim a whack on the knee. “You’re going to take the stupid bitch down, are you?”

He shouted in pain. She whacked the other knee. “You really pissed me off, you know that?”

Bar patrons crowded in for a better view. One of them asked, “Who are you?”

She replied, “I’m your President.”

She received a smattering of applause. A woman in the crowd said, “Fuck him up.”

Carmen wrapped a tentacle around the man’s throat. He whimpered, but didn’t speak. She said, “Piss me off again, I’ll strangle your sorry ass and dump you in the river.”

The bartender held the front door. She gave him the baton as a souvenir. “You can call my chief of staff if you have complaints.”

He replied, “No complaints, ma’am. Have a good evening.”

Image by David Mark from Pixabay