The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror (20 page)

This was too much, even for me. I am a patient man, but I don’t have to put up with that kind of abuse. And using the f-ing e-word. Sheesh.

I edged past her toward the basement door. “Have yourself a nice romantic dinner without me,” I muttered. “I’m going downstairs to pray. For you.”

“You mean to eat Twinkies?” she screamed.

I reeled, and grabbed the doorknob for support. How did she—

“Oh, you think I don’t know about your private stash? You think I haven’t tried every combination I can think of?”

I put my finger to my lips and ran to the bathroom. I lifted the lid. Was that an ancient bit of unflushed poo? A stain, perhaps? Or was it a wireless toilet cam?

“What are you talking about?” I shouted down at the water. “How dare you accuse me of that! Me! A decorated and loyal member of the ATFF!”

I slammed the lid shut. Chantal stood in the doorway.

“Have you gone mad?” she said. “You’re talking to the toilet!”

“Toilets have ears,” I advised her solemnly. “Be careful what you say, and where you poo.”

“Now if only I had something
to
poo.”

“Chantal—”

“No.” She held up a hand. “Listen to me. I don’t care about myself anymore. And you can keep your goddamn Twinkies. But you bring home food for Nathan or I will.”

I gasped. “Are you threatening to hurt our son? To give him food? Do I have to call child services?”

“You do that, this family is over,” she said. “I’m not the one killing him. You are.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“You think I’m exaggerating? You think I’m being hysterical?” A rose petal stuck to her chin. She popped it into her mouth. “I took Nathan to that naturopath. The one Janine recommended.”

Janine. Green’s wife. Of course. That’s what I forgot to do.

“That quack?”

“That
quack,
as you call him, knows a thing or two about health. Know what he said? That if Nathan doesn’t eat some food and soon, he’s going to die.” She brandished the half-eaten bunch of roses in my face. “To
die,
love bundles!”

I rolled my eyes. “Hippie left-wing claptrap. Tell him to burn some incense, put some crystals on his chest and calm down. There’s nothing wrong with Nathan that a nice, fresh meal of air won’t cure.”

“Right.” She stormed into the kitchen and banged open a drawer. “See this, my air-eating husband?”

It was a clear plastic bag stenciled with the blue initials “UN.” Inside, two squares of bread. Frills of lettuce protruded from the sides. A glimpse of pink, maybe ham. It was the sort of thing the UN included in their food drops, the ones that got through. But special forces were tasked to hunt down and destroy those shipments.

“How did you get your hands on that?”

“The only way I could,” she said, and cocked her hip. “I went down to the docks and whored myself to a dozen sailors.”

My whole body trembled at this news. “We had a chance,” I said. “To raise our child food-free.” I grabbed for the sandwich, but she held it overhead. “Why don’t you give him some heroin, while you’re at it? Stuff some cocaine up his nose?”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

I jumped for the sandwich, but couldn’t reach. “You’re corrupting our child. How long has this been going on?”

She shook her head. “Oh, Frolick.”

“Answer me!” I roared. “How long?”

She advanced on me, jabbing her finger into my chest. “Today I sucked and fucked the entire merchant marine of a small island seafaring nation. Bareback. Multiple times. To pay for this sandwich. To keep my son alive. How does that make you feel?”

I’d forgotten to close the bathroom door, I realized. “Keep your voice down,” I said. “Do you want them to hear?”

“
Let
them hear!” she shrieked. “How I had to whore myself to feed my son, because my husband tried to starve us to death!”

“This is all my fault,” I said. I fell to my knees, and reached for her hands. “Give me one more chance.”

Her hands fluttered in mine. “Really?” she said. “I mean, you understand?”

“Sure.” I nodded. “You’re a junkie. I should have gotten you treatment earlier.”

She pulled away.

“Let me enroll you in Fat Camp again,” I said. “Get the monkey off your back.”

“I don’t want to get the monkey off my back, you idiot!” she shouted. “We’re supposed to eat. It’s part of living. The naturopath said so!”

I gazed up at her. What had happened to the woman I fell in love with? All I could see was a withdrawal-crazed madwoman. “That’s what the ferrn agro-business conglomerates want you to think,” I said.

She studied me for a long moment. “You really believe that, don’t you.”

I got back to my feet. “Yes. I do.”

“Then I feel sorry for you,” she said. “A hypocrite who doesn’t even realize.”

“Who are you calling a hypocrite?”

She snorted with laughter. “A man who eats only air by day, but spends his evenings stuffing his face with stale Twinkies? What else would you call that?”

“Hey,” I said. “It’s not my fault if suicidal flying Twinkies force themselves down my throat and into my stomach. Rape is rape. I mean, come on.”

Her eyes opened wide at that. Finally I’d made her see. “Is that how it is,” she said.

I puffed up my chest. “Darn tootin’ right.”

She covered her face with her hands. When she lowered them, the sandwich was crumpled up into a ball. Her face was pale. She wiped away tears.

“Three days,” she said. “No. Don’t talk. Just listen. Three days. You bring us home some food. Or it’s your fault if he dies. And if he dies…” She turned her back on me. “You no longer have a wife.”

She turned and walked off down the hall, sandwich in hand, to our son’s room.

“Chantal, wait!” I called after her.

She paused at Nathan’s bedroom door. “And now I’m going to feed our son this sandwich. That I worked so hard to purchase.” She tried to smooth out the crumpled slices of bread, but gave up. “You go down to your basement and eat some air, my husband. And you have a good long think about what I just said.”

“Please, Chantal,” I said. “Be reasonable.”

“Three days,” she repeated. She went into our son’s room and shut the door behind her.

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach with a three-week-old contraband burrito. Somehow I made it down the stairs. I slumped to the ground in front of the Twinkies. They towered over me like some pagan god. I groveled to my Twinkie-Baal, begging for mercy, knowing there would be none. I was a human blood sacrifice on their altar of golden pastry deviance.

A dab of cream spattered my cheek. They were attacking again. Rage blinded me, and I drew my service weapon.

“Stay back!” I shouted. “Keep your wings where I can see them!”

They responded with an all-out blitz. They wanted me to know who was master. I’d show them.

I opened fire.
Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

But they flew so fast my darts only bounced off the metal walls and ceiling. Finally I winged one. It fell into a dusty corner of the vault, where it mewed pitifully. I crawled to where it lay. It was covered in bits of hair and flecks of dirt and plaster. It hopped up and down, flapping its good wing. I couldn’t bear to watch it suffer. I put it out of its misery. I shoved it down my throat.

There was one dart left in my gun. I spun the cylinder and put the barrel in my mouth. My family would be better off without me. This was the only way to free myself—and them—from the Tyranny of Food. A dart in the brain would be fatal. They’d find me tomorrow morning, my brain oozing out of my nostrils onto my shirt.

“
We command thee not to do this,”
rang out the voice of Twinkie-Baal.

“Eat you,” I said.

“In time. We are the LORD YOUR GOD. Know that in heaven there is only us. Twinkies everywhere. Floating through the clouds. Playing harps. Et cetera.”

I took the barrel from my mouth. “Et cetera? Really?”

“
Et cetera,”
boomed Twinkie-Baal.

I cried then. Long, wet, heaving sobs. Lamenting my oppression. There was no escape. No way out. I would be a slave forever, even in the afterlife. There was nothing I could do. Not even momentary relief from the hell that was life on earth.

Well, there was one thing.

I jammed the muzzle against my thigh and pulled the trigger. I caught the dart the first time.

Wham.

As the tranquilizing laxative coursed through my veins, I thought: One in six odds. Sometimes the casino pays.

Fifteen

Cold. Wet.

I groped in my sleep for the bed covers.

Cold. Wet.

Where were the sheets? Chantal must have yanked the blankets over to her side. I lay back. I didn’t complain. I didn’t want to pick another fight.

Cold. Wet. Cold. Wet.

All right, already. I turned to grab the blanket from her, and woke up.

Something sharp dug into my leg. The dart. My service revolver lay next to me. I plucked out the needle and threw it to one side, where it joined a pile of identical syringes.

What time was it? I got to my feet. Cold diarrhea trickled down my leg into my shoe. Ick. I’d have to get cleaned up. Have a shower. Change of clothes. A clean trench coat. Idiot! Your watch. I must still be drugged. I pushed back my sleeve. 4 a.m.

Just enough time, if I hurried. To get to the airport and help the General capture Fatso. Too much time, in fact. Time to listen to my Twinkies parrot Chantal’s words over and over again:

“I’m not the one killing him.

You are…

Three days, Frolick.”

I shucked my dirty clothes and got in the shower. Was it true what she had said? That all the other ATFF agents “bring home the bacon”? There were a hundred thousand Food Enforcement officials across the country. They couldn’t all be corrupt, could they? And if there were such a conspiracy, how come I knew nothing about it?

The hot water poured down my back. I hung my head.

“
But what if she’s right?”
came the sing-song chant.

“The naturopath—is he a kook?

Or does he know the truth?

What if Nathan needs some food?”

I chuckled. Crazy talk. I reached for the soap.

But the Twinkies would not let up:

“What if air isn’t enough, enough?

What if just oxygen isn’t up to snuff?”

I cracked the bathroom window and took a big gulp of air. I chewed thoughtfully. But something was wrong. I swallowed more and more air, but it didn’t fill me up.

Terror clawed at my soul. Was this what they meant by doubt? My digestion was destroyed. I could starve to death. Worse, I would be contagious to everyone around me until I regained my faith. What had happened to it, and how did I get it back?

The doubt gnawed at me like I was corn on the cob slathered in butter and salt. The sort of thing I used to eat when I was a food-addicted child.

“
Suppose she’s right,”
the Twinkies sang.

But this is ridiculous.

“For the sake of argument.

Suppose, suppose, suppose!”

Where would I go to get some food?

The evidence warehouse was out. Since the scandal last week, every calorie that went in or out got counted.

I could try the small-fry dealers on the street. Only problem was, they knew me on sight.
ATFF! Put the food on the ground and your hands in the air! Now!
They’d flush their stash as soon as they saw me. Chuck it down the sewer. I could not be bribed. They knew that. Even if I tried to explain my change of heart, there’s no way they’d agree to sell me food.

That left the mafia big boys. But if we succeeded in nailing Fatso today, and tearing down his organization, where would I go to get food for Nathan? The kid would die. Chantal would leave me. Everything I’d worked so hard to build would fall apart.

What was the alternative? Refuse to arrest Fatso? Help him escape? How? Or warn him in some way, and risk being branded a traitor and shamed by all who knew me?

What in the name of the Prophet was I going to do?

Sixteen

I arrived just in time for the press conference.

A temporary command post had been set up at the base of the control tower. A score of dignitaries had assembled there, plus the press corps. A billion-dollar stealth tent concealed them from view. It consisted of a black canvas tarpaulin nailed to wooden supports.

“The man of the hour!” the General cried when he saw me, and hugged me to his chest. His ribbons dug into my face. I regretted teaching him this new hugging habit.

“Photo op!” Major Turdd barked, and the reporters obediently obliged.

The General beamed. “This is the man who made this glorious day possible!”

I blushed. “Just doing my job, is all.”

“And modest, too.” The General chuckled. “Make sure you put that in your stories, boys.”

“Already got it in there, sir sir sir sir sir,” Turdd said. He passed out folders to the journalists. “I wrote their stories for them.
New York Times… Washington Post…
But do feel free to change a comma here or there. Punctuation is not my strong suit.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said the
Post
stringer.

“Ditto the
Times.”

“Got a minute or two for questions,” the General said. “Who’s first?”

The
Times
reporter chewed on a fingernail. “Isn’t it true you’re a swell guy?”

“Sure is!” the General said. “Who else? What about the
Post
this morning? Hit me with a hard one.”

The stringer thought for a moment. “Just how great is it to have a leader like the Prophet, anyway?”

“Pretty great, I’d say.” The General smiled. “Well, that’s all we have time for today, if you’ll just—”

“General, I have a question,” a ferrn voice said. From a European network, I forget the name. You ferrners are always watching their lying propaganda. He asked, “Isn’t it true the US of Air uses snakelike toilet cams to spy on people’s bottoms when they’re on the toilet? And that there’s a giant bunker full of poo analysis machines accessible through a back door passage in the Lincoln Memorial?”