The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror (21 page)

The General frowned. “What a bunch of bullpoo. Where did you pick up that rumor?”

“Anonymous tip,” the reporter replied. “Said it was time the NSA had some leaks. Said you’d know what that meant.”

I knew what it meant. Green was alive. I was surprised he was conscious, much less making phone calls to Europe. I would have to visit him in the hospital, have a chat about this treasonous behavior.

The General’s face turned red. I slipped out unnoticed. He could handle the wolves of the press corps on his own, I was sure. It was time for me to join the assault team. I wanted to be the first aboard Fatso’s plane. Have a private conversation with the big man. Ask him his advice. Was it true you really needed to eat? Was my son going to die? If anyone knew the truth, I felt sure it would be him.

Captain Lean passed me the binoculars. “There. Do you see him?”

I scanned the purple horizon. Dawn was not far off. The jet was coming in low from the south. I grinned like the proverbial food-addicted child in a candy-dealer’s den of vice.

“Well, hello, Big Boy.”

The Thin Beret commander crouched next to me, huddled behind Fatso’s limo. We had seized the car when it showed up, and arrested the driver. The luxurious interior was now crammed with thirty-eight of our country’s thinnest commandos. The Godfather of Food was in for the surprise of his life.

“Wait.” My stomach leaped. “He’s turning away.”

The captain took the binoculars. He swore and reached for his walkie-talkie. “Get me the General.”

A tense moment ensued. Was this it? Say goodbye to the biggest collar of my career? I kept a souvenir scrapbook under my bed. I cut off the shirt collars of all the criminals I arrested and pressed them neatly between the pages. Fatso’s had easily dwarfed the others, but when the charges were dropped, I had to give it back. I was looking forward to adding his to my permanent collection.

Captain Lean’s walkie-talkie squawked. “It’s the air traffic controller. Blobba-whatsizname. Pilot’s asking for some kind of landing code.”

Airmen in Mafia Waiter jackets were chucking empty boxes onto the conveyor belt. Above our heads, Blobbalicious bellowed, “You trying to kill me? I lost five hundred pounds last night. Bring me a couple dozen cheesecakes before I starve to death!”

I grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Tell the blob that if he doesn’t give out the right codes, and now, Agent Frolick will personally make sure he never eats again.”

We waited for the command post to relay my message. Of course, we could have called for fighter escort and forced the plane to land. But the risk of Fatso throwing evidence out the door of the jet, evidence that might hit an honest air-eater in the mouth, right when he was having breakfast, when it might go down his throat by reflex—well, the risk was just too high to ignore. It would be far better to trick Fatso into landing.

Over the walkie-talkie I heard Blobbalicious drawl, “Uh, this is Boring Tower. Landing code is ‘Food is good, Food is God.’ Repeat, ‘Food is good, Food is God.’ Over.”

A tense pause. We waited anxiously. Would it work?

Then a radio crackled: “Roger that, Boring Tower. Returning to land.”

I scanned the sky once more with the binoculars. “He’s coming back. Let’s move.”

The captain and I squeezed into the limo. We crawled over the others until we were plastered between a pair of boots, a helmet, two gun barrels and the ceiling. I craned my neck upside down to see out the window.

The jet landed with a squeal of tires. It turned off the runway and taxied to a halt. The door opened. Ground crew pushed stairs up to the aircraft. A man in a poo-colored suit appeared in the doorway. He carried a briefcase. The limo drew up at the foot of the stairs.

“On my mark,” I said.

The man descended the stairs. He looked puzzled. Halfway down he stopped and looked around, as though expecting to be met by someone.

“Go!” I ordered.

Thin Berets tumbled out of the limo.

“ATFF!” I shouted. “Freeze!”

But the man broke into a trot, trying to get back up the stairs.

“Fire!” the captain ordered.

Thirty-eight darts slapped into the man’s back. He slid headfirst down the stairs to the ground. A pair of Thin Berets cuffed the limp, diarrhea-soaked food terrist. I led the way up the stairs, Laxafier at ready, expecting at any moment to see Fatso’s great bulk appear and block the doorway.

What would I do when I saw him again? I was suddenly unsure. The man was an extremist bent on the destruction of our very way of life. How could I beg him for advice?

“
But what if your way of life is wrong?”
those insidious pastries cooed.
“What if eating food makes you strong?”

We crept up the gangway, the Thin Berets behind me. It took almost half an hour, not counting frequent breaks, to make it to the door of the plane. I held up a hand. The shuffling behind me stopped. I was going in first. Alone.

Deep breath. Big air snack. One, two, and—

I surged inside, finger on the trigger. The cabin was empty. I hobbled down the aisle, sweeping each row for hidden interlopers. Past the massive in-flight food lab and the table in the shape of a pizza wedge. It was clean. All of it. Even the bed in the master bedroom was unslept-in.

I rapped on the cockpit door. The pilots waddled out. I shoved past them: lots of blinking lights. No Fatso.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

“Where’s who?”

I pointed the gun at the pilot’s chest. “Fatso, who else?”

The two men looked at each other. “Who’s Fatso?”

My walkie-talkie crackled. “Congratulations!” the General’s voice boomed. “You got him! Is he alive or dead?”

The evil mafia leader had escaped my grasp once again.

“
But are you really sorry about that?”
a Twinkie twittered.

I swallowed hard. “Neither, sir sir sir sir sir,” I said. “He isn’t here.”

Seventeen

The deadline had passed. 8:37 a.m. by my watch. The Coalition of the Fasting convened at the Thin House seven minutes ago. I had failed. Every minute that ticked by without Fatso in custody meant another poor child in the Turd World was pinching off a loaf, when they could be eating air. Like Manuel Tortilla down in Fondueras, struggling to free his people from their servitude to corn. Because of me, the Tyranny of Food would continue for another generation. School children would learn my name and revile me, cursing The Horrible Frolick for failing humanity at this all-important juncture.

“
Because of you, your son will die!”
a cloud of Twinkies declared cheerfully.

Unless, of course, I was wrong, and everything I thought I knew was a lie. But honestly, how likely was that? I scoffed. My doubting Twinkies retreated to a far corner of the ceiling.

The pilots knew nothing. Even their bowels were clean. They promised not to do it again, and I let them go. Now I sat across from the man in the poo-colored suit, his briefcase open on the jet’s table between us.

“To: Special Agent Frolick,” I read out loud. “From: Fatso. With: love.” I slapped the gift card on the table. “You mind telling me what in the food this is?”

The briefcase contained ten kilos of whole wheat flour. Street value: twenty-five million dollars.

We had searched the plane, of course. Pried open the ceiling, ripped open the hold. Nowhere for Fatso to hide. No hidden contraband. Only a single steak in the freezer, with a note absolving the pilots of ownership, and which the man in the poo-colored suit now pressed to his forehead. A large bruise had formed there, where he had face-planted into the tarmac. One arm was in a sling. It had taken all thirty-eight Thin Berets to lift him and carry him up to the plane door. It was a stirring patriotic sight. It reminded me of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima.

“Why are you asking me?” he groaned, and shifted the frozen T-bone to the other side of his forehead. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I got you by the bowels,” I told him. I squeezed my fist in his face. “You had enough poo up your hole to send you away for ninety days. A hundred and eighty, you don’t cooperate.”

He sighed. “Look. Agent Frolick. Fatso obviously knew you were waiting here for him. Right?”

I smacked my palm with my fist. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Blobbalicious had warned Fatso somehow. Who else could it have been?

“So…?”

“So why did he send me?”

I put on my sternest countenance. “That’s precisely what I intend to get to the bottom of.”

The man dropped the bloody steak on the table. “As punishment. I screwed him on a food deal. Big mistake. He knows you’re going to put me in Fat Camp.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were full of poo,” I objected sharply.

The man’s lip quivered. “He force-fed me at gunpoint. It was so…horrible. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh you poor thing,” I breathed, and clasped his hands in mine.

With a sob story like that, how could anyone remain unmoved? I let him go.

“No interruptions,” I told the Thin Berets guarding the door.

I needed time to think. The question was what to do now. I turned the card over in my hands. The briefcase full of flour was a clue. I was sure of it. But what did it mean? I wished Green was here. He would know what to do.

“Take some, take some,

but be quick,”
my Twinkie cried.

Take what? The flour? But that’s state’s evidence.

“Take it, take it for your son.

Take it for yourself.

You’re not the only one!”

I picked up a kilo bag. Taking it home would be illegal. I cut the bag open with a knife, moistened my pinkie and sampled the package. 100% pure, uncut powdered human misery. My stomach revolted at the taste. How could I have ever thought my son needed this?

The cabin door crashed open behind me. I banged my fist on the table. “I said, no interruptions.”

The General barged into the food lab, flanked by half a dozen Thin Berets. They pointed their laxative rifles at me.

“What’s going on, sir sir sir sir sir?” I asked.

He picked up the gift card and read, “From: Fatso. With: love.” He dropped the card on top of the flour. “Oh Frolick,” he said. Tears welled up in his eyes. “How could you?”

I frowned. “How could I what?”

“Betray our country like this.” He flung a pudgy finger at my head. “Arrest that man!”

“On what charge?” I demanded indignantly.

“The charge of treason.”

Seventeen and Five-Eighths

You down there. In the audience. Yes, you. Where do you think you’re going? Hey! Stop them, Corporal.

What’s she saying? She wants to
what?
Bring them down here.

Little girl, what’s your name? That’s a pretty name. That’s a pretty dolly you have there. Now, your mommy says you have to go potty. Is that true?

Uh-huh. I see. Is it a number one or a number two?

That’s what I was afraid of. Your parents should be ashamed of themselves. Giving you food. And at your age. Here. Take these. Four Prophet Packs for you and your family. Including one for your dolly. Embrace his words. Teach your dolly to embrace his words. You are so young. There is still time for you to free yourself from your addiction to food.

I know you still have to go. You’re going to have to wait until we’re finished broadcasting, is all. I’m sorry, ma’am, but you should have thought of that before getting your child hopped up on addictive caloric substances. If you really have to go, then do it right here on the floor in front of everyone.

That’s a great idea, actually. Anyone has to do a number two, come down here to the front. Show us your shameful excretions. The world will watch and judge you by your actions.

Grab them, Corporal. Don’t let them leave. No one leaves. Lock the doors, post men at all the exits. I bring a holy message from the Prophet. You dishonor him and his name when you try to sneak out like that.

Now. Where was I.

Cap sprung me from the brig later that day. Writ of Foodeus Corpulus signed by Judge Meyer-Weiner himself. And I thought the Prophet had suspended Foodeus Corpulus three years ago.

Outside in the grey November sunlight, Cap pulled me aside. “How stupid can you be?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“They think you warned Fatso!”

“But why would they think that?” I asked.

“In exchange for this?” Cap held up the briefcase. “They found you with your finger stuck in a bag of flour.”

I brightened. “You taking that home for it to be destroyed?”

My boss rolled his eyes. “What is wrong with you, Frolick?” he asked. “Why can’t you learn to play ball?”

“What kind?” I asked him.

“What kind
what?”

I ticked them off on my fingers. “Basketball, baseball, football, volleyball…” I thought for a moment. “Did I say baseball?”

He covered his face with one hand. “You did.”

I followed him to the car. “What are you saying, Cap? I should get more exercise?”

His Smart Car was easy to spot. As D.C. ATFF Battalion Commander, his cruiser had a six-foot-tall red siren on the roof, a beacon of revolving light that would equally serve most lighthouses.

He unlocked the passenger door and turned on me. “Get the Twinkie out of your ass, Frolick,” he growled. “These people are playing for keeps. Be careful or you’ll wind up like Green. Or worse.”

I perked up. “How is Harry, anyway? You been to see him?”

He grunted and got in the car. “Full body cast. Eating air through a straw.”

“Did he ask about me?”

The car puttered to life. “Said I’m supposed to remind you to do ‘that thing.’ Whatever that means.”

We pulled out of the parking lot and rode in silence. When we hit the freeway, he turned on the siren. The car rocked back and forth with each revolution of the rooftop light. Soon we had the slow lane to ourselves.

“Where’s the crime?” I asked.

“Just wanted a little privacy,” he shouted. “Something in the glove compartment for you, by the way.”

I gave a cry of joy. “My gun and badge and tape measure?”