The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror (30 page)

The holy of holies! To enter that sacred shrine, with my Supreme Leader at my side… I shuddered in anticipation.

“And don’t forget the pizza!” he called over his shoulder. “We can use it to test our faith.”

The Twinkies rose up in a golden cloud and followed us across the street. We passed through the outer gates and strolled in the shadows of the Rock Garden. The Prophet walked in silence, contemplating his own greatness, no doubt. I dared not disturb his reflections.

“Do you like ranch dressing with your pizza?” he asked abruptly.

Such profundity of thought! “I was always a hot sauce man, to be honest with you,” I said, and added quickly, “although of course I don’t eat pizza anymore.”

“Neither do I,” he said, with a magnetic grin.

We entered that temple of wisdom, truth and justice, and proceeded toward the West Wing and the fabled Trapezoidal Office. The home of good government—to see it with my own eyes! The same room where both Abraham Lincoln and the Prophet signed their respective Emancipation Proclamations!

But the way to the inner sanctum was blocked by Erpent and two Fat Berets. Erpent hurled an accusing finger at me and shouted, “Arrest that man!”

“Hold,” the Prophet snapped. “This man is my guest.”

The Fat Berets paused.

“Mine Prophet,” Erpent said, with a stiff bow of his head. “Former Special Agent Frolick is an escaped food terrist. He is a danger to you and our national security.”

I thought of my wife and child, dead in Fat Camp. The purge that took all my friends and family from me. “You’re the threat,” I growled. “People are starving to death in Fat Camp because of you.”

Erpent crossed his arms. “Is it my fault they can’t eat air?”

Twinkies swirled about my head, chanting their haunting melody in my ear. Then I understood.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault.” I hung my head. “My doubt infected all those people. That’s why they couldn’t eat air.”

“No,” the Prophet said. “It’s not your fault. It’s the ferrners’ fault. Remember?”

The Twinkie chorus swelled and broke into symphonic overture. I gasped. The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Of course.” I put on my stern face. “I can’t wait to get my hands on those French food terrists. And you.” I turned to Erpent. “Shame on you. How dare you engage in favoritism.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Favoritism?”

“My family and friends enjoyed the finest facilities Fat Camp has to offer.” I threw out my arms. “But every citizen of our great land deserves that experience!”

Erpent cleared his throat. “What do you propose?”

“You must build more Fat Camps,” I said fervently. “Hire more judges. More slimming consultants. Buy more leg warmers. So that everyone can learn to eat air.”

Erpent glanced at the Prophet.

“He has a point, you know.”

“Very well, Mine Prophet,” the SS agent sneered. He saluted with a limp hand and muttered, “Go the Power of Air.” He turned to go.

“One more thing,” I said.

Erpent was no longer smiling. “What is it?”

I pulled out my Laxafier. “I want you to experience the joys of Fat Camp, too,” I said. “Maybe then you’ll be a nicer person.” And shot him in the leg.

He collapsed on the carpet in a puddle of his own excrement.

The Prophet patted me on the back. “Good work.”

I tingled with pride at this unlooked-for commendation. My feet left the floor and I floated up toward the ceiling.

“Get him on the next box car leaving town,” the Prophet ordered the Fat Berets. “One of you wake up the Joint Chiefs. Yes, I know it’s two in the morning. I’m calling an emergency meeting of the National Thinness Council.”

The Fat Berets gave a smart salute, about-faced and marched off, dragging Erpent between them.

The Prophet looked at me strangely. Could he tell my head was touching the ceiling, surrounded by swarms of flying Twinkies?

He grinned. “Come on. Through here.”

I followed him into his office. I gazed in awe at the triangular tables that filled the nooks and crannies of that irregular quadrilateral. Here I was, a pizza on my shoulder, the Prophet at my side, standing in the Trapezoidal Office itself!

He stepped around behind his desk. He reached into a drawer and took out a bottle of ranch dressing and one of hot sauce. “That looks pretty heavy,” he said. “Why don’t you put it down?”

“Did you want to test your faith?”

He winked at me. “It crossed my mind.”

I put the pizza down on the Trapezoidal Desk. “Maybe we should throw it away.”

“Maybe we should,” he agreed.

Never underestimate the power of unbelievers to damage your own faith. It had been a week since I had last eaten. So when the Prophet opened the box and offered me a slice, French doubt wafted across the Atlantic Ocean, sending my Twinkies into a frenzy. They violated me with those triangular portions of cheesy, gooey, crispy crust ’za. By the time the National Thinness Council showed up, the Prophet and I were both in tears, and the pizza was gone.

“The ferrners made us do it,” I said. “You realize this makes us both food terrists?”

He came back from the bathroom wiping vomit from his lips. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “We’ll get those French evildoers.”

The double doors swung open, and there was no more time for idle chit-chat. In waddled a dozen of the strongest believers I had ever met. Every single one had an eleven-inch waist, just one inch more than the Prophet himself. And what an inch it was! First came the Joint Chiefs of Stick, in all their beribboned glory. They had to duck to bring their rank balloons into the room. The balloons bobbed against each other, threatening to explode on the sharp points of the chandelier.

“General O’Shitt!” I exclaimed, counting the stars on the blimps that rose from his shoulders. “You made it to twenty-six stars, I see!”

The NSA commander beamed. “All thanks to you, my skinny friend,” he said. “And why stop at twenty-six? New ranks have been created. I’m on track to make a hundred stars by the end of the year.”

The other generals and admirals scowled at this. They obviously had not the wit to dream so boldly.

Following them were four of the Cupboard members. I recognized them from televised news conferences: the Typist of State, the Typist of Defense, the Typist of Offense and the Typist of Special Teams. All believers of superhuman faith, as their tape measures proved.

The furniture creaked as the assembled lowered themselves into their chairs, and the Prophet began.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we are faced with our country’s greatest crisis. The survival of this nation—our values—our way of life—is at stake. Food terrists threaten to destroy us with their addictive caloric substances. I asked you here this morning to announce my plan to deal with this menace.”

“What sort of plan, Mine Prophet?” O’Shitt asked.

The Prophet turned his charismatic eyes of power on the General. “A plan to humble our greatest and most fearsome enemy,” he said.

“Cuba?”

He shook his head.

“Canafooda?”

“No. France.”

The assembled thrilled at the mention of our great arch-enemy, the cradle of food terrism.

“About time,” growled an admiral with ribbons glued to his forehead. “Mothereating French with their wine and their cheese. Stubbornest enemy I’ve seen since the Micronesian Police Action last year.”

“Yes,” said the Typist of State. “We have exhausted all diplomatic channels to convince them to crack down on their food terrist training camps called ‘cooking schools.’ The French have even persuaded the UN to relocate to Geneva, just because the Receptionist-General claimed he was starving to death in New York.” She turned to us, pleading. “I mean, come on! The man’s African. You would think he would know how to eat air by now.”

The Prophet nodded solemnly. “General O’Shitt. Military options? What about we nuke ’em?”

O’Shitt folded his hands together on his stomach. Or tried to. “We of the Joint Chiefs believe you should give diplomacy another chance.”

“Oh please!” the Typist of State said. “What’s the point of having this superb nuclear arsenal you’re always talking about if we can’t use it? Especially against harmless countries like France that can’t fight back.”

O’Shitt cleared his throat. “May I remind the Typist that the French have nukes too?”

“Do they?” State said. “Well, I’m sure a first strike can knock out their primitive nuclear facilities before they can get a missile off the ground.”

The Typists of Offense and Special Teams were on their feet. “Mine Prophet, I must protest!” protested Offense. “We only have ten thousand or so nuclear warheads. If we use a couple dozen on France, we open ourselves to attack from countries like Lesotho, Equatorial Guinea and Bhutan!”

The Prophet held out a hand for silence. “We have a new secret weapon I intend to deploy. More powerful than any nuke.”

“A new weapon? The first I’ve heard of it.” Offense turned to Special Teams. “Or is it one of yours?”

“Not mine,” said Special Teams.

The Prophet stood up and came around the desk. “What do you think, Special Agent Frolick?”

I shuffled my feet and stared at the floor. These dictation-takers of wisdom wanted my advice? “I guess the French would rather eat air than get nuked,” I said at last.

He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “meet our new secret weapon.”

I pulled away.
“Me?”

The Prophet looked me in the eye. He spoke with passion. “Go to France,” he said. “Be our ambassador. Teach them the one true way.”

“But how?” I asked. “I thought that diplomatic channels were exhausted.”

“They’re tired, yes. But not quite pooped.” He turned me to face the probing stares of the Cupboard. “We need to put a human face on our struggle to eat air. Help them understand the innocent lives they are destroying with their addiction to food.”

“But what do I say?”

He patted me on the shoulder. “Explain to them your battle with addictive caloric substances. The loss of your wife. Your child. Your friends. Completely uncensored. Make them sympathize with you.”

The Typist of State raised a finger in the air. “And then we nuke ’em?”

“No!” the Prophet said. “Or not yet, anyway.”

State persisted. “He explains our demands then, right?”

“What demands?” I asked.

She ticked them off on her fat fingers. “Cessation of food terrist training camps. Outlaw the possession and consumption of addictive caloric substances. Airborne herbicide spraying to destroy grow-ops in the countryside. Construction of Fat Camps to re-educate the entire population. Teach them how to eat air.”

I glanced around the room. Utter silence. “And if I fail?”

The Prophet pointed to a young Air Force officer in a corner of the Trapezoid. I had not noticed him until now. “If you fail, Stan here’s got the football. Get the nukes out, make ourselves some French toast. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The others jutted out their multiple chins. They were staunch. Resolute. Defiant in the face of this French threat. How could I refuse?

I straightened my back, flung out my arm in salute and shouted, “Yes, Mine Prophet!”

Our Dear Leader took my hand in his and shook it. “You’re our only hope, son,” he said. “Go the Power of Air.”

Twenty-Eight

It is hard, eating air. Sometimes you feel so empty inside. That’s why you need faith. Or your doubt will consume you, and you’ll wind up like these men here, dressed in French army uniforms and pointing their guns at me.

This is why I came to France. To share my faith with you. So that you can learn to eat air too.

I have been here in the capital city of your food-terrist-loving nation for two weeks now. And the horrors I have seen! Worse than anything I ever imagined. Why, just yesterday I was sitting in one of your bistro food labs, refreshing myself with a glass of water—you know, the kind with the bubbles of air in it?—when the waiter, out of the blue, brought me a five-course meal of addictive caloric substances and a bottle of fermented grape juice! There I was, surrounded by infidels. My faith grew weak. My Twinkies attacked. How could I resist?

This is not your fault, I realize. The oppressive regime of France has one goal only: to keep you down. To keep you in ignorance of the truth.

My heart goes out to you. All of you. You’ve been slaves to food for so long, you have no idea what it’s like to be free. But do not fear. We, the United States of Air, are here to help you. To free you from this oppression. We are your liberators from the Tyranny of Food! Put down your guns, and welcome us with open arms. Our only desire is what is best for the people of France. It is our compassion that moves us. Our hunger for peace.

Food terrism, however, is difficult to root out of a society like France, where the preparation and consumption of your drug of choice have been raised to an art form. Therefore let me be clear: we will do whatever it takes to set you free. If necessary, we will even liberate you the same way we liberated the people of Micronesia last year: with nuclear weapons.

It is, truly, better to be dead than a slave.

That’s it. Put down your guns. Group hug! Come on, group hug! Well, maybe later then.

There will be those, of course, who complain that we shouldn’t bother France. Why should we care what you eat? How is that a threat to us?

But these are ignorant people. French food terrism threatens every freedom-loving nation in the world. How can we eat air if you don’t too? Your doubt damages our faith. That is why, if you fail to comply with our demands, we will be forced to nuke your country until nothing is left but a twisted, molten cinder.

What’s that noise? Not again. Who left the door open? How did those flying Twinkies get in here? Why can’t you leave me in peace? I’m sorry, what’s that? You have forty-eight hours to decide. Now shoo! Get away! Shoo!

About the Author

Former
Lonely Planet
author J.M. Porup now writes satire. American by birth, Australian by choice, Colombian by marriage and Canadian by accident, he escaped from the US in 1999 and plans to renounce his citizenship. His first editor—way back in the mid-90s—called him a loose cannon. Ever since, he's done his best to live up to that high standard.