The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror

by J. M. Porup

  “If they can embarrass the Prophet, they can derail the expansion of the Global War on Fat. And what could be more embarrassing than a dead pizza dealer across the street from the Thin House?”

  “Wait a minute,” Green said. “Are you saying Crusteau was on a suicide mission? I find that hard to believe.”

  Erpent sighed. “Do not underestimate the enemies of this great country,” he said. “These crazed food terrists will do anything to bring back the Tyranny of Food, and enslave us once more to their addictive caloric substances.”

  Juicy laughed, a long throaty chuckle that turned into a hacking cough. He bent double, trying to breathe, and pressed the oxygen tubes tight to his face. When he was able to speak again, he said, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Erpent’s eyes narrowed. “When I want your opinion, Medical Examiner, I will give it to you.” He glanced at me and Green. “That goes for both of you as well.”

  A fair reprimand, I thought. It is for us to obey the will of the Prophet, not to question why.

  Erpent looked at his watch. “But right now we have got to go.” He pointed at the bed pan. “So yes. Bag it for us. Make it snappy.”

  “What’s wrong with the lab right here?” I asked. “The coroner has world class facilities.” When I was on the D.C. force, Juicy often helped us with investigations.

  The coroner scooped up the poo and shoveled it into a biohazard bag. “He’s taking you to the NSA.”

  “The National Sewer Agency?” Green said.

  Erpent swore a terrible oath. “By the Prophet’s pointless pancreas!” he snarled. “That’s Top Secret, Doctor. You’re asking for punishment.”

  “No more than I deserve.” Juicy squeezed my arm. “Besides, what I know is very little. The NSA has some new lab. The Skinny Service uses them for domestic operations.”

  “But I thought the NSA was forbidden to spy on the homeland’s toilets,” Green objected.

  The doctor chuckled, pointed at me and my partner. “You two are a real pair, you know that?”

  The doors to the morgue banged open and two SS agents burst in, pushing a stretcher.

  “Over here!” Erpent called out. He lay the bag of sugar water with the nose in it in the center of the taut white sheet. “Now move!”

  The black trench-coated figures limped to the door and were gone, all without saying a word.

  Erpent grabbed the biohazard bag of poo that Juicy held out. It flopped against his leg. He saluted, shouted “Go the Power of Air!” and marched off.

  “Wait,” I said. “Dr. Juicy, you still haven’t told us what the murder weapon was.”

  “Didn’t I?” He raised his eyebrows. “I should be able to recognize it by now. This is the third time I’ve seen wounds like this in as many months. And all of them dead pizza dealers.”

  “Is there any proof?” Green asked. “Actual evidence we can use? To find the suspect, I mean.”

  Juicy glanced at Erpent’s retreating back. He lowered his voice. “It’s all in the papers I gave you. The last five pages. If you value your lives, read them.”

  “Come on!” Erpent shouted. “We’ve got souls to save!”

  We looked up. He had stopped marching and stood, legs apart, staring back at us.

  I weighed the report in my hand. There had to be at least a ream of paper there. “Last five pages, huh?”

  Green bent down and pretended to tie his shoe. “For the love of the Prophet, Doctor, just tell us what the weapon was!”

  The coroner’s smile tightened a notch. He whispered so softly I could barely catch it. “Why, a pizza slicer, of course. A razor-sharp pizza wheel.”

  EIGHT

  All this talk of poo and now you’ve got to go? Put the gag back in, Corporal. You can quit squirming in your chair, Mister Broadcaster Mouthpiece of the Ludicrously Overweight French People. No one goes potty until I’m done talking. That applies to all you out there in the studio audience too, you hear?

  It’s a disgusting habit, by the way. Defecating several times a day. And one that you eliminate when you go on the air-only diet. No, I’m not going to let them take the handcuffs off you. If your ass crack gets sticky that’s not my problem. Let it be a reminder to all of you to start eating air.

  It’s all right, let him holler. I understand his anger. I feel sorry for him. Are you translating this? The strong emotion you’re feeling now is rage caused by calories. Until you learn to eat nothing but air, you will never experience the peace and tranquility that the pure oxygen diet brings.

  We left the morgue. I drove, and struggled to keep my attention on the road. My Twinkie was singing again. Green perused the papers Juicy had given us. Erpent gave me directions, all the while trying to turn around and see what my partner had found.

  “Sit still,” Green said. “I’m trying to read.” He held the papers up against the SS man’s back, and skimmed the last five pages. Then he went back and read them again.

  “Pull over. Now.” Erpent reached for the door handle and had shoes on the ground before I’d fully stopped.

  I parked in a no-parking zone and killed the engine. Green looked up.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked.

  The Lincoln Memorial gleamed in the early morning light.

  “Visiting the NSA,” Erpent said. “What do you think?”

  I pulled myself out of the Smart Car. Erpent was already halfway up the marble steps, the bag of poo bouncing against his leg. Green and I trailed after him.

  “You know the other murders the coroner mentioned?” Green asked. He kept his voice low.

  “The pizza dealers. Sure.”

  “Remember what happened to Detective Ribbs?”

  I nodded. “I knew his partner, Soss. Found their bones in a cannibal barbecue pit, didn’t they?”

  “And Lieutenant Franks and his two patrolmen?”

  “What about them?”

  “How did Franks die?” Green insisted, his face tense.

  “Him and the Beens brothers got put through a sausage grinder,” I said. “What are you getting at?”

  “They were all investigating pizza murders.”

  I tried to concentrate, but my Twinkie was humming again. “I still don’t see.”

  “Don’t you?” He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. “Every cop who gets close gets eaten by cannibals.” He pulled those last five pages from his trench coat pocket. “Look at this.” A photo showed a pizza dealer murdered on the steps of the Capitol. “Same MO. Identical wounds. Body covered in pizza vomit.”

  “And the other murder?”

  “Same. Right outside the Supreme Food Court Building.”

  “Can’t we get a DNA match on the killer from his vomit?”

  Green shook his head. “Same thing happened. Body got cleaned of all traces between the crime scene and the morgue.”

  “What’s the holdup?” Erpent shouted from the top of the stairs. He raised the bag of poo above his head, turned and entered the shrine.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking, partner mine?” He jerked a thumb up at the SS agent.

  “That it’s time to eat some air?”

  Green grabbed me by the back of my head. “Don’t be so naive, Frolick. The SS is going to try to kill us.”

  I pulled away. “But we’re on the same side,” I said. “Why would they do that?”

  “A cover-up.”

  “Harry… You’re being paranoid. What do they have to cover up?”

  Erpent appeared again above us. “You coming or not?” he called out. This time he waited.

  “On our way!” my partner shouted. To me: “We are in some serious doo-doo. You trust me?”

  “Sure I do,” I said. “With my life. You know that.”

  On several occasions he had dragged me from gunfights with desperate food terrists who refused to go to Fat Camp. If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead by now. Our Laxafiers were no match for the actual bullets criminals used.

 
“Then follow my lead,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”

  Green resumed his climb. “I have no idea.”

  We joined Erpent at the top of the stairs and entered the memorial. He led us around to the back of the statue. We stared up at the smooth marble surface.

  My partner coughed. “Now is really not the time to play tourist. You want to go to the NSA, let’s get a move on.”

  Erpent unzipped his fly and took out his wee-wee. “We’re already there,” he said. He stroked himself, and inserted his erect member into a small hole in the stone. “Biometrics,” he explained. He pumped himself into Lincoln’s butt until a back door swung open, revealing a set of stairs that led down into the earth.

  “Holy air,” I breathed. “Who knew?”

  The SS man zipped up. “This facility is Top Top Super Double Dip Hot Fudge Sundae With A Cherry On Top Secret,” he said. “There are only a handful of security classifications higher. Before we proceed, you must swear on your service copies of Food-Free At Last never to divulge what you are about to see.”

  I took out my copy of the Prophet’s book. Harry couldn’t find his, so we swore together on mine.

  Erpent gestured down at the stairwell. “Gentlemen,” he said. “After you.”

  I went first. The stairs were dimly lit and curved out of sight. Behind me, Green said, “Isn’t there a front door we can use?”

  “We’re at war against the Terror of Food,” Erpent said. His tone of voice hardened. “Secrecy is of vital importance.”

  “I thought it was the Tyranny of Food,” my partner said.

  “Do not quibble with me, Agent Green. Both are true.”

  “In that case,” Green said. “Won’t you do the honor of leading us?”

  Erpent huffed, but must have decided not to press the point, as I soon felt his bony frame bump into my back. Green joined us, and the door swung shut with a click. He spun around, searching for a handle or doorknob, but found nothing.

  “Entrance only,” Erpent said. “Only way out’s the other side.”

  “I hope so,” Green said, and rested a hand on the butt of his Laxafier.

  I caught his eye and shook my head. He relaxed, but kept his hand on his revolver. The three of us marched in single file down into the darkness. At the bottom we came to an elevator.

  “Press the call button,” the SS agent ordered.

  Green’s glance fell to the man’s service weapon, but Erpent kept his hands clasped together behind his back. Green mouthed the words, “It’s a trap.”

  Was Erpent really going to try to kill us? I found that hard to believe. No man that thin was capable of evil. I dismissed my partner’s paranoid cynicism with one hand, pressed the call button with the other. From deep inside the earth came a humming sound. A bell chimed, and the doors opened.

  We looked back at Erpent.

  “Not many civilians alive today have ever ridden the NSA elevator,” he said. “Besides the SS, of course.” His smile was thin and hard. “Truly the Prophet has blessed you both. Please.” He gestured for us to step inside.

  We did. Erpent followed. The doors slid shut. To Green’s evident surprise, the man turned his back on us.

  The SS agent slid his wee-wee into another hole in the wall. He pressed the down button. There was no up button, I noticed.

  Without warning, and before I could dissuade him, my partner grabbed Erpent in a head lock and fumbled for the man’s Laxafier. The bag of poo flopped at our feet.

  “What are you doing?” Erpent cried, his wee-wee pressed deep inside the biometric console. He clawed at Green’s elbow. “In the name of the Prophet, desist!”

  “I don’t plan on being food for cannibals,” my partner growled.

  The SS agent’s face turned purple. “What cannibals?” he gasped, beating weakly at Green’s forearms.

  “That’s right. Deny it. Now when that door opens, you are going to get us out of here. Is that clear?”

  Erpent struggled to get free but failed. “If I refuse?” he managed.

  “I’ll cut off your weenie and use it to get through the biometric stations.”

  “Frolick,” the SS man said, his voice faint. “Help me. I’m trying to bring down Fatso, same as you.”

  I drew my service weapon.

  “Don’t listen to him, Frolick!” my partner shouted.

  “Eat you,” Erpent swore. Green slammed the man’s head against the elevator wall.

  What was I supposed to do? What if Erpent was telling the truth? Then we were committing treason. I was destroying my only chance to bring down Fatso, and eradicate the local Twinkie population. But what if my partner was right? What if it really was a trap? Before I could make up my mind, the elevator lurched to a halt, the doors opened, and we had bigger problems to deal with.

  Two big problems, to be specific. Burly men in jungle camouflage carrying laxative Uzis at port arms. They took one look at Erpent’s wee-wee flapping in the breeze, Green’s elbow under the man’s chin and our drawn Laxafiers, and they leveled their weapons at us.

  “Down and lick the floor!” one shouted. Three chevrons adorned his sleeve.

  I held up my badge. “It’s OK,” I said. “ATFF. Tracking down a major French Food Mafia figure.”

  They threw me on the floor and took my gun and badge. Erpent and Green landed at my side.

  “This is all a misunderstanding,” Erpent said, lifting his head off the ground. “If you’ll just allow me to—”

  “Lick the mothereating floor!” the sergeant screamed. “Down! Do it! Now!” He jammed the barrel of his Uzi into Erpent’s butt crack. “Or I’ll pump you so full of laxative you’ll have hemorrhoids the size of dinner plates!”

  We licked the floor. Dust stuck to my tongue. I tried not to swallow, in case there were calories mixed in with the dirt. Shoes clacked toward us down the hall. They came to a halt inches from my head.

  “Report.”

  “Intruders, sir,” the sergeant said. He held out our badges. “Pair of ATFF, one Skinny Service.”

  “The SS?” A note of surprise.

  “I have access,” Erpent hissed from the floor. “The Thin House cleared it with the General this morning. Or how do you think I got down here?”

  “This is an Air Force base,” the officer said. “Maybe up there you’re somebody. Down here you’re not worth a food terrist’s stinky poo. Now shut up.”

  The only sound was the three of us cleaning the floor with our tongues. One by one the newcomer examined our badges and laid them on a nearby table. I fidgeted. My throat was getting dry. What if Green was right? What if they were going to grind us into sausages?

  “On your feet.”

  We got up, scraping the grit from our tongues. Green spat on the floor.

  “No spitting!” the sergeant yelled. “Show some mothereating respect.”

  The officer gave us back our badges, but left our weapons on the table. “It’s all right, Sergeant,” he said. He kicked a bucket toward us. “Here. Use this.”

  We all spat in the bucket. The lieutenant was almost as skinny as Erpent. He wore Air Force blues. Balloons the size of contraband candy apples rose from the epaulets of his shirt. A first lieutenant’s silver stripe ran down the front of each. Rumor had it the Air Force filled officers’ rank balloons with helium, and at military parties they’d inhale their own rank balloons and talk in high squeaky voices. My gaze dropped to his name tag. “Lieutenant Krapp,” it read. A division insignia I had never seen before was pinned to his shirtfront. It was gold and roughly the size and shape of a poo.

  “What are you staring at, Agent Frolick?” Krapp demanded.

  “Nothing, Lieutenant,” I said. “I was just wondering what that insignia you’re wearing means.”

  The officer crossed the room in two strides and stood toe to toe with me. His rank balloons bobbled against my face and shoulders.

  “This insignia?” he said softly. He tapped it with
his forefinger. It had been polished until it gleamed. “This insignia means we are the last line of defense. We are here to protect people like you from the food terrists out there who are salivating for a chance to attack this great country.”

  He punched the air and grunted, “Poo-AHH!” The two guards echoed the exclamation.

  “I thought that was our job at the ATFF,” I protested.

  “Not even close,” he said with a sneer. “This insignia represents the most cutting-edge technology. The very existence of our unit is Tip Top Tippity Top Golden Poo In A Bidet Secret. You understand what I’m telling you?”

  We shuffled our feet for a moment, looked at each other. Erpent shrugged.

  “Um…no,” Green said.

  “It means we don’t exist!” he bellowed. “We are a figment of your imagination! And I’ll thank you to remember it!”

  “But isn’t this the NSA?” Green asked.

  “Poo-AHH!” the two guards grunted.

  The lieutenant went silent. His eyes bulged from his head. “That’s Tip Top Tippity Top Golden Poo In A Bidet Secret!” he screamed at my partner. “How do you know that?”

  Green jerked his thumb at Erpent. “He told us.”

  For the first time, Erpent looked unsure of himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it was only Top Top Super Double Dip Hot Fudge Sundae With A Cherry On Top Secret.”

  The lieutenant snorted. “Well, you were wrong.”

  “So what’s so special about the NSA?” I asked. “They spy on ferrners’ sewer systems. Everyone knows that.”

  Krapp grinned. “Is that what you know?” he whispered. “Is that what you think you know?”

  “They don’t know poo,” the sergeant scoffed.

  Erpent protested, “But I was personally briefed this morning by the Prophet’s National Security Advisor—”

  “Who is what? A general with only four stars?” The lieutenant spat. “You know nothing.”

  Green cleared his throat. “We’re obviously not welcome here,” he said. “We won’t take up any more of your time. If you’ll show us where the exit is, we’ll go.”

  The lieutenant squared his shoulders. “The General is not happy about this intrusion,” he snapped. “My orders are to take you to him. Come along.”