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

by J. M. Porup

  He turned on his heels and walked back down the hall. Erpent tucked himself into his pants, straightened up and followed after the junior officer. Green and I fell into step behind the other two.

  “Still think it’s a trap?” I asked.

  “If they’re letting us live, it’s because they want us to be patsies. That’s why they chose us. They need a pair of fall guys when this investigation fails.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Harry,” I said. “Of course we aren’t going to fail.”

  “All I know,” he said, keeping his voice low, “is that if the Air Force is involved, we’re screwed.”

  For you ferrners out there unfamiliar with the military structure that makes our great Empire of Air possible, the Prophet centralized all our armed forces under the Unified Strategic Air Command during his first year in office: the Air Force Marine Corps; the Air Force Army, Navy and Coast Guard; the Air Force NSA and CIA; the Air Force Merchant Marine; the Air Force Geological Survey; the Air Force Irish Dancers; and so on. Some people, traitors mostly, asked what all this military expenditure was for. Who were we going to fight? That sort of remark will get you put in Fat Camp until the War is over. What these people don’t understand is that the Air Force is the most powerful force for good this world has ever seen. These are the brave men and women who risk their lives to promote American values—I mean Airitarian values—all around the world. Like Truth, Justice and the Air-Eating Way.

  So while Green walked down that corridor all nervous, I strode forward to my destiny, knowing I was going to meet a general, one of our greatest military leaders in the Global War on Fat.

  The lieutenant made a right turn and led us down a slope. The corridor widened and dead-ended at a round chrome door twenty feet high. On both sides concrete pillboxes protruded from the wall. Their narrow slits bristled with Laxafier automatic rifle barrels. The guns twitched at our approach, aiming their high-powered laxative loads at our bellies.

  Krapp approached a biometric reader in the wall and unzipped his fly. He put his wee-wee in the hole and thrust himself in and out, his belt buckle clacking against the concrete wall each time. He humped the hole for long minutes before uttering a cry and going still.

  The chrome vault door opened with a hiss. A hubbub of voices burbled forth—the sound of thousands of people talking at once, fingers tapping at keyboards, lips slurping up caffeinated air. But one noise dominated the rest: the gurgling of a flushing toilet.

  “This way,” Krapp grunted. He zipped up his fly. He seemed a bit dazed.

  I looked behind us. The two guards stood there, laxative Uzis pointed at our bottoms.

  “Get moving,” the sergeant said.

  I took the steps two at a time up to the vault door. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see what the fuss is all about.”

  “I guess we don’t really have a choice,” Green said.

  “No,” the sergeant said. “You don’t.”

  NINE

  We stepped through the vault door and gasped. Before us stretched an underground bunker several football fields long. Every square foot was covered by giant copper tanks, laboratory equipment and computers. Air Force technicians in lab smocks and goggles swarmed about the space. The ceiling was ten stories high. The gurgling noise came from there. Pipes the size of sewer mains dropped from overhead and branched off until they connected with the copper tanks.

  On a dais in the center of the room stood a man. Rank balloons the size of small cars rose from the epaulets of his dress uniform. The balloons were covered in stars.

  Opposite him on the wall hung an enormous screen. It showed a map of the US. Lines and dots of different colors covered the terrain. “Sewer Systems of the United States of Air,” proclaimed the map key.

  “Gentlemen,” the lieutenant said. “Welcome to the NSA. Now quit your gawking and get a move on.”

  He waited for us beside a copper tank with a window in the side. The tank was filling up with a brown liquid.

  “A-OOO-gah! A-OOO-gah! A-OOO-gah!”

  A klaxon sounded. Behind us, the vault door closed. The three of us scrambled off the threshold and into the great chamber.

  “Titanium deadbolts,” Krapp remarked. “Fifty feet of reinforced concrete. We are impervious to nuclear attack here, gentlemen. Nothing—and no one—gets in or out of the National Sewer Agency without the General’s say-so.” He about-faced, held his head high and marched toward the dais.

  We followed, staring curiously around. We passed a bank of computer consoles. The technicians were crowded around a monitor, watching a movie. Two butt cheeks filled most of the screen, plus some genitalia, two legs and a triangular gap of light. A dark spot got bigger, then—plop! A turd floated across the camera lens. On another screen, a stream of urine clouded the image. What a strange movie, I thought. Was this art house cinema?

  We approached the dais. The General stood with his back toward us, leaning over the chrome railing. An Air Force officer with a major’s watermelon-sized rank balloons stood at ground level, reading a report.

  “…and in Paris, Operation Dog Poo Baguette was a success, revealing the dietary habits and fecal composition of the president’s inner circle—”

  A sergeant-at-arms stopped us with a white-gloved hand. He wore spats over flip-flops and an inflated yellow duck around his waist. The lieutenant whispered to him. Meanwhile, the major droned on, “And in China, our operative code name Spicy Sichuan Chopsticks was able to infiltrate a chain of noodle stores—”

  The sergeant-at-arms reached up and pulled on the General’s pant leg.

  “Hold it, Major.” The General turned to face us. “Who interrupts my midmorning snack?”

  The General’s uniform dazzled me. His medals and service ribbons covered both sides of his chest, spread across his stomach, up both sleeves and down his pants. There were even service ribbons on his shoes. Gold braid thick enough to moor an oil tanker draped under both armpits. The peak of his cap rose a yard in the air, and the bill jutted out a foot.

  Plus he was fat. Bigger even than Fatso. I frowned. Weren’t we at War on Fat? Surely a general should have superhuman faith, and a waistline to match. Then I spotted the golden tape measure around his belly, and did a double take. His faith was superhuman, all right. Eleven inches! Almost as skinny as the Prophet himself.

  “Lieutenant Krapp,” our escort announced. “Civilians to see you, sir sir sir sir sir.” He flung out an open palm. “Go the Power of Air!”

  The General returned the salute. “I got no time for civilians, Lieutenant. Tell them to come back later.”

  “Sir sir sir sir sir,” Krapp said. “One of them is Skinny Service. Here by orders of the Thin House. Thought you’d like to know, sir sir sir sir sir.”

  “Interruptions are bad for the digestion,” the General grumbled. He put something in his jacket pocket and swung himself over the chrome railing onto the shoulders of the sergeant-at-arms. The enlisted man’s face turned purple. He knelt down and set his cargo on the ground. The General stood up and brushed what looked like crumbs but were no doubt dandruff from the front of his tunic.

  I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Can I just say what an honor it is to meet someone so successful at eating air?” I said. “Please share your faith with us before we go. To see you so skinny…” I was overwhelmed by his waistline, the dandruff on his lapels, the sandwich peeking out of his jacket pocket, a challenge, I was sure, to keep himself honest. “I wish I could eat air like you.”

  “Well you know, son,” the General said, and took my hand, “we aren’t called the Air Force for nothing.”

  Erpent jostled me aside. “We bring you orders from the Prophet.” He held up the biohazard bag.

  “It’s dead French spy poo,” I added proudly.

  The major frowned. His name, I saw, was Major Turdd. “Forgive me, General, allow me to explain the protocol?”

  “By all means, Major.”

  Major Turdd addressed the three of us
civilians. “It is standard military protocol to address the NSA commander at all times as ‘sir sir sir sir sir.’”

  “Isn’t one ‘sir’ enough?” Green asked.

  The lieutenant swung an arm up at the General’s rank balloons. “He’s a twenty-five-star general,” he hissed. “One ‘sir’ for every five stars.”

  “That must take an awful long time to say,” Green said.

  “It used to be one ‘sir’ for every star,” the major explained, “but it was decided that in battlefield conditions that might not be desirable. For instance.” He turned to face the General. “‘The food terrists are attacking, sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir sir!’” He turned back to us. “You see? That’s why it got shortened to just one ‘sir’ for every five stars.”

  “Couldn’t we just address him as ‘General’?” I asked.

  “You could if that were his rank,” Lieutenant Krapp said, and laughed.

  I scratched my head. “But didn’t you just say you were taking us to see the General?”

  Krapp stood to attention. “Sorry, sir sir sir sir sir. It’s just they’re civilians, sir sir sir sir sir, and to explain to them how we—”

  “At air,” the General said with a smile. “Perfectly understandable. In your position I would have done the same thing.”

  The lieutenant shuffled his feet. “Thank you, sir sir sir sir sir.”

  “And I’m sure you will enjoy your new career as a poo detector specialist, installing equipment in the sewers,” the General said, and added, “Airman First Class Krapp.”

  The color drained from the lieutenant’s face. He reached up and untied the rank balloons from his shoulders. They floated up into the air until they bumped into the ceiling far above.

  The General smiled at us. “There are, after all, only a handful of twenty-five-star generals in the US Air Force. We have to maintain a certain prestige.” He threw out his chest, clicked his heels together and said, “Director of the Department of Homeland Air Security, Protector of Our Precious Air, Head of the Toilet Safety Administration, Commander of NORAD and our Nuclear Arsenal, I-SEE-FAT Call Center Supervisor, Poo Propulsion Laboratory Test-Pilot-in-Chief, Striker of Fear in the Breasts of Food Terrists Everywhere, Leader of the NSA, CIA, DIA, MIA, and WTF, Exalted High Almighty General of Generals Full O’Shitt at your service.” He bowed. “Full O’Shitt is my nom de guerre, of course.” He parted his service ribbons to reveal the hidden name tag.

  “Thank you, sir sir sir sir,” I began. “We’re here to—”

  “That’s ‘sir sir sir sir sir,’” corrected the former lieutenant.

  “What are you still doing here?” Major Turdd barked. “Report to the Poo Detector Installation Brigade. Double time, march!”

  Newly minted Airman First Class Krapp about-faced and marched off.

  Erpent thrust the bag of poo in the General’s face. “Analyze this.”

  Major Turdd stepped forward. “May I ask what this is all about?”

  “Your orders are to drop what you are doing,” Erpent said, “and find Fatso.”

  “Finding Fatso is foremost forever in our minds,” O’Shitt said. “We’re doing all we can.”

  “What do you mean you’re doing all you can?” Erpent exclaimed. “How many bazillion gazillion dollars do we give the NSA every year?”

  “And we need every gazillion,” the General calmly replied. “You think every man, woman, child and donkey working here isn’t motivated by one single thought—Get Fatso?”

  I looked around. Indeed, in one corner a herd of donkeys trotted around in a circle. Several small boys walked behind them. As I watched, a donkey did a big poo, and the trailing boy caught it in a plastic bag.

  Erpent crossed his arms. “What about Total Poo Awareness?” he asked. “Surely you have some idea where he is.”

  The General coughed into his hand. “TPA is classified.” He glanced at us.

  “Tappity Tippity Tappity Smores Go Crunch Round The Campfire Secret,” Erpent said. “Yes. I know. Green and Frolick were cleared by the Prophet himself.”

  “What’s Total Poo Awareness?” Green asked.

  “TPA,” the General said, “is why the NSA exists. Our goal is to know who’s pooing, where they poo, what it’s shaped like, what it smells like, what it consists of. Only then can we finally smash food terrism once and for all.”

  “And you still have no idea where he is?” Erpent said, his voice mounting toward hysteria.

  “Every sewer tap around the world is programmed to alert us at the first sign of our arch-nemesis,” the General added. “He so much as farts we’ll know he’s there.”

  “Only problem is he hasn’t farted,” Green said.

  The General nodded sadly. “It’s like he’s a ghost or something.”

  “You’ve had two years at this post,” Erpent said, shaking his finger in the General’s face. “If you still can’t tell me what I need to know, maybe it’s time the NSA had a new commander.”

  “Listen to me,” O’Shitt said. “Every day we gather data on billions of people around the world. See those pipes?” He pointed at the plumbing that snaked above our heads.

  “What about them?” Erpent snapped.

  “Some connect straight to the D.C. sewer. Others connect to storage tanks. Millions of gallons of sewer samples awaiting our analysis. From all over the world. I got Tokyo sushi poo, I got Paris bistro merde, I got Moscow borscht crap—I got it all.”

  “And in all that poo you can’t find one man?” Erpent shouted.

  “We sweep up vast amounts of data,” the General protested. “We’re busy trying to—”

  “You’re busy wasting my time,” Erpent said. “You find Fatso for me now. Today. Or what you just did to that lieutenant? I’ll see the Prophet does you worse.”

  The General’s jovial features narrowed. “It is unwise to threaten me. The Prophet ought to know that by now.”

  “Oh yeah?” Erpent said. “When he’s through with you, you’ll be cleaning out latrines with your tongue. Do I make myself clear, Airman Third Class O’Shitt?”

  He tapped the General’s right rank balloon to emphasize his point—with the ragged fingernail I spotted in the morgue. A loud explosion made me duck. When I opened my eyes, shreds of balloon trailed from the General’s right shoulder. O’Shitt sank down on one knee, scuffing the service ribbons on his pants. His left side was held aloft by the remaining rank balloon, but it was not enough to keep him on his feet.

  “Replacement balloon!” Major Turdd bellowed. “Replacement balloon for the NSA commander!” He pressed a red button on the side of the dais. A siren blared. Across the crowded floor, a team of Air Force Marines shoved their way through the milling technicians, bearing a new twenty-five-star rank balloon with them.

  The General and Erpent eyed each other warily as we waited for the replacement balloon to arrive. The major grabbed hold of the General’s right side, but could not lift him back to his feet.

  “Too much air,” O’Shitt mumbled.

  Turdd pleaded with us. “Help me.”

  Green and I managed to get the General back on his feet. For someone so skinny he sure weighed an awful lot. An Air Force Marine cut away the rubber shreds that dangled from the General’s shoulder and fastened a new balloon to the right epaulet.

  “Thank you, men,” the General said.

  The team of six Marines stood to attention and saluted in unison. “Sir sir sir sir sir!” they shouted, then about-faced and marched back to wherever they came from.

  “Would you turn that off, please, Major?” the General said.

  Turdd pressed the red button again and the alarm stopped. The bunker was once more filled with the sounds of typing technicians and slurping machinery.

  The General drew himself up straight. “You’ve made your point,” he said to Erpent.

  “Excellent,” the SS agent replied. “You’ll find Fatso for us, then?”
>
  O’Shitt snapped his fingers. The sergeant-at-arms came to attention.

  “Take this poo to the Plumber,” the General ordered.

  The sergeant-at-arms gulped loudly and clutched his yellow duck. “The Plumber, sir sir sir sir sir?” He accepted the bag of poo with a shaking hand.

  “Immediate analysis. Auth Code Eggnog ApplePie Twinkie Milkshake Eggnog. Now move!”

  The sergeant-at-arms saluted and shuffled off, his flip-flops slapping against the floor.

  “Now,” the General said. He turned to Erpent, and tucked his triple chins into his chest. “I think it’s time the Thin House learned exactly what we do here at the NSA.”

  Erpent glared back. “You took the air right out of my mouth.”

  O’Shitt led us over to an open tank of water. An empty toilet stood on either side. I peered over the edge of the tank. A pair of what looked like eels slumbered on the bottom.

  “Wireless toilet cams,” the General declared proudly. “The next generation of sewer monitoring technology. Drop them into the sewer, and they will find their way to their preprogrammed destinations. Eliminates the need for Air Force Navy frogmen.”

  He pressed a button on the side of the tank. Within seconds, the toilet cams found the open pipes to the toilets and wriggled out of sight. We crowded around the nearest toilet.

  “See here?” The General’s fat finger pointed at a brown speck at the bottom of the bowl. “The tip of its head has a tiny camera attached to it.”

  “So that’s how you got those pictures of people pooing,” Green said.

  “Precisely,” the General answered. “With this new technology, we can have a toilet cam in every toilet of your house—even, say, the Thin House,” —he glanced at Erpent as he said this— “lying in wait to film a food terrist in the act of defecation.”

  Erpent gasped. “How long has this been going on?”

  “We’ve got toilet cams in every major sewer in the world,” the General continued, ignoring the question. “Three months ago, we let loose several million toilet cams into the D.C. sewer system.” He grinned. “We know everything.” He bent toward Erpent, his grin widening. “I know where you poo and what you eat—”