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

by J. M. Porup

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Of course he’s really him.”

  The man snorted. “Anyone can gain five hundred pounds, put a bunch of colored ribbon all over their clothes and strap a couple of big balloons with stars on them to their shoulders.”

  The General turned purple. “This is a direct order, Official Drone. I am your commanding officer!”

  The man scratched his ass and sniffed his fingers. “Get in line, fatty,” he said. “Or I’ll report you to my supervisor. You’ll get the open-heart chest-cavity search.”

  “Not the open-heart chest-cavity search!” O’Shitt said. “No need to call your supervisor. Please. We’re getting in line now. See? Here we are in line.”

  “That’s better,” the Drone said.

  We backed up behind the security checkpoint. The General grumbled to himself for a moment, then sighed.

  “Now,” he said, “I don’t need all three of you with me. Agent Erpent, why don’t you update the Thin House on our progress?”

  “Are you kidding?” Erpent said. “Of course I’m coming.”

  Major Turdd said in a high-pitched voice, “Ma-ma! Ma-ma!”

  Erpent swallowed hard. “On second thought, maybe the Prophet should be informed of the full capabilities of the NSA.”

  “A wise decision,” the General said.

  “But I expect a full report on my desk this afternoon,” Erpent said.

  “And you shall have it. What about you, Agent Green?” O’Shitt asked. “You could wait for us in the lobby of the Pentagram.” The military’s star-shaped headquarters across the Potomacncheese.

  Green stuck out his jaw. “You can’t threaten me,” he said. “I’ve got a right to come along, and I intend to do so. What’s more, when this case is over I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what you do here.”

  “Think of your daughter,” the General said quietly.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing, General,” he said. “What kind of future do I want for my child? Do I want the NSA filming her bottom every time she goes to the toilet?”

  A twenty-five-star shrug. “This is the price we pay to live in a free society,” the General replied. “Where everyone—regardless of age, race, gender, sexual orientation, family status, hair color, number of toes on their left foot, favorite glue to sniff, movie they saw last weekend, number of cousins in Georgia, fluency in Swahili or preferred brand of pipe tobacco—is free to eat air.”

  My partner crossed his arms. “I am beginning to wonder if that’s really the kind of freedom I want.”

  The General’s jowls trembled. For a moment I thought there had been an earthquake. “Of course, Agent Green. I understand.” He glanced at the Plumber. “So your plan is to leak this matter to the press?”

  “Leaks!” the Plumber screamed, and brandished his lug wrench. “I feeks leaks!” He attacked my partner, swinging his wrench wildly. “No! More! Leaks!”

  Green ducked out of the way. The sergeant-at-arms and a pair of nearby airmen wrestled the Plumber to the ground. The TSA Official Drone looked on, nodding vacantly.

  “Kill the leaks!” Too Secret For You screamed, as they dragged him away. “Leaks! Leaks! Leaks!”

  “Sure you won’t change your mind?” the General asked.

  My partner was defiant. “Positive.”

  O’Shitt turned to me. “What about you, Agent Frolick? Do you want to help me catch Fatso, and receive all the glory of being there for the collar?”

  “I am but a humble air-eater who struggles each day to live up to the Prophet’s teachings,” I said. “I am not the best man for the job. Maybe I’m even the worst. But the Prophet chose me. He needs my help. Who am I to reject that sacred trust?”

  “Well spoken,” the General said. “We welcome an objective observer like you on this mission.” He glared at Green. “Your partner here could learn a lot from you.”

  “You see?” I said, and slapped Green on the back. “I’m not so stupid as you think.”

  He just stood there looking at me. “So goes the world,” he said at last, apropos of nothing.

  “I haven’t got all day!” the TSA Official Drone called out.

  The General gestured at the screening point. “After you.”

  I took off all my clothes and stepped naked through the metal detector. Something beeped.

  “Probably your fillings,” the Official Drone muttered. “Open wide.”

  He stuck a pair of pliers in my mouth and pulled out a couple of teeth. Then I remembered.

  I spat blood on the floor. “I don’t actually have any fillings.”

  “I know what it is then,” the Drone said. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Bend over.”

  I did so, and he began the colonoscopy.

  When was my last Twinkie assault? Would he find the residue? I played dumb.

  “What are you looking for?” I gasped.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be looking for it, now would I?”

  “But what kind of threat to Toilet Safety could be hidden. So. High. Up?”

  “Can’t have any blockages,” the Official Drone explained gruffly. “You have any idea how much it costs to plunge a blocked-up toilet these days? So much as a tiny turd and woosh! Water and toilet paper all over the floor. There are food terrists out there who would kill to go potty in our sewers, just to block them up. Some even try to flush themselves down the toilet. Suicide poopers, we call them.”

  For a moment I thought the colonoscopy might come out of my mouth. Then it withdrew.

  “Alright,” the Official Drone said. “You’re clean.”

  I gave a sigh of relief. I had heard the TSA Drones weren’t very good at spotting threats. But then it occurred to me—if he couldn’t find the remains of my Twinkie assailants, much less the Twinkie hidden in my ankle holster, how would he be able to spot a genuine food terrist intent on blocking up our sewers? Note to self: mention the TSA to the Prophet once I’m working in the Thin House. Maybe it was time to upgrade the security checkpoints so that everyone got the open-heart chest-cavity search.

  I got dressed. “So what set off the alarm?”

  “Oh that,” he said. “It always goes off. Standard procedure. Next!”

  Green and the General squawked their way through security and joined me inside the capsule. I’m sure they were clean, I thought guiltily.

  “Drop your pants and strap in, gentlemen,” the General said. “And don’t forget to flush.”

  “What did you call this thing again?” Green asked, slipping into the harness across from me.

  “The Poo Rocket,” the General said. He hooked his balloons to the ceiling. His ribbon-covered trousers pooled at his feet, and he settled himself on the potty beside me. “Now hold on to your toilet seats. We’re going for a ride!”

  TWELVE

  Woompf!

  I was flung back in my seat. My head slammed against the headrest. My eyes sank into my skull. With great effort I looked to one side. The General’s jowls spread out until they covered his ears.

  “Why is it called the Poo Rocket?” Green shouted over the rumbling noise outside.

  “Don’t you read the papers?” the General asked.

  “You mean the government propaganda mills? Don’t believe a word they say.”

  “Well maybe if you weren’t such a cynic, you’d know what Airitarian ingenuity has produced. The Poo Rocket is a nickname for the Sewer High-Intensity Transit System, or SHITS for short.”

  “That’s right,” I shouted. “Now I remember. Propulsion system based on raw sewage. There was a big hullabaloo in the Air Congress about it, as I recall.”

  “Yes, Congressman. No, Congressman,” the General mocked. “Why are we spending billions of dollars on a rocket that runs on poo, Congressman.” He snorted. “You know what he thought we should spend the money on instead? Grain-burning silos in Iowa.”

  “But burning grain is important,” I objected.

  “Sure it
is,” the General acknowledged. “I got nothing against grain-burning silos. But when our freedom is threatened by dangerous food terrists who want to destroy the Airitarian way of life, terrists who can’t stand the fact that we’re thin and they’re not,” —and here he caressed his eleven-inch belly, which had flattened itself against the wall behind him— “money must be spent first and foremost to give us the tools we need to hunt down these overweight food-eating scum.”

  The kinds of tools every country deserves. I know you Frenchies must be jealous. Why don’t you have a SHITS here in Paris, you’re wondering. It’s only natural that France has fallen behind. We, the United States of Air, are the most advanced country in the world, after all. However, as a gesture of friendship, I am authorized to share this cutting-edge technology with you. If you renounce your allegiance to food, close your food terrist training camps and stop promoting food terrism abroad, all this—and more—can be yours.

  To continue:

  The roaring outside the Poo Rocket stopped. Acceleration slowed. We were suddenly weightless.

  “Poo-AHH!” the General bellowed.

  Green gripped his toilet seat with white knuckles. “What’s going on?”

  “A gap in the sewer. The launching tube flings us out via the Potomacncheese. We should be landing soon in a sewage treatment plant near the airport.”

  Green looked around the leather-clad interior. “But how do you steer?”

  The General chuckled. “You don’t.”

  “But what if we’re off course and miss the treatment pool?”

  “Hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Oh good,” I said.

  “Not since last Tuesday, anyway,” the General added.

  The capsule fell. I screamed. My Twinkie screamed. We all screamed. It was like a roller coaster, only worse. It went on for a minute and more.

  Splash.

  The capsule slowed and came to rest. Green and I breathed a sigh of relief. Outside a clinking noise rasped against the hull. We seemed to be turning.

  “Are we there already?” I asked.

  “Now do you see the value of the Poo Rocket?” the General said. “So much faster than a Smart Car.”

  “Is it safe to get out of our harnesses?” Green asked.

  “Sure is.” The General reached for his own. He pushed at the release button but nothing happened. “That’s funny. Can you open yours?”

  “Mine works fine,” Green said. He stood up and stretched.

  “Must be a glitch.”

  I tugged at my own harness. It wouldn’t open either. “That is strange,” I said. “I can’t seem to—”

  All of a sudden, the rocket took off again. Green flew face first into the wall between me and the General.

  Crunch.

  “Stop the rocket!” I shouted. “He’s hurt!” I struggled to lift an arm to help my friend, but the acceleration flung my hand back against the wall.

  The General swore. “I forgot about the staging area!”

  “What staging area?”

  “It’s a two-hop jump to the airport.”

  “But we’ve got to get him to a hospital!”

  “Gotta get him to the airport first. Hold on!”

  We landed a second time. Green was flung back against the opposite wall—crunch!—and slumped to the floor. I ripped off my harness—this time it opened—and went to him.

  “Don’t touch me!” he cried out. Broken bones protruded all over his body.

  “Where does it hurt?” I asked him.

  The hatchway opened. A TSA Official Drone stood there.

  “Get this man a medic,” the General ordered.

  The Official Drone scratched his ample belly and adjusted his plastic badge. “Don’t report to no military types,” he said. “We’s privatizized. Outsourced contractors, you know.”

  “My friend is going to die!” I pleaded. “For the love of the Prophet!”

  The Official Drone clucked his tongue. “I dunno,” he said. “I don’t want to get in no trouble or nothing.”

  I stuck my head out the hatchway. We were in some kind of subway station. A group of airmen were playing cards nearby. Gambling for what looked like, but obviously could not be, Ritz crackers.

  “Need a medic!” I shouted. “Got a man down here!”

  “Hey!” The Official Drone blocked my path. “Authorized Personnel Only.”

  I pushed past him onto the platform. Two of the airmen saw me and jumped up. They wore medics’ white uniforms. They wiped their lips, grabbed their first aid kits and a stretcher, and jogged toward us.

  “What happened?” one asked.

  “The locking mechanism must have failed,” the General said. “Never seen that happen before. Crazy, huh?”

  They ducked under the hatchway and knelt over Green. “Got to get him out of here,” the second medic said. They carried him outside and laid him down on the stretcher. He screamed in pain.

  “Look on the bright side, Harry,” I said.

  He groaned and coughed up blood. “What’s that?”

  I brushed the hair out of his eyes. “In the hospital you’ll have plenty of time to strengthen your faith.” The Amendment was strictly enforced in hospitals. Only diabetics with security ratings like Coroner Juicy got glucose IVs.

  “On three,” the first medic said, and they lifted the stretcher. Green clawed at my pant leg.

  “Wait!” I said.

  “No time,” said a medic.

  “Thirty seconds,” Green insisted.

  They put him back down on the ground. I knelt at his side. “What is it, partner?”

  “Frolick,” he said. “My friend. Do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Remember what we talked about this morning? In the car?”

  “I remember.” His daughter’s mysterious illness.

  “Go to that doctor I mentioned,” he said. “He’s got some special medicine for my kid.”

  The quack-quack naturopath. Oh boy. Probably a thinly disguised food dealer. Good way to lose my measuring tape. “Can’t your wife go?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.

  “Eat it,” Green swore. “Are you my friend or aren’t you?”

  “Sure, Harry,” I said. I patted the bones sticking out of his hand. “No problem. You can count on me.”

  “I can?” Delirium overtook him.

  “Sure you can. You’re my friend. I promise. You hear me? I promise, OK?”

  Green’s eyes rolled up in his head. His chest arched. One of the medics touched a finger to his neck.

  “He’s not breathing. Cardiac event.” He took out a pair of paddles. “Clear!”

  They put the paddles to his chest. The shock lifted him from the stretcher and laid him flat again.

  The General appeared at my side. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Is he going to die?”

  “He’ll be fine,” the medic said. “But we need to get him to the hospital.”

  The two medics picked up the stretcher and entered a nearby elevator. Then they were gone.

  Just like that. No more Green. I was on my own. For the first time ever. My partner had always been there for me—cynical, wisecracking old Harry. It could be months before he was back on the beat again. If he lived.

  But right now I had a job to do. A job that was more important than either Green or myself. I had to save the world from the menace of food terrism, and bring the Prophet’s Message of Hope and Air to all you ignorant ferrners. Only then could we be truly free.

  The General handed me a laxative assault rifle. I chambered a dart and flicked off the safety.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  The General drew his commemorative laxative pistol. His balloons towered overhead, the breathtaking symbol of command. “The tower. This way!”

  “Hey!” the TSA Official Drone shouted after us. “You’re not supposed to have guns in here! That’s it. I’m reporting you! You hear me? My supervisor’s going to hear about this
!”

  Without breaking stride, the General fired a laxative dart into the Drone’s thigh. The man collapsed on the subway platform, going poo-poo in his pants.

  “You’ll get in trouble for that,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “But it was so worth it.”

  We climbed a set of stairs and entered the main terminal. The airport was deserted. Dust and ash covered everything. I stifled a sneeze. The cold afternoon sun flooded through the windows. We passed burned-out restaurants and duty-free stores, and the remains of a Muffin Man cart. Wiped that smirk off your face, didn’t we, Muffin Man?

  “Here we are,” the General announced, stopping before a heavy metal security door.

  “But where’s the assault team?” I asked. “Aren’t they going to meet us here?”

  “What assault team?”

  “I just assumed…”

  “It’s only one guy,” the General scoffed. “We can take him. See?” He took out a cell phone and pressed a button.

  I jumped back in horror. The screen showed a toilet cam’s view of a man’s bottom. Loop after loop of a continuous poo garlanded the camera lens.

  “Where is it all coming from?”

  “Depends on what he’s putting in the other end, I suppose.”

  The General pushed open the door. We climbed a spiral staircase. The smell was different than in the terminal. Here it smelled like poo. At the top of the stairs we halted at a door marked “Control Room.”

  I turned the handle and pushed. It gave an inch, and sprang back. Some sort of foam padding was blocking the door.

  “Help me push.”

  The General leaned his bulk against the door, but again no luck. A strange moaning noise came from inside the control room. A glass fire cabinet hung on the wall next to the door. I pointed.

  “The axe.”

  The General opened the cabinet and hefted the axe. I pushed the door open a crack, and he swung the blade at the hinges. Once, twice, and the door snapped off. By pushing it sideways we managed to wiggle it free of the frame. What we saw made us gasp.

  The doorway was filled with hairy white skin. The moaning noise was louder now.

  “Does this mean what I think it means?” I asked.