by J. M. Porup
But Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Air-Eating Happiness went on as usual. Fatso alone was not enough to stop us. Together we, as a nation, continued our unstoppable rise toward the final stage of human evolution, the destiny the Prophet ordained for us in Food-Free At Last.
Then something happened, something so extraordinary that it threatened to bring down everything we built, evict the Prophet from the Thin House and return the food terrists to power. Looking back, I see the hand of the French Secret Service at every step.
It began with a murder.
THREE
Not just any murder, either. A food dealer got whacked in LaOmelette Park, across the street from the Thin House. And get this: he had a whole pizza with him when he was killed. Can you imagine? A whole pizza? The street price of your basic pepperoni pie these days is what, close to half a million dollars?
Smarty pants. Maybe you can get a genuine Neapolitan just around the corner here in Paris for twenty Euro. That is not something to be proud of. For that matter, you should be ashamed that people walk the streets of this city openly consuming addictive caloric substances. Putting food in their mouths—and chewing it! Swallowing it, even! You might as well have sex in public!
Oh no. You poor thing. Are you really going to eat that? That croissant? Right here, in front of me? Let me ask you something, sir. Like the Prophet always says. How can I be thin if I’m surrounded by fat people like you?
But we can’t “live and let live,” as you put it. We’re the United States of Air. Every time a ferrner eats some food, our national security is threatened. Food terrist masterminds like yourself—well, we’ve got a special program to help cure your addiction. It’s called “extraordinary rendering.” They fly you to a special Fat Camp overseas, tie you to a long rotisserie pole and hold you over an open flame, until the fat melts off your body.
Help! Somebody help me! Get him off! By the Prophet’s useless colon! Now do you see? This is exactly the kind of behavior caused by food terrism. Anger. Rage. Uncontrollable emotions. All those calories make you crazy. And you can quit your squirming. My bodyguards are going to handcuff you to your chair. That’s all. It’s for your own good. I can’t let you hurt yourself anymore with that crescent-shaped piece of flaky, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth pastry. Corporal! Incinerate this. Make sure no one else suffers because of this Frenchie’s addiction.
Now. Where was I? A murder.
The murder that started it all.
It was three in the morning when the call came through.
“Get the Twinkie out of your ass and get down here, Frolick,” the voice growled.
That’s how Captain Brownnose Lickit talks. Same guy who recruited me. You remember. He got promoted.
The first time Cap made a crack about Twinkies, my heart nearly stopped. I thought he knew about my secret shame. But then I realized he talks that way to everyone. With Green it’s “Get the Slim Jim out of your ass.” With a couple of my colleagues it’s “Get the frozen lasagna out of your ass.” There’s even a new recruit, Cap says to him, “Get the whole wheat bread with tuna fish and olive tapenade out of your ass.” Cap’s just funny that way, I guess.
“I got time for breakfast, sir?” I asked.
My wife Chantal groaned and covered her head with a pillow. “That’s right, baby,” she said. “You go eat some air.”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Not now, Oxy,” I said. Her pet name is Oxy. Short for “oxygen.” The sweetest gas that man has ever tasted.
In my ear Cap was saying, “Roll your window down and munch some air while you drive. I’m calling Green now.”
“What we got, Cap? Is it bikers with chocolate chip cookies again?” I asked. “Or maybe students with some ramen noodles?”
“Neither. Got a murder for you.”
“Whoa,” I said. “We don’t do murders. You know that.”
“You do now. Park across the street from the Thin House. Agent Erpent will fill you in.”
I frowned in the darkness of our bedroom. “Don’t know any Erpent, sir. He ATFF?”
“Skinny Service. You know what that means.”
The two words made my heart go thud. “The SS?”
“Like I said. Move.”
I moved. I drank a glass of water and chewed some air while I got dressed. Two pairs of long underwear against the November chill, the midriffs cut away. Then my regulation khaki trench coat and white tape measure, as tight as it would go. Promotion in the ATFF, as at all levels of government these days, was based on waistline. Cap was a sixteen, the Under-Secretary for Food Enforcement was a twelve. The Prophet himself was rumored to be a ten.
Before I left, I sat down on the bed. I put a hand on Chantal’s shoulder, but she jerked away. “Make sure Nathan says his air prayers this morning before school, OK?”
“Go bust some food terrists,” she said in a tone of voice she’d been using more and more often these days. I wasn’t sure what it meant.
“And don’t forget to send him off to school with a big air lunch, and an air snack in case he needs a little something extra in between meals.”
“We haven’t had a decent meal in months!” she cried into her pillow. “Why can’t you get us something real to eat for a change?”
I sighed. “I don’t have time for this right now, Oxy. Pray for strength. Pray for faith. Remember, Happiness is Eating Air. We’ll talk more tonight.”
Her bony forearms beat at her pillow. Maybe it was lumpy. But no time now to think about new bedding. Cap needed me. Our nation needed me. The human race, desperate for alternatives to food addiction, needed me.
I was out the front door as quick as it took me to limp there. I crawled down the walk and climbed into my Smart Car. I started the engine, listened to it putter and pulled away from the curb. I rolled the window down like Cap suggested, and savored that early morning road air. Pollution with a faint tang of dead leaves. I pondered dessert but decided I’d been glutton enough for one day.
On the way, I passed one of the new billboards the government had been putting up to combat French propaganda. A mile wide and a quarter mile tall, it depicted a chubby little boy with a toothless grin and the words “You’re not starving to death. You just need to believe. Go the Power of Air!”
I pulled up in front of Green’s house and beeped the horn. He was just coming off two weeks of compassionate leave. Something wrong with his daughter, apparently. Although he refused to tell me what it was.
He was a long time in coming out. I puzzled again over the orders to investigate a murder. The last time I was on homicide detail, I didn’t solve a single case. Was I really the right man for the job?
To distract myself, I turned on the radio to the All Air Station—“all static, all the time, the sound of the airwaves coming at you”—and let that relaxing crackle soothe my soul. Several minutes passed. I was about to honk again, when he stumbled out of the house, wiping tears from his eyes. He got into the car and slammed the door.
My first thought was that his wife had made him taco air for lunch. But then he slouched back into his seat and sobbed into his hands.
“What’s eating you?” I asked.
“Just drive.”
I put the car into gear and stepped on the gas. I was still getting used to the Smart Car. It was a bit like driving a lawnmower.
“Roll a window down or something,” I said. “Have some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled through his fingers.
“Suit yourself.”
We rode in silence for a while. Tears poured down his cheeks like molten chocolate in a candy bar commercial. Before they banned candy bars, that is. He glanced at me from time to time, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t make up his mind how or when to say it.
We’d been through a lot together, Harry and I. I trusted him with my life. And I’d never seen him like this before. I touched his elbow.
“Is it your daughter?” I asked as gently as I could. �
��Melissa?”
He nodded, but said nothing.
“What do the doctors say?”
“We took her to a bunch of different specialists. I don’t know why we bothered. They said there was nothing wrong with her. As healthy as a sixteen-year-old girl can be.”
“Well, what’s the problem then?”
“She won’t eat. Hasn’t touched food in months.”
I smacked the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. “Good for her,” I said. “You must be very proud.”
He turned to me and frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Kids these days. Most people would kill to have a daughter like that. Not sneaking around after curfew, hanging out with the wrong kinds of boys, getting high off an illicit Snickers or Mars Bar in the back seat of some lowlife’s car.” I pulled onto the freeway, floored the Smart Car and putted along in the slow lane. “She were my daughter, I’d take her to Air Temple on Sunday and raise my voice in praise of the Prophet for bringing me such a wonderful child.”
During the Prophet’s campaign for President, he had nicknamed Fat Boy Burgers “The Church of Fat.” Since then, all the franchises—the Golden F’s—had been turned into Air Temples. We went there every Sunday to listen to the Prophet’s weekly address and to eat air in communion with others.
Green looked at me for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you have a point.” He sat back in his seat and stared out the window.
I can usually read his moods. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
He sighed. “We did find someone who could give us a diagnosis.”
“What did he say?”
“Except he’s not exactly a doctor.”
“What is he, then?”
“A naturopath.”
I nearly slammed the car into a telephone pole. “One of those quacks?”
“I know, I used to think the same. But Dr. Stummick really knows what he’s talking about. Thing is, though, he’s proposing a radical treatment. I can’t convince Melissa to take her medicine.”
“What’s he suggesting?”
My partner shook his head. “Says the only way for her to get any better is to start eating again. You know. Food.”
I brayed with laughter. “Some doctor,” I said. “Maybe she needs another stint in Fat Camp. Strengthen her faith.”
“Stummick says if we do that, she’ll starve to death.”
“Quack quack,” I said. “Quack quack.” I glanced over at Harry, but he wasn’t laughing. “Look. Take her to the beach for a week. That salty sea air?” I smacked my lips. “Yum, yum.”
“That’s just it,” Harry said. “She eats air all the time. Eighteen hours a day. But she keeps getting skinnier and skinnier.” He shifted in his seat. “I was hoping you might talk to her.”
“And congratulate her on eating air?” I said. “Sure, if you want me to.” Like the Prophet always says, you can never be too rich or too thin.
Green coughed into the back of his hand. “Actually I was hoping you’d tell her it’s OK to eat food.”
I wagged a finger at him. “You are such a joker!” I said. “That’s why I love working with you, Harry. You crack me up.”
“Watch out!” he said. “Red light!”
I looked up in time to bring the car to a halt. A motorcycle traffic cop gave us a friendly wave. The Prophet had installed red lights at random intervals on the Beltway to increase revenue from traffic fines.
Harry blew his nose, a long, wet sound.
“This is really hitting you hard, isn’t it?”
He fiddled with the end of his tape measure. “Can I ask you something? Off the record? One old friend to another?”
“I got your back, partner,” I said solemnly. “You know I do.”
He lowered his head. “You believe in the Prophet.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sure I do. You remember me from before, right?” I held out my hands, mimed the huge belly I used to have.
“You wanted to be thin.”
“We both did, Harry.”
“And the Prophet helped us do that.” He whispered the words.
“The Prophet promised, Harry. And he delivered. Food is a drug. Air is all we need.”
“And you never…that is…,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “You never eat?”
“Sure I do.”
“You…you do?”
“Of course! Air. Every day.”
“I mean, you never eat food?”
I thought of the secret shame in my ankle holster. “I’m sorry?” I said, pretending to have misheard. “Did you say, eat food?”
The blast of a truck’s horn sounded behind us. The light was green. I revved the Smart Car’s engine and rolled across the intersection.
“But you’ve never wondered?” Harry continued.
“Wondered what?”
“What if, you know, the Prophet’s wrong? About eating air, I mean?”
“What are you,” I said, joking, “some kind of food terrist?”
He turned toward me. “I’m serious, Frolick. In the three years since the Prophet banned food, have you really never eaten? Anything?”
Here I have a confession to make. I am ashamed to admit this, but you have to understand my struggle if you want to understand what happened next.
Every night I would go down to my basement. Unlock my walk-in vault. My Twinkie vault. I didn’t want to go. But I could hear them. Singing. Who can resist that siren song? I’d sit there on the floor, mouth agape, listening to their bewitching melody as they flew about the room.
Some nights they were gentle with me. Other nights were not so good.
They’d attack in swarms, forcing themselves into my mouth, down my throat and into my stomach. And if I tried to stop them, they’d turn kamikaze, slamming into my face, splattering me with their sticky white guts. I’d black out, and when I woke up later, I’d find myself surrounded by dozens of their plastic cocoons.
They could smell my weakness of faith, I finally realized. I tried to get rid of them. I did. Over and over again. I’d be halfway to the garbage bin when the box would burst open and the shimmer of Twinkie wings would cast flickering shadows on the floor of my garage. I’d chase after them with a butterfly net, but a flying Twinkie is hard to catch. And every time they’d lead me back down to the basement. To their nest. Their home. What else could I do? My faith was weak. I let them stay.
Is that so? You think I’m crazy, do you? I’ve got an easy answer for that one. Corporal? Yes. The duct tape. Please. There’s no point in struggling, monn serr. I think you French are crazy too. But when I’m finished I’ll give you back your precious news show and you can say whatever you want. Like all Americans—I mean Airitarians—freedom of speech is something I value highly.
So to go back to Harry’s question: had I really never eaten any food? In three years?
No. Not unless you counted being brutally violated by a gang of savage flying Twinkies, who repeatedly penetrate you orally against your wishes. Like so many rape victims, I felt ashamed. As if it were my fault. My only consolation was that these depraved pastries died in the act. They’d force themselves down my throat, only to commit suicide and litter the graveyard of my stomach with their acid-burned cake-dough husks. How could Green ever understand my torment?
“Careful!”
I swerved to avoid a car pulling into traffic.
“Of course I don’t eat food,” I said. “What kind of question is that? They’d have my badge and tape measure for sure.”
He sat sideways, looking at me from under his eyebrows. It was like he could guess.
“Faith alert! Faith alert!” I said. “You’re doubting again, Harry.”
He slumped back into his seat. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right. Your doubt is affecting your daughter’s digestion. Her ability to metabolize air.”
“I know, I know.” Fresh tears drenched his cheeks.
“Maybe you should go
see one of the ATFF Faith Officers. They can help you.”
“Now there’s a thought,” he said. “Go tell the snitches I’m a doubter. Get a permanent black mark on my record.”
“What’s more important?” I asked. “The fleeting details of this stage of evolution? Or everlasting peace in the Prophet’s bosom on a higher plane of human existence, for you and your family?” I reached over and squeezed his knee. “You’ve got to believe in His Will. Otherwise you got nothing.”
He turned away. “Sometimes I wish I’d never heard of the Prophet.”
“Harry!” I said. “How can you say such a thing?”
He covered his face with his hands and sobbed in silence. The radio filled the gap between us. The rogue Twinkie in my ankle holster fluttered its wings against my calf, fueled by Harry’s treasonous remark. Not an hour ago it had climbed up my trousers and perched against my calf. I had tried to dislodge it, but my faith wasn’t strong enough.
It began to hum. No, please. Not here. Not now. I turned up the radio to drown out the sound. The wings trembled and went still. I let out a deep breath. Then Green said:
“So the new warehouse rules haven’t affected you at all?”
I flushed just thinking of that scandal. Top brass tried to hush it up, but word got around. In the same way the DEA keeps depositories of impounded cocaine and marijuana until they can be destroyed, the ATFF runs a network of evidence warehouses full of confiscated food. A couple of our brothers-in-air had been caught consuming evidence.
I said, “How would that affect—”
But a public service announcement broke into the static. The deep baritone that did all the PSAs intoned:
“Dangerous food terrists lurk on every corner. Hiding in the shadows, ready to corrupt your children with addictive caloric substances. Fat People tempting your young ones away from the Path of Air with candy bars, sugary treats, bowls of lentils and corn! Fat People are a menace to our national security. Remember, if you see Fat, say Fat.” An old woman screeched: “Fat! There’s a fat man! Over there! In the parking lot! And he’s armed with a corn dog!” The baritone voice returned: “Remember, if you see Fat, say Fat. Call 1-800-I-SEE-FAT. That’s 1-800-I-S-E-E-F-A-T. This message has been brought to you by the Dietitian General. Go the Power of Air.”