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

by J. M. Porup

“And lose our chance to bring them freedom?” I protested. “Let me go!”

  The twin roar of the jeeps echoed in the street and faded into the distance. They were heading away from us—and their only chance at salvation.

  I struggled, but Green and Erpent held my arms tight to my chest. “This is on your conscience,” I said. “Not mine.”

  “They gone?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Four hands released their grip on me.

  “Now what do we do?”

  “Go after them,” I said. “And where are my Prophet Packs?” I smacked the drive-thru mike. It fell to the ground.

  “Uh-oh,” Green said. “This must be an abandoned Air Temple. Probably being used as a food lab. We got to get out of here, now.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, men with guns stepped out in front of us. I was flung back in my seat. Green’s shoe ground my foot against the gas pedal.

  A gunman leaped aside, we jumped the curb and squealed back into the street.

  “But those addicts needed our help!”

  “We’re in a hurry,” Erpent said. “The body’s probably at the morgue by now.”

  “Not going anywhere til dawn,” Green said. “Right now we need to find a place to hide.”

  Erpent checked his watch. “But that’s half an hour from now, at least!”

  Green snapped his fingers. “Rat Boy. Let’s go there.”

  “Rat Boy?” Erpent asked.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Finding Fatso is more important than those dealers.” My spirits lifted. I could feel the Prophet’s guiding hand at work in our investigation.

  “Rat Boy’s a low-level informant. He helped us find Fatso once,” Green explained. “He might be able to find him again. Plus, no cannibal would ever look for us there.”

  It was only a quarter mile to the Foodville where Rat Boy lived. Green was right, the Sushi Gang would never go there. Not enough flesh on the skeletal residents to make it worth their while. Next time I came to Georgetown, I would have to bring more literature. And leave Green and Erpent at home.

  In the light of the remaining streetlamps, I got a glimpse of the ghetto by night. White men in business suits and expensive silk ties lounged on street corners, looking nonchalant. Their women, in well-cut wool pantsuits and subdued make-up, ground their hips up and down the sidewalk in low-slung pumps, with that mother-of-three come-hither smirk. And all of them prepared to scatter at the first sign of the Sushi Gang.

  Such suffering. Such unnecessary squalor. All because of their addiction. Because of those evil food terrists at the French Food Mafia. My Twinkie broke into song, and I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Fatso was the greatest threat the air-eating world had ever seen. He had to be destroyed.

  He had to be.

  SIX

  It was a notch in the Prophet’s tape measure the day the ATFF captured Bakin Cheez Burgher VIII, a.k.a. Rat Boy. Heir to the Fat Boy Burger franchise, and great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Bakin Cheez Burgher Sr., the founder and much-reviled head of that calorie-distribution ring, the youngest Bakin Cheez became famous as his own company’s best customer. When the ATFF froze his assets, he fled to Switzerland. Or tried to, anyway. This was before the Prophet closed the borders. We caught him only because he was too big to fit in a first-class airline seat. He argued with the flight attendants long enough to delay takeoff. By that time the armed ATFF squad had limped aboard the plane, resting every few feet to catch their breath—that body armor is heavy, let me tell you—and escorted him back to the gate.

  “This man is a symbol of what is wrong with our country,” the Prophet declared in the Thin House Rock Garden. He had replaced the dead rose bushes with Stonehenge-like slabs of West Virginia granite. “Look at him.” He turned and drilled a finger at Mr. Burgher VIII, who lay on his back, chained to a flatbed truck. “Eight hundred putrid pounds. Those great folds of fat. The slobbery jowls. The demented eyes of a crazed food terrist.

  “The mouth was not made for eating!” the Prophet roared suddenly. “It was made for consuming God’s own air. And Mr. Burgher here is going to learn to eat air the hard way, whether he likes it or not. When we are done with him, he will be a role model of what any citizen of this great nation can be: thin.”

  He gave a signal, and the Skinny Service driver turned the ignition. The flatbed truck hummed to life.

  “Off to Fat Camp with him. Off to Fat Camp with all you food terrists out there who can’t understand three simple little words: ‘just say no.’

  “And to those of you who say, ‘slow down.’” Exaggerated finger quotes. “‘Let us not go to extremes.’ I say to you: we have come to this hallowed spot” —and he swept a hand at the Rock Garden behind him— “to remind America, the Land of Air, of the fierce urgency of now. This is not the time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.”

  The Prophet’s words rang in my ears as the three of us limped through the Foodville toward Rat Boy’s hovel. The fierce urgency of now. That I understood. Twenty-two and a half hours to find Fatso. No one was ever more fiercely urgent than I was at that moment.

  On our way through the shantytown we passed numerous emaciated bodies covered in swarms of writhing maggots. Amazing the lengths you French will go to weaken our faith. Employing Hollywood special effects artists—members of La Résistance, your network of domestic saboteurs—to construct such lifelike corpses. The maggots! The smells!

  “Please, sir.”

  A man whimpered in the mud. He lifted his outstretched arms as we passed, and grabbed hold of Erpent’s trench coat. The SS agent jerked away.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

  The man licked his lips. “A crumb,” he whispered. “I beg of you. A crumb. That’s all. To taste food once more before I die.”

  “You’re not dying,” Erpent snapped. “All you have to do is believe.”

  “In eating air?” The man cackled and nearly fell over.

  “This is a land of equal opportunity,” I scolded the man. “There’s enough air for everyone.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “You dare doubt in my presence?” The SS man yanked his Laxafier from its holster. “I ought to laxafy you right now.”

  “No! No! Look at me! Lunge and chomp. See? Look at how much air I’m eating!” The man gulped down that life-giving vapor. “All I have to do is believe!” he shouted.

  Erpent lifted his Laxafier to shoot the man. I was moved to compassion. I put an arm on his elbow, drew the weapon back down to his side.

  “Doubters like him are destroying this country,” the SS agent growled.

  “Once he gets a bellyful of oxygen, he’ll be fine,” I said.

  The man shuffled away on his knees, shaking his head, lunging and chomping. My heart swelled to think that I had brought yet another person to the salvation of eating air.

  At the end of the muddy track stood Rat Boy’s hovel, a one-room shanty of corrugated iron with rust running in strips down the outside. I drew my own Laxafier. Green did the same. I rapped on the warped metal rectangle propped over the structure’s only opening.

  “I say, old boy, return hither in an hour’s time,” a voice inside drawled. “They have not yet reached a desired state of readiness.”

  I nodded to Green. Rat Boy, all right. He was one of those Americans—I mean, Airitarians—who thought everything in England was better than in the US. Of course, he’d never actually been to the UK. I’d read his file. The farthest from our God-favored land he’d ever been was a Fat Camp in Vermont. His manner of speech, so far as I could make out, was a badly remembered imitation of Masterpiece Theatre.

  I held my finger to my lips. I knocked again.

  “Don’t get your knackers in a twist, I’m com—”

  The words slid from his lips like a piece of rubbery bologna into the incinerator. He lifted the
sheet of metal from the door and peered out, straight down the barrel of my service weapon.

  Green threw his arms out wide. “Why the face?” He clapped a palm against the man’s greasy, soot-stained shirt, and made a noise of disgust. He wiped his hand on his pants. “What’s the matter, Rat Boy? Aren’t you glad to see us?”

  “My dear chap, there remains much cooking left to be done,” the slum-dweller snapped. He pushed back the hood of loose skin that covered his eyes. “Will you not wait somewhere else? It makes my neighbors rather nervous.”

  The smell of burning hair wafted through the doorway, making my eyes water. Combined with the squalor around us, it sent my compassion into overdrive. The ghetto a few blocks away was genteel by comparison. Here shanty pressed close to shanty on the banks of the Potomacncheese. D.C.’s most miserable food whores slept in this Foodville. Poor things. Willing to do all sorts of unspeakable acts in exchange for one of Rat Boy’s rotisserie rodents. Lucky for them, though, they would never taste that chargrilled flesh. Their pimps ladled them each a bowlful of gruel once per day, just enough to keep the withdrawal pains from becoming unbearable, and confiscated any non-monetary payments before the woman could shove it down her throat—and the Prophet help the whore who tried. If only they could learn to have faith in eating air, they too could join the rest of the country in the Feast of Oxygen inaugurated by the Prophet when he took office. Then, and only then, would they be free to escape this riverside slum.

  “I say, don’t be a stranger. Do drop by for a spot of tea later, what?” the former fast-food heir said. He reached for the door, but Green leaned his shoulder against it.

  “I don’t know what you’re suggesting,” I said evenly. “We aren’t here to consume anything illegal.”

  I was ashamed of the truth and desperate to prevent it from coming out in front of Erpent and my partner. The fact is, a couple months ago, my Twinkies pulled a despicable stunt. I had come to bring Rat Boy some literature, when a swarm of Twinkies surrounded me and began to sing. They threatened to attack me. I still don’t know how they got from my basement all the way across town. They demanded I take a rat from Mr. Burgher. Not as a payoff or bribe, but as a fellow rapist, a four-legged companion to join in their group violation of my mouth and throat. They made me hide the grilled rodent under my trench coat, and crawl back into my Smart Car. Then they forced that disgusting burnt meat down into my stomach.

  Ever since, I’ve been at my wit’s end. It obviously wasn’t enough to stay out of earshot of my basement. I don’t suppose you Frenchies have any traditional herbal remedies against suicidal pastry mouth molesters? Some kind of Twinkie repellent? No? ’Cause I’ve tried everything. Oh well. Just thought I’d ask.

  “Is it a social visit, then?” Rat Boy inquired. “Shall I call the butler? He’ll see you into the drawing room. Or perhaps you’d prefer the library? Truth is I can never remember which is which. There are ever so many rooms. Do be patient, he’ll be along shortly. He does tend to get lost. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  I rested my Laxafier against the man’s shoulder. The tip of the gun disappeared under the folds of loose skin that dangled from his neck. “You’ve got an ear to the sewer. What’s coming down the toilet?”

  Rat Boy sighed. He leaned forward, and his massive slabs of skin scraped against the door frame. He wore a faded T-shirt that read, “Fat Boys Turn Me On.” Excessive epidermis erupted from every opening.

  “Be my humble guest,” he said. “Mind the hole in the floor, what? It’s ever so tiny, but visitors have been known to stumble. Most unpleasant if you do.”

  Green and Erpent managed by great effort to move the door to one side, and I stepped over the threshold. I had never actually been inside Rat Boy’s shack before. A glowing brazier stood to one side. A skewer of half a dozen rats, skin and all, rotated slowly over the coals. Another smell filled the room, mingling with that of burning fur. It took me a moment to identify it. It was poo. No, not poo. Raw sewage. The anal excretions of thousands of food terrists. The undigested waste that drops from their bowels. I followed my nose inside, spellbound.

  Green grabbed my elbow. “Careful, partner mine.”

  At my feet a deep hole plunged straight down. Squeaking and splashing noises came up from below. I leaned over the edge. At the bottom, rats clambered over one another, playing their little ratty games—like hide and go seek, red rover and pin the tail on the donkey, no doubt—in a river of human excrement.

  “What is this?” I asked in breathless wonder.

  Rat Boy busied himself with the brazier. “The sewer of our great capital city vomits forth its bounty into the River Potomacncheese. Man’s best friend, a species known in Latin as rattus rattus, simply adores the conditions in the pipes far beneath our feet. I fish the shitty subterranean streams with my trusty fishing pole,” —he nodded to where it stood in the corner— “impale them upon my ever-reliable cast iron skewer, and grill them to perfection. Now. About the sauce. With which variety may I tempt your indubitably jaundiced palates?”

  “Yummy sauce!” my Twinkie chirped, “Saucy sauce! I want some sauce!” and began to dance. I crossed my legs to muffle the noise.

  “What was that about sauce?” I asked as loudly as I dared.

  “Surely you remember my sauces, old boy. I take great pride in having the best rat sauce between here and New York. Today I can offer you a rat-milk béchamel, pigeon liver pâté and a cockroach mousse. The mousse, I must say, is exquisite.”

  Erpent had said nothing until now, examining the shack with a look of distaste. At the mention of sauce, he gasped. “You mean you eat the rats?”

  “But of course, my dear chap. On what rotating planet around what distant star have you been residing these past three years?” Rat Boy replied. “This is the land of the free and the home of the brave. This is America.”

  “The United States of Air,” I corrected.

  Erpent flung a trembling finger out at Mr. Burgher VIII. “He admits it!” he cried. “Food terrist! Arrest him! Food terrist!”

  “Chill,” Green said. “It’s cool.”

  Erpent turned on my partner and screamed in his face. “He admits his crime. Why aren’t you arresting him? Possession of addictive caloric substances, with intent to distribute!”

  “Because he’s a snitch,” Green said. “Leave him alone. He’s helped us out in the past.”

  “This sort of selective enforcement is not acceptable,” Erpent barked. “We are a nation of laws!”

  Green stood firm. “You didn’t seem to mind the burgers the cops had in the park this morning.”

  “That’s different, Harry,” I said. “Their zero-calorie snacks are made out of compressed air. It’s not the same thing. You know it’s not.”

  Erpent drew his Laxafier. “Failure to arrest a food terrist is a crime. You could lose your jobs for this.”

  “We were doing our jobs until you interfered,” Green snapped.

  Mr. Burgher VIII plucked the spit from the brazier and brandished it at us, the dead rodents still impaled along the length of the blackened iron. “My dearest Frolick, what ever is going on?” he said. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  I had never been comfortable with our use of snitches. These people deserved treatment in Fat Camp. Why were we letting them suffer? But Green had persuaded me it was for the greater good. I reluctantly sided with my partner.

  “What’s more important?” I asked. “Capture Fatso? Or put away this scum-sucking chunk of slum-dwelling filth?”

  “Thanks, Frolick,” Rat Boy said.

  “Hey,” I said. “No problem.”

  Erpent scratched his chin. He kept his weapon pointed at Rat Boy’s chest. “You may be right. But still. We are the long arm and skinny waist of justice. We’re not supposed to engage in favoritism.”

  “Think of it this way,” I said. “He’s small potatoes. We’re after the roast turkey with the cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and gravy and glazed yams and
all the other trimmings. So that we can chuck it all into the fiery furnace and watch it burn.”

  Erpent lowered his gun. “Please proceed with your investigation, Special Agent Frolick,” he snapped.

  “I say, we got off on the wrong foot.” Rat Boy held out the smoking spit. “Do sample one of my rodential delicacies. Better than crumpets and cream on a Devonshire afternoon, eh, what?”

  Erpent hissed, “Are you attempting to bribe an officer of the SS?”

  Rat Boy cocked his head to one side. “Oh come now. Don’t be shy. Can you resist one of my chargrilled specialties? They’re crunchy on the outside, soft and juicy on the inside.” He lowered his voice. “You simply must try the cockroach mousse. It is too good.”

  Erpent slapped the iron spit out of his face. “The Prophet himself has ordered the French Food Mafia shut down and Fatso arrested,” he said. “Now tell me what you know.”

  Rat Boy chuckled. He hooked a thumb at Erpent. “He is direct, I’ll grant you that.”

  Before I could stop him, the SS man grabbed the thumb with his free hand and tried to bend it backward. Burgher looked down, as though puzzled by the tiny man dangling from his thumb, then shook his hand free. Erpent slipped to the ground in a pile of rat poo.

  It’s like the Prophet always says. How can you compete with Olympic athletes who use dope? It’s the same with food. How was an Amendment-abiding, air-eating citizen to compete with people like Bakin Cheez? It was like trying to beat the East German swim team. Steroids, food—same thing. Both were performance-enhancing drugs. In both cases it gave an unfair advantage to the bad guys.

  “What on earth are you doing, old chap?” Rat Boy asked.

  Erpent picked himself up and wiped rat poo from his palms. He scraped the filth from his Laxafier and pointed it at Rat Boy’s chest. The weapon shook in his hands. Green and I stepped out of the line of fire.

  “Calm down,” my partner said. “This is not how we do things.”

  “Which is why I am doing your job for you.” He shook his Laxafier in Rat Boy’s face. A dangerous thing to do. A laxative dart to the head causes the brain to run out the nose. “Now start talking!”