The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror Read Online Free Page A

fired. Union forces had starved to death a Confederate garrison that refused to surrender. If only the rebels had known then what we know now about eating air.
    In front of the Godfather of Food sat an empty plate. Not even a trace of a calorie. I bagged his plate and silverware as evidence. The lab found nothing. Next to the plate was a glass of water, untouched. An amused smile flickered across the man’s lips.
    “Zo yoo air Agent Froleek,
monsieur,”
he said, his accent strong, like a smelly contraband Roquefort blue cheese.
    He came to this country—and by “this country” I mean the US of Air, not France, even though I’m currently in France—fifteen years ago and still couldn’t speak English good. He had introduced
le hamburger à la Nancy Reagan
on the menu of his five-star restaurant here in Paris, only to have a mob of angry chefs attempt to lynch him. The State Department granted him asylum and—worse for us—citizenship. We couldn’t even deport the food trafficker.
    His grin widened. “I haf ben lookeeng fore-ward to meeteeng yoo,
non?
Zay say yoo air zee best
agent
zee ATFF haz.”
    “Tell it to the judge,” I said, and pulled out my handcuffs.
    All around us my TWAT team fired laxative darts at stampeding fat people. Where the food terrists fell, an unusual perfume arose. Their poo-poo and pee-pee seeped through their evening clothes and mingled with the still-warm lobster casings. But Fatso seemed uninterested in the scents of justice. In a gesture of unconcern, he interlaced his fingers across his belly. Or tried to. They didn’t quite reach.
    “Yoo air not a seek-air aft-air zee playzh-air,
mon ami,”
he said, his grin still natural and easy. “Zat I admi-air. Yoo air not like zeez uzz-airs.” He waved a hand at the diners in their finery, piled one upon the other like beached whales at a Japanese barbecue. “I seenk not,
non?”
    “Save your breath,” I said, and snapped the handcuffs in his face. “Now get up.”
    He rose slowly to his feet and held out his wrists. “Wat eez eet yoo dezi-air most een zees world, Agent Froleek?” he asked. “Eet eez not zee playzh-air. Eez eet,
peut-être,
pow-air? To make zees world a bett-air place?”
    “My desire,” I said, “is to put you in Fat Camp.” I struggled to loop the cuffs around his wrists.
    Fatso’s eyes twinkled with mocking amusement. The handcuffs would not click shut. “Now zat yoo haf cot mee,” he asked, “wat weel yoo doo?”
    I slammed the cuffs back onto my belt. “I, along with three hundred million other Americans—I mean Airitarians—will celebrate your demise.” I drew my weapon. “Now don’t move.”
    He looked at me thoughtfully, unmindful of the chaos around us. “Yoo seenk eet weel make a
difference?”
he asked. “Arresteeng mee, I want to say?”
    I lifted up the back of his tuxedo jacket with the tip of my Laxafier. “Where is your tail? Your horns? Your cleft hooves?”
    He laughed. “I am not zee deveel, Agent Froleek. I am a man, like yore-self. A man on a die-et. I try not to eat zo much, yoo know. But eet eez very deefeecoolt.”
    “You dare compare yourself to me?” I stared him down, my face inches from his, until his laughter died. “No,” I said. “You are Satan Incarnate. You peddle your illegal substances to children. Children! I hope you never learn to eat air. I hope you starve to death in Fat Camp.”
    Fatso looked at me for a long moment. He nodded. Almost sadly, it seemed. “I am sorree I laf,” he said. “Only zat yoo remind me of sum-wun I know.”
    Suffice it to say, Fatso was out of jail twenty-four hours later. We gave him the standard dose of laxative when we booked him, but his bowels were as clean as a canister of brussel-sprout-flavored air after I’d finished with it.
    I was there on the courthouse steps when we released him.
    “Froleek!” he said, beaming at me in the spring sunshine. “Sank yoo for zees opportooneetee to meet yoo. I want to tell yoo, eef