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

yoo and yore fameelee ev-air haf zee hung-air—”
    “We’ll eat air,” I said. “Now get lost, Fatso.”
    “Eef yoo ev-air change zee mind—”
    “I won’t.”
    He climbed into his limo. “Een zat case, I weesh yoo,
bon appetít.”
    “
Crêpes suzette
and
beef bourgoignon
to you too,” I said hotly. “Whatever that means.” The limo pulled away from the curb. “You can’t run and you can’t hide either!” I shouted after him. “You’re too fat! You hear me? I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I ever do! Besides dying, that is.”
    That was a year ago. I hadn’t busted a Supper Club since, much less found a crumb of evidence we could use against him. I could only dream of Thanksgiving.
    Long since outlawed, Fatso still celebrated that unholy day on the usual Thursday in November, when all the mafia dons came to D.C. for their annual convention. What a coup it would be to interrupt that little shindig! I had been working the streets for months, just trying to find out the location of this year’s gathering, but no luck. My snitches didn’t know, or if they did, they weren’t telling.
    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,