FINI!

    Billy Bob was the boy’s name. I found that out later from his obituary in the Gettysburg Gazette and Shopper. He had peddled for all he was worth up the hill. The harder he peddled, the madder he got. He was going to give that General guy a piece of his mind. And he wanted that ten bucks he was owed or he’d never see that suitcase again. He knew of caves that had no bottom. He’d thought if and when he would have to kill someone, he’d throw their worthless body down into the hole. A good thing he never had a chance to dispose of anyone.  The hole as he called it led to the base of the pond in the central park. Anybody dropped down it would have surely popped up in the pond amongst the ducks and lily pads. 

    *

    General Washel continued to survey the camp. He could see that reporter guy wandering about below, and could only assume he was an early riser. And now he couldn’t see even him. Many of the reporters and camera crews had begun to move down the hill to get ready for the action. They had several hours yet until the battle was to begin, but the news media wanted to become imbedded, they’d said. They had become extremely fond of being imbedded; sensual they’d indicated. General Washel had begun to wonder if it wasn’t some sort of elaborate spying mechanism that had been developed after he left West Point to organize “stuff” in Afghanistan. He began to get angry, “How can anyone sleep in, just before the battle that would make him a shoe in for president of the New United States?” he shouted at his attaché. The young man did not answer immediately, he’d been asleep.

    “Breakfast Sir?” he asked. “Why don’t I just run down to Wall’s Market and pick you up something. You’ll need to keep up your strength, big day of killing and maiming ahead!” He slipped away and headed for town. He shifted the jeep into fourth gear and was doing seventy or so heading for the crest of the hill. The wind rushed by him, his hair at attention, his eyes just slits. He felt like he was flying. Little did he know his inability to stand up for himself would save his life. But it would!

    *

    General Washel was getting hungry. Two pots of coffee had made his stomach churn. He needed something to settle it. He wondered what was keeping Private Grimes. He liked the kid, it was too bad he was so stupid, he thought. But then there was a place in the army for everyone. When he became president he would make that a slogan. Room for Everyone he thought would be quite a recruiting tool. And it would come after the Don’t Ask Don’t Lie policy had been thrown out on some technicality.

   He once again picked up his field glasses and scoured the enemy camp, still no movement. He looked around him and everyone but a few stragglers had made their way to the battlefield. He was becoming more and more annoyed at the insensitivity of that fellow Jimenez and his army. There was a protocol to war and he would bring this up at the next military tribunal he would be appointed to. Rules were rules and needed to be adhered to. He thought of sending another screaming ball of fire their way, but remembered he didn’t know how to operate the cannon. 

   He looked at his watch and it was 10:09. He’d better ready his troops, not that they would have to do anything, but it should look like they had meant to. Presentation is everything, he’d remembered that from West Point, what was his name, the General who went on and on about gays in the military, and how difficult it made it on the rest of them having to constantly be on the lookout for advances. 

    “Where in hell is that private?” he’d yelled at the field glasses having no one to holler at. He looked up, and was most surprised and satisfied to see his little paper boy peddling down the road towards him, and with minutes to spare.

    He had taken from his wallet his last crisp ten-dollar bill. Against his better judgment he would give it to the boy; after all, a deal is a deal. The boy was hollering about something, but he could not quite make it out. As the boy approached he began to pick up a word here and there. “Jack Ass” was one, he was sure he heard that. “And ten dollars you moron,” he was sure he heard that also. And then he was there, skidding to a stop in the dirt. A cloud of dust enveloped the general and he began to cough. Dabbing at his mouth with his embroidered handkerchief, he attempted to ask the boy what the matter was.

    “What is the matter?” the boy asked, screaming at him. “Are you some kind of impractical numbskull?” he yelled again at General Washel who still could not see clearly with dust in his eyes and nose, and him sneezing violently. General Washel was a sensitive man, although he attempted to keep that a secret. 

    General Washel removed his glasses and began to clean them with a handkerchief he’d just received from his invalid mother who had nothing better to do on his Brazilian plantation, but count his money and embroider. He placed his glasses back on his nose. “Now,” he said, “that is better. And what is that you have in your basket, little man?” he asked apprehensively, trying to remember where he’d seen a similar case just a short time ago. 

    “Why you fricking idiot!” the boy…Fricking Idiot, thought General Washel as he was suddenly blinded by the light. Imagine” he thought while the light passed through him, I will no longer be a candidate for president!

    *

    A small nuclear device is deceiving, as the word small, suggests a miniature pop, or possibly a medium size boom. The mushroom cloud that formed above the valley floor still shimmered from the shock of the explosion. William F Buckley could not get the ringing to stop in his ears. He was surprised as anyone at the intensity of that dirty little bomb. He had thought it all a big joke, until it exploded. The kid he bought if from looked to be no older than twelve, but he couldn’t be sure, he’d had such an accent. 

    The blast shook me from my cot, and as I scrambled to my feet the blinding flash caused me to stumble backwards, causing the pistola to fire, wounding one of the camera man’s assistants. I would have apologized had I been able to hear. Speaking when you can’t hear is difficult. Everything sounds like it is under water. I made it outside; the cloud was turning the most beautiful shade of pink as it blocked out the sun. It began to rain what smelled like pieces of roast duck. Everyone got hungry, and we decided to go over to Wall’s Market and get some donuts and coffee, as it was still fifteen minutes until the war was scheduled to begin. And who should I run into on my way in the door, but Bil.

    “Bil, thought you’d be up on the grassy knoll getting ready for the big show?” He didn’t answer right away. He kept looking at his shoes and asking me in a distracted way, “Do these shoes make my feet look big?” 

    I didn’t think so, but being this close to the war and all, I couldn’t get too excited about his shoes making his feet look big. I often wondered if he used questions like that so I’d begin to think about what he wanted me to think about. He knew it was the kind of thing, like the last song I’d heard, that I wouldn’t be able to get out of my mind. And he was right.

    “Say, did you see that blinding light earlier?” Bil asked. 

    “Yeah, it knocked me right out of bed. The flash blinded me and I tripped and kicked a gun I’d thrown on the dirt floor of the tent, and it went off. A camera man who was passing by, got hit in the ankle. I don’t think it was too serious, he just hobbled off and I didn’t see any reason to say anything, it being a war and all. People should expect that sort of thing during a war. Collateral damage I believe they call it. Christ, half the people of Iraq have been killed by collateral damage, he shouldn’t complain about one little bullet in the ankle.” Bil appeared to be thinking of something else.

*

 Bil had appeared listless of late. He had gotten thinner I thought. And his hair seemed to be coming out in bunches. It began to look spotty, like sea oats on a beach. I asked him about it, but he would only say he’d been working too hard, and then he’d begin to cry. He sobbed for quite some time and then began to tell me this story about how he was raised by an alcoholic aunt who drank all the time. 

    I told Bil, “that’s what alcoholics do.” He just went on as if I wasn’t there.

   “She’d beat her cat. I mean she’d get the broom out and beat the living crap out of the cat. It screamed and cried something terrible. I think the cat was prone to over dramatization, probably suffering from PTSD. Most cats would have just run off, but not this cat. He seemed to enjoy the pain, the more the better. He was going to show her he could take whatever she had to dish out.” Bil seemed abnormally in tune with the cat. 

    “One day I came home from school and she was lying on the kitchen floor covered in blood,” Bil continued, “It looked like someone had cut her with a dozen knives. It turned out it was the cat. The Police and coroner confirmed it. They wanted to have the cat put down, but couldn’t find it. It turned out he was hiding under my bed. I didn’t have the heart to turn him in. I had after all inherited the house, and how would it look if the cat and I were friends or even knew each other. I had a friend of mine smuggle the cat to a town nearby, and turn him loose. I hope he found a good home. He deserved it.” And Bil began to cry again. I had no idea he was such a softy.

    “I thought you hated cats?” I said. 

“NO! that is not what I said. I said cats hated me. There is a difference,” he muttered between sobs. 

    He is giving up the movie business and going back to writing. He said the movies made him crazy. He believed he did things that really had happened to someone else. He told me he didn’t really have an aunt killed by a cat. His producer had. “See what I mean?” he said. And I did. 

    Bil was always a susceptible type person.  He has started a new book. It’s all about the war, not the one we’re at now, but about a war having something to do with banana thieves, guys harassing the inhabitants of a small island by throwing coconuts at them, and stealing their chickens. He says it’s a true story, and would I like to help him write the screen play when its time. 

    “I thought you were done with the movies?” I asked. 

    “That’s why I’m asking you,” he said, “I can’t afford to lose any more hair. I’m starting to look like I’ve got mange; haven’t had a date in two months, except for Zelda. Did I mention she’s back?” No, he hadn’t mentioned Zelda, and to tell the truth I no longer cared. I presently have a cat, a pistola, and a cot. Bil couldn’t bare to be around things that reminded him of things he may or may not have done.

    What more could anyone want? It wasn’t until I went to work on the script for his movie I found out the truth about Zelda. 

    *

    Wolf News Media had been caught off guard by the explosion on the hill. They’d been tipped off, and had all the equipment and reporters on and around the battlefield. They had to do some scrambling one reporter told me, but it worked out. They got some old footage from many of the other wars and spliced it in where necessary. General Washel, according to Wolf News Media, was a terrorist who had infiltrated the Army; the terrorists apparently are willing to wait for years if necessary to blow someone up. He had apparently exploded himself and luckily, only killed one obnoxious paper boy. No one but the paper boy’s mother had anything good to say about him. Many were glad he was dead, but would not say so on TV. People on TV are like that. Everyone thought the spoils of war, the duck, was wonderful despite the fact it glowed a bit after dark.

    *

    Big Foot Chavez IV, and Big Foot, were standing there by the car when the explosion occurred. They were about forty miles away, but the blast knocked a few birds from the trees and they could see the mushroom cloud block out the sun.

    “The war must have started,” said Big Foot Chavez IV. 

    “Reckon so,” said Big Foot. 

    Ophelia who up until this time had said nothing, burst out screaming. “Let’s get the hell out of here. It’s Armageddon, its Armageddon, Great God almighty, its Armageddon. We’z got to get on home so the lord will know where to find us.”

     “Let’s get a move on it,” Little Frank looked at the cloud, and knew immediately what it was. He was however in no position to bargain. He was happy however to be away from the blast, but never the less would have to deal with Big Foot later. Now all he wanted was an ice cream, his throat was sore. He began to cry, softly at first, and then with his eyes trained on the cloud, louder. Big Foot picked him up and comforted him. “It’s alright baby,” she’d said, “Well go get some ice cream as soon as someone fixes our car.”

    *

    Congresswoman Virginia Kent was shocked. She sat in her newly arrived personally contoured chair, by Eben of New York, and couldn’t believe her eyes. General Washel, according to Wolf News Media had been a spy for years; he hadn’t been caught because his profile didn’t match that of the normal spy. He had apparently been recruited by terrorist organizations while in West Point. He’d been hard up for money, and he’d been “awfully ugly” the reporter said, showing several pictures of Washel and commenting on how they’d been touched up to keep people from becoming ill.   Plastic surgery had been dangled as an enticement.  He had apparently received prostitutes and money as well, but the money could not as yet be traced. The prostitutes turned out to be working undercover for the FBI. “General Washel,” the report continued, “was a close and intimate friend of Congress Woman Kent,” the reporter stated as Virginia Kent’s photograph appeared on the screen. She appeared to be posing suggestively in West Point’s newspaper, Salute. 

   Virginia Kent jumped to her feet. Her husband was startled; he hadn’t seen Virginia move like that since their honeymoon. She screamed in indignation and began pounding on the desk. “I’ll get you filthy bastards for liable, and liable and more liable. By the time I’m through with you, I’ll own that stupid station of yours. You’ll wish you were never …” and she collapsed into her custom chair. Her husband used to her carrying on, paid little attention. He didn’t want to miss Wheel of Fortune. It wasn’t until his third martini that he noticed Virginia had as yet to touch even one of hers. She looked at him with a glare he believed he grown used to, but turned away out of habit. It wasn’t until he tapped her on the shoulder and mentioned bed, that he became concerned.

     She fell from the chair in the exact position in which she had been sitting. And that was not like Virginia at all. He would contact a doctor in the morning. He carried her upstairs, undressed her, and placed her in bed. She must be coming down with a cold he thought, “her skin feels abnormally cool. He turned up the electric blanket to 11, as high as it would go, he’d meant to have it repaired.

     Virginia never liked the cold. He was glad she’d decided to move back to the South, where people were more civilized. They didn’t need to kill things all the time.  He liked to play golf, and even with orange balls; it was bloody difficult in Alaska, although he did hit some five-hundred-yard drives on the frozen tundra. But all in all, he was glad they’d moved. He wasn’t especially fond of tanning salons. He was however especially fond of massage parlors. What a golfer!