The United States of Air by Porup J. M

Author:Porup, J. M. [Porup, J. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humour, Politics
ISBN: 9780988006935
Amazon: 0988006936
Goodreads: 15828370
Publisher: J.M. Porup
Published: 2012-08-08T07:00:00+00:00

I’m too secret for this job

too secret for this—

“NSA GUY WHOSE NAME I DON’T KNOW!” the General thundered. “TEN-HUT!”

Too Secret For You stopped and looked around him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Were you speaking to me?”

“Share some of the joy with the rest of us,” Erpent said.

Too Secret For You bent over his toolbox again. He unzipped his fly and inserted his wee-wee into a biometric reader. “I cross-reffed the photo against our entire giga-figa-hugga-bigga-lugga-chugga-migga-zigga-byte database,” he said. “Let me show you what I found.”

He continued to slide himself in and out of the biometric reader while he talked. “This data stream is classified Prophet Prophet Bo Boffet Secret,” he explained. “It requires constant authentication. A sort of dead man’s switch.”

“Let’s hope he’s not a premature ejaculator,” Green said.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Too Secret For You said, sighing with apparent pleasure. “This is my fourth authentication today.”

A satellite photo of Cuba—I mean, Poo Island—appeared on the big screen. It zoomed in on Havana. The roof of a resort hotel appeared, fringed with palms, blue pools, a white beach to the north, the ocean. Hundreds of empty tables filled the spaces between the pools.

“Our orbiting Sewer Eye In The Sky took this photo of an unknown fat man in Cuba yesterday,” Too Secret For You said, humping the biometric reader. “Guess who?”

The image zoomed again. Fuzzy at first, it showed a group of men sitting around a table pool-side. The table was covered in a yellow tablecloth with a pattern of red circles and green squiggles.

“Funny-looking tablecloth,” the General grunted.

Where had I seen that pattern before? The image resolution improved, and it hit me.

“It’s a pizza!” I said, and pointed.

“What is, partner mine?”

What we’d all thought was a tablecloth was actually a six-foot-wide pizza pie. Green saw it at the same instant.

“Gotcha,” he said, and pounded his palm with his fist.

“What have we got?” the General asked.

“Leaving the US of Air for the purpose of consuming addictive caloric substances is forbidden by the Amendment,” I explained, wiping away tears of joy. “That tablecloth is actually a giant pizza!”

Too Secret For You adjusted the resolution one more time with his lug wrench, and the faces of the men became clear. One man gazed up at the sky, saluting the heavens with a champagne flute. He seemed to be looking straight at us.

At me.

It was Fatso, all right. And his clothing was spattered with food stains. The sort of evidence that Food Court judges love.

“It is him!” exclaimed the first airman. “From the photo!”

“You know I got a sister addicted to Ding Dongs?” said the other airman. “All because of that monster there.”

“Have no fear,” O’Shitt said. He patted the airman on the shoulder. “Our revenge shall be swift and terrible. Fatso will regret the day he set himself up against this great nation, the Holy Land of Air. Major Turdd!”

His aide jumped to attention. “Sir sir sir sir sir!”

The General pressed his lips together tight and grim. “Set our status to FOODCON ONE.

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