George Saunders: CivilWarLand in Bad Decline: Stories and a Novella

Tanner and the pancake guy come out smiling.

“Artie, super news,” Tanner says. “The price is right. All we need now is the physical exam.”

“Great, Dad,” Artie says weakly.

They examine my privates and make me hop in place so they can check my heart rate. They count my teeth and test my grip by making me squeeze a can filled with sand and have me read one of their brochures aloud to check for speech impediments.

“These feet worry me, Artie,” Tanner says, tapping my claws with a Sharpie. “These little fuckers could be serious showstoppers. What if in the heat of passion this guy claws the crap out of some AR’s leg and the AR gets gangrene and sues? Jesus. Although I suppose I could put him on drive-through hand jobs. Would you be in favor of drive-through hand jobs, Artie?”

“I’d be in favor of setting him and every other PPA in this dump free, Dad,” says Artie.

“All right, smart guy, I’ll do that,” Tanner says. “Then you can swap your slide rule for a fucking shovel and join your peers in the sewage trench. Hah? Hah? Is that what you want, Einstein?”

“No, Dad,” Artie says.

“Then let’s have some thoughtful input here,” Tanner says.

“He seems well suited to drive-through hand jobs,” Artie says through clenched teeth.

“That’s more like it,” Tanner says. “Now go get him a sexy smock and some baby oil.”

Then the lights go out and something blows up and suddenly Flaweds in lingerie are rushing by screaming, and swearing Normals are hopping over fallen beams with their pants around their knees. I grab Artie’s stun gun and make for a hole in the wall. Outside are sycamores and clouds and tongues of flame devouring the words GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS on a fallen paper banner. A guy in a ski mask is sitting on a parking bumper trying to get a jammed gun to fire and a brothel security guard is sneaking up behind him with a billy club. So I stun the guard and drag the guy in the ski mask to a kind of clearing, where a bunch of other guys in ski masks pat me on the back and push me into a van as the Safeway collapses like a house of cards.

I’m bleeding at the knees and choking from smoke and have no idea who these people are or where I’m going, but at least I’m off the hook in terms of the hand jobs.

I lie all night in the back of the van with three weeping rescued whores in nun costumes. When we finally stop we’re rushed past some swaying denuded mesquites into a cave, where we’re given bedrolls and wooden bowls of cold mush.

“Where are we?” one of the nuns asks.

“Texas,” somebody answers, and lights a candle.

Outside the cave two Flaweds in ski masks sit on rocks near a campfire.

“Quite a mission,” says one.

“Yes, Mitch, quite a mission,” says the other, who’s half the size of the first.

“Thanks to my leadership, we really exceeded our project goals,” says Mitch.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” says the other. “We only rescued four crummy Flaweds. On top of which you left Frenchy at the scene.”

“I beg your pardon?” says Mitch.

“Oh, come on,” says the other. “First you got lost, then you attacked a brothel rather than a work camp, then you drove off in a panic, leaving Frenchy at the scene.”

“I did no such thing,” says Mitch. “Why do you insist on making up lies, Jerome? Frenchy and I had talked before the mission, and at that time he said that he might want to, you know, undertake some additional activities subsequent to the primary mission. It was a secret talk. No one else heard it. We even arranged a secret signal. As we were leaving the site, Frenchy gave me the secret signal, so I kept driving. Simple as that.”

“What was the secret signal, Mitch?” Jerome says. “Begging you at the top of his lungs to please please slow down while he sprinted alongside the van weeping? You lie, Mitch. I saw the whole thing. If I hadn’t been so busy putting a tourniquet on Lance I would have wrested the wheel away and saved Frenchy myself.”

“Some tourniquet,” says Mitch. “The cassette player in the van is ruined with Lance’s blood, thanks to you.”

Then they hop to their feet and put on their caps.

“Hello, Judith,” says Jerome.

“Good evening, Judith,” says Mitch.

“What’s all this about?” says Judith, a tall woman with a sawed-off shotgun and a clipboard.

“Mitch left Frenchy at the scene, Judith,” says Jerome. “The wrong scene, incidentally. We never got anywhere near the work camp.”

“I’ve heard,” says Judith. “We’ll need to talk, Mitch.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Jerome says. “Somebody really needs to talk to Mitch.”

“I’ve got something to say,” Mitch says. “You people are always yapping about oppression this and oppression that, but you certainly don’t seem to mind oppressing me.”

“Nobody’s oppressing you, Mitch,” Jerome says. “Get off it. If anything, I’d say you’re attempting to oppress us, by accusing us of oppressing you. Wouldn’t you say so, Judith?”

“Did you hear that, Judith?” Mitch says. “Did you hear how he turned that around? It’s always my fault, and if that’s not oppression I don’t know what is. Just because I’m one of the few rebels with an internal Flaw, you people think you can treat me like dirt. If you think a perforated duodenum is somehow less significant than an extra arm or some open facial lesions, you’re just plain wrong.”

“This has nothing to do with your duodenum, Mitch,” says Judith. “This is strictly a performance issue.”

“You want to talk performance?” shouts Mitch. “Ask this little fart where he learned to fire a machine gun! There he was, spraying friend and foe alike, this smug look on his face, and now he has the gall to accuse me of a performance issue?”

“Leave it to you to bring my size into it,” says Jerome.

“For your information, my size is related to my pituitary, which in turn is related to a suite of mutagenic effects, so what you’ve just done, whether you’re man enough to admit it or not, is make fun of my Flaw, which last time I checked was exactly what we were fighting against, Mr. Shits-in-a-Bag.”

“That’s enough, you two,” Judith says. “Mitch, go walk the perimeter.”

“Who died and made her queen,” mutters Mitch.

“Phil did,” Judith says sharply. “And his last words to me as he died gutshot were: Continue my work.”

“Oops,” says Mitch. “Guess I sort of hit a nerve there.”

“What else is new?” says Jerome. “Open mouth, insert foot.”

“What was the first thing I did after Phil put me in charge, Mitch?” Judith demands, holding up her left arm, at the end of which is a reddened stump. “What did I do to make myself a more valuable commander?”

“Cut off your hand with a hacksaw to get your Flawed bracelet off,” Mitch says, hangdog.

“That’s right,” says Judith. “And why did I do that, Jerome?”

“To be able to more convincingly impersonate a Normal, ” says Jerome, equally hangdog.

“Correct,” says Judith. “And what was my first solo mission, post Phil?”

“You went to Denver and ingratiated yourself with a federal judge and made off with ten grand of his loot,” says Mitch.

“And what did I do with the money?” says Judith. “Did I buy myself jewels? Did I flee the country?”

“No,” Jerome says. “You bought weapons and food.”

“That’s right,” Judith says. “Weapons and food. Now. If you boys have finished presenting an absolutely shameful first impression of the movement to our guests, I’ll tend to my wounded.”

She leaves. Mitch and Jerome flip each other off and stomp away in opposite directions.