George Saunders: In Persuasion Nation

"That's not a question," Lincoln says.

"Wendy's GrandeChickenBoatCombo?" the man says.

"I'm afraid I am unable to discern your purpose, sir," Lincoln says. "I am trying to pay tribute to the brave men who died here."

"Pay tribute to this, beardo-weirdo!" says the man, and presses a button on his chest, and suddenly is transformed into a giant GrandeChickenBoatCombo; that is, a giant synthetic chicken product shaped like a frigate, with oars made of celery, and wafer-thin nacho sails.

Then the GrandeChickenBoatCombo beats its wings and its sails and floats up around Lincoln's head, ramming his tophat off, spraying him with salsa from its Mini-Salsa Cannons ®.

"Anybody else think a great-tasting poultry-nautical treat is loads more fun than this old fuddy?" says the GrandeChickenBoatCombo.

"I do," says General Grant.

"Me too," says Harriet Tubman.

"We totally agree!" say the ghosts of several Union dead.

"Sandwiches for all!" says the GrandeChickenBoatCombo. "Great taste is what made America great!"

"Not a bunch of yappin'!" says Mrs. Lincoln.

Cannons fire from the battlefield and scores of GrandeChickenBoatCombos begin drifting down via tiny parachutes, and the suddenly euphoric members of the nineteenthcentury crowd trample Lincoln and the graves of the Union dead to collect their rightful GrandeChickenBoatCombos. Even the Union dead are trampling their own graves. One sad Union ghost, missing a leg, gets only part of a bun.

Suddenly another cannon is fired. A cannonball strikes the giant GrandeChickenBoatCombo directly in the chest, killing it instantly, covering the spectators in a grotesque chicken-nacho-salsa spray, pelting them with dozens of the little edible-plastic sailors embedded as prizes in every GrandeChickenBoatCombo.

"Mr. President," someone says, "please continue."

As the cannon smoke clears, we see the orange/Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-a-Ding-Dong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition standing behind the cannon that fired the shot that killed the GrandeChickenBoatCombo.

President Lincoln nods his gratitude to the coalition, shuffles through his papers, and continues.

The oblong green triangular symbol is finally strong enough to begin. It takes off, leaving the cactus behind, and soars between mountains, over great cities, along twisting riverbeds, until, as if drawn there by some invisible force, it arrives at the now deserted Gettysburg Battlefield. The crowd has returned to their nineteenth-century homes. Lincoln has returned to Washington. The only thing remaining on the field is the mangled corpse of the GrandeChickenBoatCombo.

The oblong green triangular symbol hovers gently above the GrandeChickenBoatCombo, sending down hundreds of thin exploratory compassionate green rays, trying to understand.

Then a shiver of pity/outrage runs through the symbol, and it speeds away.

The orange/Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-a-DingDong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition is crossing a vast harsh terrifying wilderness.

Suddenly, in the distance, they see a town.

At the edge of town they are met by a polar bear with an axe in his head, a puppet-boy whose lower half has been burned to a crisp, six headless working-class guys holding bottles of beer, and Voltaire, who's been given such a severe snuggie that his eyes are open wider than real eyes can possibly open.

"My God," says the orange. "What happened to you guys?"

"I broke into an Eskimo home and tried to eat their Cheetos," says the polar bear with the axe in its head.

"During my puppet show, I got too close to a BurninWarmCinnabon being eaten by an audience member, and burst into flames," says the puppet-boy.

"A giant can of Raid gave me a wedgie," says Voltaire.

"Snuggie," says the puppet-boy. "A snuggie and a wedgie are two different things."

"A giant can of Raid gave me a snuggie," says Voltaire.

"And what about them?" says the orange, indicating the six headless working-class guys.

"They insulted a T. rex who just really loves Coors," says the polar bear with the axe in its head.

"Wow," says the puppet-boy. "I can't believe I'm standing here with the orange/Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-aDing-Dong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition."

"You know us?" says Grammy.

"Oh gosh, everyone knows you," says the polar bear with the axe in his head.

"All over the land, inspired by your example, people are saying enough is enough," says Voltaire.

"Just last week, a frazzled overworked new mother rose up against the can of Red Bull which had moved into her home disguised as a giant breast in order to wet-nurse her baby," says the puppet-boy.

"A group of Revolutionary War soldiers recently registered their dissatisfaction at having been led into the Battle of Yorktown by a tube of Pepsodent," says the polar bear with the axe in his head.

"Wow, we had no idea," says Grammy.

"Will you come into town with us?" says Voltaire. "Show us how to organize and execute a successful program of resistance?"

"We'd be happy to," says Jim the penisless man. "But it's only fair to warn you: things may get ugly."

The six headless working-class guys make gestures with their beer bottles, indicating: Not to worry, ever since that T. rex thing we're kind of past the point of worrying about things getting ugly or whatever.

Then there is a tremendously loud noise and the oblong green triangular symbol, swollen to the size of a city block, powers into the frame and freezes in midair, hovering overhead.

A deep magisterial voice emanates from inside.

"Who are you to quarrel with the Power that granted you life?" it thunders. "The Power which made the firmament, put the moon into her orbit, controls the very rules of physicality by which you are bound? The Power which allows bananas to sing and freshly laundered clothes to wink, which bids the very stars come down from the heavens and recast themselves into diamonds on a ring on the hand of a woman who has finally been put in touch with the softer side of herself via TampexGloryStrips?"

A tremendous walkway thunks out of the triangular symbol's underbelly.

Down the walkway stumble the members of the Ding-Dong/Doritos/grandparents-who-love-Doritos/Kevin/Slap-of-Wack coalition, still filthy from the grave, along with the fully restored GrandeChickenBoatCombo.

"Alive?" says Grammy.

"Resurrected," says the symbol.

"You can do that?" says one pile of mush.

"It is easy for me," says the symbol.

"Hoo boy," says the other pile of mush.

"Let me talk to it," says Jim the penisless man.

"Careful, careful," says Grammy.

Jim the penisless man looks meekly up at the huge oblong green triangular symbol.

"What would you like us to call you?" Jim the penisless man says politely.

"Sir," intones the huge oblong green triangular symbol.

"Sir," says Jim the penisless man. "Couldn't we all, working together, devise a more humane approach? An approach in which no one is humiliated, or hurt, or maimed, an approach in which the sacred things in life are no longer appropriated in the service of selling what are, after all, merely-"

"Silence!" shouts the green triangular symbol, shooting multiple bright green beams of light into the members of the orange/Grammy/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition, rendering them instantaneously intact, positive, and amnesiac.

Grammy has a sudden inexplicable desire to use her walker to cross a busy street without first looking both ways.

The orange, free of all gashes and dents, is suddenly deeply curious about the contents of his good friend the Slap-of-Wack bar, and makes a mental note to ask the Slap-of-Wack about his contents as soon as they get home to their wonderful suburban kitchen. What he wouldn't give to be once again on his beloved kitchen counter, looking down fondly at the perverted-looking chicken carcass and the two evil empty cans of soda in the trash can, far far below!