War is only a dream that kills
A sudden dust storm kicked up, biting and blinding.
“Yes, Soldier?”
“I have these dreams, Sir, nightmares really, where I am constantly attacked, shot to pieces, blown to bits, and always, Sir, I survive.”
“Excellent work, Soldier.” The President attempted to move on but Soldier One slid her wood peg up to the President’s armpit and held him as if hugging but not quite. He knew it. She knew he knew it. He tolerated it for the moment.
“I always survive,” repeated Soldier One. “My fellow soldiers come along and piece me back together, wooden splinter by wooden splinter, by beam, by peg, by post. I always survive, Sir. Do you understand what I’m saying, Your Excellency, Sir Presidency?”
His head is made of wood? His heart?
“You feel invincible?” said the President, as his cavalry pressed in close upon him. The dust storm swirled and jumped and chewed and bit but most of all – blasted. The media interfered with the guards, the guards interfered with the staff, the staff interfered with each other. Nobody could see much or hear well.
“Not exactly, Sir. There is always laughter all around. Laughter upon laughter everywhere and it rolls off the lips of the Iraqis, echoes out of their bellies. And they are all around. And they are laughing. Not even waiting for us to turn our backs or pass on like they used to. Some are even unarmed but even the ones with guns are not firing, have not fired at me. Do you see now?”
“Did you shoot yourself, Soldier?”
No, Sir. Real people are trying to kill her every day, Sir. You ordered her to invade a country, Sir, where, just by chance, Sir, people don’t like to be invaded, Sir. They want her dead, Sir. Every day. Sir.
“I was shot by friendly forces, Mr. President. In my dreams, my nightmares I am always shot by friendly forces. At first it was Iraqis but now only the friendlies. They are killing me, Sire, I mean, Sir. They are killing me.”
“It’s only a dream,” consoled the President.
“I know, Sir, I know, but now I want to kill them.”
“Not the – “
“All of them. Everyone. All people, Sir.”
“Soldier, our enemies wish us harm. Can’t you see them? Don’t you hear them? Can’t you smell them? Can’t you smell their fear?”
“Actually, what I smell – “
I’ll leave it to your imagination. And don’t I always, ultimately? Isn’t that the way it should be?
“The enemy, the enemy,” chanted the President. “The enemy wish us harm.”
“Arm?” Soldier One pressed her peg tight against him.
“Exactly. Harm.”
They wish we would leave them to their oil. And their land. And their lives.
“I know, Sir.”
“They wish us death.”
But they would settle for seeing us just get the hell out.
“Yes, Sir.”
“The enemy! All together now!” The President draped one arm around Soldier One, folding her peg arm into him, and he swept his other arm to his entourage, beckoning them to chant with him through the storm, “The enemy! The enemy! We must all kill the enemy! The enemy! The enemy! We must all kill the enemy!”
At that moment the President had a heart attack and died.
Just kidding.
