The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 8
As always when shining his five stars, General Private General was thinking, If only they could see me now, “they” being the kids from the old block. Private had been a big boy who’d excelled at sports and so, naturally, he’d suffered much abuse from his popular skinny four-eyed classmates. After all these years he could still hear their teasing voices in his head, chanting that mean song they’d made up:
Private Private can’t play chess,
Private Private what a mess,
He’s nothing but a silly prawn
Private cannot move a pawn.
But, by golly, he’d had his revenge. Not only had he been accepted by the army, but, through much hard work, he’d risen to the rank of five-star general, three stars adorning his left shoulder, and two stars embellishing his right one. He donned his uniform proudly and stepped outside his house into the waiting vehicle.
“Good morning, General,” smiled the magicdriver, as General got into the car.
“Good morning, Q,” answered the general politely, since only brigadier majors were allowed to respond impolitely to their magicdrivers. The man whose hands were all over the wheel hadn’t really been christened Q by his great aunt Maggie, but somehow most people seemed to consider his original Bushman appellation, Al!pr!kt!ch — meaning “dances with kl!g!jo!” — slightly too difficult to pronounce, especially before or after breakfast.
“How are you today, sir?” asked Q amicably. With his fair skin and short-cropped blond hair, people often mistook him for a Namibian Bushman, though in fact he hailed from Botswana.
“Fine, fine,” replied the general pleasantly.
“I’ve got a new one for you, sir,” said Q. “To register as a Frenchman you must buy a fresh baguette and enter the local prefecture carrying it under your right armpit. However, only a registered Frenchman can buy a baguette!”
“A good one,” laughed the officer in the back seat. For some unknown reason General General possessed a strong predilection for catch-22s. One had to be leery, though, as the general tended to get very upset whenever recounted half a catch, rebuking, “A catch-11 is worse than no catch at all!” Q had earned General’s lifelong respect and admiration by regaling him with a catch-44.
“Good morning, sir,” General’s aide-de-camp greeted him as he arrived at the office.
“Good morning, Thomas. How’s the Captain?”
“Fine, sir.”
“How far along is she?”
“Just starting her third month, sir,” replied Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Jefferson.
“Excellent. I assume they’re all here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” The two proceeded down the corridor and into the meeting room, where the daily briefing was about to commence. For the next hour-and-a-half the general listened to grim reports from the Canadian front, of which he was in charge. Four queens had been lost, and two kings were checked. General came out feeling one of those vanilla headaches in the making. In this country, he thought, you need to run twice as fast just to stay in place.
Back in his office, General gave curt instructions to Jefferson. “We need to move two brigades to the Montreal region, and one to Toronto. See to it. The president will have my scalp if we lose this war. Plus, with my luck, some clause in the War Treaty probably stipulates my having to move to Montreal, and learn French. Mon Dieu, what a day. Please, Thomas, do me a favor and get me a stiff drink.” Jefferson walked over to a small refrigerator and mixed a fifth of milk, which General gulped down as if there were no Monday.
“Sir,” buzzed the intercom on his desk, “a reporter from Knight & Rook is here.”
“Send him in,” said General tiredly. What the hell, he thought. He’d already tagged the day as ‘bad’ anyhow.
The door opened to reveal a man dressed as a bishop, who marched without further ado toward General. “High Ness, Knight & Rook,” he said purposefully, as the two shook hands. In reply to General’s puzzled look he added, “I moonlight as Online Bishop of Beachville, Texas. It helps pay the bills, and, quite frankly, requires very little beyond hanging out with the suit. In fact, the hat’s quite practical — I often pack my lunch in it.”
“Mr. Ness, I’m a very busy loafer,” General interrupted the designer tale.
“Of course, of course. I have this irksome tendency to ramble on. Nothing to confess? Just kidding. Okay, let’s get on with the interview. General, are we losing the war with Canada?”
Ness was not one to mince words once he was done mincing words, thought General. “Not at all. We’ve simply suffered a few minor setbacks.”
“Four queens lost and two kings checked is what you call minor setbacks?”
“How the hell did you get hold of this information? It’s classified,” snapped General irately.
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” smiled Bishop Ness.
Feeling the ire well up, the general resorted to his time-proven method of dissipating anger: He counted to fifty-seven, did three somersaults, and turned on the music player Special Forces had rigged him for just such occasions. A husky voice began singing,
No religion,
No war,
No worries …
“No religion … No war …” With a look of sheer terror in his eyes the reporter made the sign of the online cross and fled from the room.
General called Jefferson into his office and told him gravely, “Okay, set up the meeting.”
The car slid slowly into the spacious abandoned warehouse, coming to a halt next to a large yellow limousine with tinted windows. Two doors opened simultaneously, one discharging an elderly man in his late teens, the other a general.
“I assume you’ve brought the merchandise?” asked General sternly.
“I assume you’ve brought my remuneration?” said the man evenly. Wordlessly, the general handed him a large brown bag marked with a yellow M, containing two Big Macs, one Giant Fries, and one Mega Coke. The man examined the contents of the bag carefully, finally remarking with satisfaction, “Excellent, I see they’ve held the ketchup. I hate ketchup. Reminds me of this chick I used to date. She put ketchup on everything, even on my … Never mind. Here.” He handed General a thin manila envelope. Both men then reentered their respective vehicles, and within a few seconds the only sounds heard were those of broken windows.
A mommy sparrow feeding her fledglings succulent worms was the sole witness to the arms deal that had just taken place.
“This is one good Big Mac,” commented the elderly man in his late teens, as he relaxed in the back seat of the yellow limousine and began to rapturously partake of the delectable beefy experience.
“Are you sure everything’s okay, Mac?” came a worried voice beside the beefeater.
“Relax, professor,” replied the man serenely, as he slurped, slushed, chomped, and chawed. “I’m telling you, piece of Apple Danish.”
Unconvinced, Professor Gates was feeling more like a French fry at the moment. He’d told Love that Mac — while unquestionably a genius — was totally unstable, but she heeded him not. And so now he found himself stuck with this man in a yellow limousine speeding toward a small private airstrip.
“You’re sure you can fly a plane?” asked Gates worriedly.
“Is the Pope Amish?” replied Mac while continuing to munch. “Here, have a fry.” Gates extended his hand absentmindedly toward the proffered red carton, and took hold of a couple of potato-based delights.
“JUST ONE!” tore a scream by way of the car through the entire surrounding countryside, as a result of which a man — who had been sleeping in a barn for the past several years — suddenly woke up, picked up the dusty guitar next to him, waved his voluminous hairdo to one side, and began crooning in a resounding bass voice.
Gates fainted peacefully but dreaming fitfully of being chased by a humungous French fry in the form of Marlon Brando, who kept mumbling nasally, “Come here, I’ll make you an offer you cannot refuse.” He woke up with a start about fifteen minutes later as the car drew to a halt next to a small yellow airplane.
“In we go,” said Mac, as the two climbed up three stairs, bending so as not to bump their heads against the low doorframe. They settled in, Mac occupying the pilot’s seat, while Gates opted for a swim in the pool toward the aft. Within five minutes they were airborne, and on their way to Montreal.
An hour later they’d crashed in the middle of the desert.
“How did it go, sir?” asked Jefferson when General had returned to the office.
“Fine,” replied the general. “Now close the door behind you. It’s time to examine the documents I’ve just paid dearly for.” Locked, stocked, and barreled, the two proceeded to open the manila envelope with apprehension. After several minutes of minute scrutiny, a narrow smile appeared across General’s face.
“We’ve now got those Canadians by their maple leaves.”
“I thought you said you could fly this thing!” cried Gates as the two got out of the tubular mess. He was still wearing his bathing trunks and feeling very soaked.
“I’ll have you know I’ve got flying certificates from three different online schools,” replied Mac indignantly.
“Oh yeah?” retorted Gates angrily. “Well, not only can you not fly, you can’t even tell north from south. Since when does Canada have a bloody desert!?” He marched wrathfully back inside the circular carcass, donned his suit-and-tie, and sat down with his copy of the Washington Most.
“Professor?” came Mac’s voice from outside a few minutes later, just as Gates was reading a highly interesting article about a woman who had drowned in a lake and had been saved by a young paramedic who’d happened to be roller-skating at the time — only to discover that she was in fact the man’s long lost uncle.
“What? What?” called Gates grumpily.
“I think you may want to come out and see for yourself,” came the impassive reply. Grunting, the professor put down the newspaper, and stepped outside the wreckage only to descry a small yellow-haired boy wearing a wide blue cape with red lining. He had a fencing sword in his left hand and a laptop in his right.
“Monsieur,” said the boy in a charming Québécois accent, “please, draw me a ship.”
“What?”
The boy handed Gates the laptop. “Please, draw me a ship.”
“Come on, Professor, be a sport,” prompted Mac from the sidelines.
“What the heck,” sighed Gates. “It seems at the moment I’ve got nothing better in sight.” Being a professor of computer science, he was quite obviously entirely unfamiliar with operating computers; still — after much trialing and erring — Gates managed to come up with something resembling the Titanic after it had hit the iceberg.
“No, no,” cried the boy upon seeing the result. “I want a ship. A ship!”
“Look, kid,” began Gates irately, “admittedly, I’m no good with computers, but this is quite a nice ship.”
“Monsieur, I want a SHIP!” The boy was on the verge of tears.
“I think he means sheep,” remarked Mac.
“Do you want a sheep — is that it?” asked Gates.
“I told you so, Monsieur. I want a ship.”
Gates was growing tired of this game. He took hold of the laptop again, quickly drew a box with holes in it, and handed it back. The boy was delighted.
“Merci, monsieur, merci!” he cried joyfully as he started skipping away from them. “My friend the fox will be so happy.”
“Hey, kid,” cried Gates after him, “how do we get back to civilization?”
“Just follow the yellow brick road,” came the reply from the vanishing figure. The two men looked at each other, neither showing any signs of comprehension. They settled down in resigned silence. After about half-an-hour, Gates grew restless, got up, and walked around the plane’s ruined fuselage.
“Hey, Mac,” he called.
“What?”
“I’ve found it.”
Mac came over to the professor’s side, joining him in staring wide-eyed at the yellow brick road. By tacit agreement the two began marching swiftly, a promenade that ended fifteen minutes later at a large gate atop of which hung a yellow sign reading: McDesert. They stepped out through the portal, past the parking lot, and into the familiar Hall of Food.
Two milkshakes later the two were seated in a yellow rental on their way to meet their man.
General Orgie de la Fesse was a haughty man, who looked like the female version of Margaret Thatcher. He prided himself on being a direct descendent of the original Marquis de la Fesse, a sixteenth-century French nobleman from the region of Montpellier, who’d suffered a severe blow to his left testicle at age four while attempting to ride a duck. A blow that had resulted in a unique disorder involving a total misuse of adjectives, the Marquis thus growing fond of old maidens, young wines, fast lovemaking, slow food, great poodles, and small Danes.
By the time the yellow car had rolled slowly into the abandoned warehouse, General de la Fesse was in a foul mood. “Where the hell have you been?” asked the Commander-in-Chief of the Canadian campaign against the United States, as soon as Mac and Gates stepped out of the car. “I’ve been waiting here for over two hours!”
“There was a slight delay with our flight,” explained Mac matter-of-factly. “A small piece of advice, General: Before boarding a plane, learn to draw. Especially boats and goats.”
“Bah,” snorted General de la Fesse. “Do you have the goods?”
Mac handed him a thin manila envelope in exchange for a brown bag containing two McPoulets, one Frites Géant, and one Grand Coca-Cola.
A mommy worm feeding her fledglings succulent sparrows was the sole witness to the arms deal that had just taken place.
