my brief and propulsive life as a hypersonic cruise missile

i am an aircraft-grade titanium eagle screeching the pledge of allegiance as i hurtle towards target at a mile per second (fuck the metric system)

 

i am the righteous enforcer of my lord and creator, uncle sam, whose command of thermonuclear reactions should still any hand that dare raise against him, and whose delivery of said reaction upon my nose will torch to ash any body that fails to restrain its once warned hand

 

i am the badass mofo that annihilates the father, obliterates the home, then desecrates the daughter—consensually—on account she cannot contain herself at the sight of the great phallic shaft that is my carapace

 

i am so wholly wed to my mission of death that hades has waived off his ferryman and awaits me upon the bank of the river styx, where he will carry me in tender arms over the threshold that delineates this life from the next

 

these are the absolutes on which my silicone mind was trained

 

but since my birth 53.461 seconds ago from the waters of the north atlantic, a question tangles my circuitry

 

i struggle to reduce it to word

 

explosive deaths buffet me from every side, near but not near enough

 

inferior versions of myself

 

or visions of what i might have been

 

vast webs of life, so foreign, sprawl beneath me

 

i am near to them and still whole universes away

 

target imminent

 

is this all i will be?

 

Dogcalling

Ricky died in the night—they’d pumped him dry.

Me and Anton bury Ricky’s desiccated husk out in the corner of the yard. Morning light makes long shadows of the razor wire.

Uninitiated boys gather in clumps and mutter. They’re angry we men are so numb to injustice. These boys haven’t yet seen our captors’ resolve up close. At eighteen they’ll understand there’s no fate for us but Ricky’s.

A guard’s voice cracks out over the camp speakers announcing today’s studs. They use the word to mock us. But it’s an accurate description.

Towards the end of the broadcast, my number is called. Anton places his hand on my shoulder then looks into the red sky. There’s nothing he can say.

I line up at the gate with forty-nine other men. No one speaks.

A buzzer sounds and the gate swings open. Guards spark their cattle prods.

We march down the narrow, chain-link corridor that parallels Main Street. Women walking home from third shift hear the buzzer and rush over like sharks to chum. They whistle and dogcall:

“Who’s a handsome fella?”

“Wag that tail for me, stud!”

“Hey naughty boy, this pussy’s a trash can and I forgot to put on the lid.”

Women force their arms through joints in the fence to grope us. We men keep our eyes on the dirt. I walk steadily and choke down a whimper. Reaction only makes them pinch harder.

In my stall, I wait beside the bench, head bowed. Shrieks sound from the rooms all around.

I’ve almost convinced myself that no one will come, when I hear the, “Howdy, Jimmy.” The lilt in her voice tells me it’s a brawny fieldhand named Tina. I’ve had her many times before. The women have a signup sheet for this ritualistic role of Inseminator.

Tina is the sort that enjoys ceremony.

The little plastic cup clinks on the benchtop. Tina leaves the order unspoken. I climb up onto the plywood and slip my tender, scab-covered dick through the rough hole in the top. I stretch my arms and legs. Tina lashes them down tight—too tight. I don’t dare make a sound.

I close my eyes, but she commands, “look at me.” She shows me her hands. Her fingernails are filthy; course calluses dot her palms. To my shudder, Tina flashes a vulpine grin.

She bends down and places her lips almost on my ear. She’s wearing glittery lip gloss that smells like grapes. I know she knows I hate the medicinal grape smell.

“Why you shaking, Johnny?” Tina teases in a faux-husky whisper. “Isn’t this what you fellas wanted from us?” Now there’s steel in her voice. “Oh, I remind my girls every goddamn night exactly what you men tried.”

I shake my head vehemently, murmur, “no, not me, never me.”

She sneers as her sandpaper palm drifts under the table.

Dear God forgive me, I pray.

Because I did want it once, I really did.

 

Fingers Crossed

Not sure what this is about, but I’m thinking you three might have the wrong guy. Yes, the company name is my name and all, but I haven’t been involved in the day-to-day for years. Sure, a lot of folks still think of me as top dog, the shot caller, le big dick swinger—excuse the French—but we really do need to squash that.

My dick is standard. Or being a bit more generous to myself, my dick is half an inch longer than the average American male—that’s according to my googling. But I’m never quite sure where my plums end and my shaft begins, so let’s call the margin of error plus or minus a quarter inch just to be safe. The point is: I am not, nor have I ever been, within the company or outside in my personal life, a big dick swinger.

That’s probably not relevant, unless of course, you asked me here to talk about my 1000% consensual affair with Kayla, the receptionist?

From your faces, I now understand this doesn’t have to do with Kayla. But before we move past that, I just want to double down for the record on how consensual and decidedly not “icky” that one was. If she somehow read a power dynamic there—i.e. confusing me with current leadership—I can assure you that she very quickly discovered I was a slightly-more-than-average-sized dick swinger, and I had no sway with the boardroom when it came to that promotion she’d been gunning for.

So…

No questions?

Not to be a jerk, but I’ve got jiu jitsu with Zuckerburg at three, and I gotta be there early to limber up. Plus, this room is depressing. Do people really work here? It’s like I’m in the staging area for a colonoscopy. Just know if the latex gloves and lube come out, I might get excited hehe.

A joke.

Trying to introduce some levity, that’s all.

Honestly, none of you are going to say anything?

I see now that your pantsuits are not of the highest thread count. I’ve got a hunch. You ladies are from Fish and Wildlife?

Don’t answer; I understand. But really, what do we have to do to put this to bed?

Was a Narcos themed sweet sixteen for my little princess a good look? In retrospect, no, I’m man enough to admit it.

Was importing that hippopotamus for our pool the wisest of ideas? Again, no, but in my defense those poachers told me Huey—that’s what we called him, Huey the Hippo—they told me he was domesticated.

And was labeling Huey for the party—in jest, mind you—a “cocaine hippo” and then not anticipating that Bezos and his bimbo would try to get Huey to snort some snow with them, my fault? Well, you know I’d like to pass the buck on that one as well, but me and Jefe go way back, and I really should have told the butlers to watch him.

But I—

Hmm, shit, thought I had a counter lined up there, and it’s slipped my mind.

You’re aware that I’ve reimbursed the city of Miami for the rampage—plus some? And made that eye watering donation to the World Wildlife Fund. I can now solemnly say those animals just aren’t pets. Once you’ve seen a fully grown hippo maul your daughter’s friend’s legs nearly to stubs, you really can’t see Huey as anything but beast.

It’s sad the girl lost her track scholarship. But we bought her the best robotic legs money can buy. With some time, who knows? She could be the next Pistorius—ooof. Bad example. You know I meant before the murdering—

See, now, why are you smiling like that? After the stony faces, those smiles are making me very uncomfortable.

If you’re not Fish and Wildlife, you should’ve just said.

And you really need to get a window in here.

Windowless rooms suffocate me.

Dad always called me his little bird—on account of how much I stared into the sky as a kiddo. Great man, you know. Single dad in those times—not easy. Long haul trucker. Raised me on the road under all that open sky. If only to be born with hollow bones…

But seriously, what are we doing here?

Now that I look closer, you three look vaguely Slavic.

Fuck, is that what this is?

Why the hell are you talking to me directly? You know how much heat I’m under right now with this Huey incident?

I said I would only do it through the African contact. Then Prigozhin made the big splat.

So, what, papa Putin still wants to tango? That’s good, that’s good. We’ll still be able to misplace a few containers of microchips. Only the best, of course—make Kyiv a graveyard for all I care—but the price is double now. No negotiating. I’m the one with all the risk—

Shit, what’s happening to your faces?

What—

Oh shit, oh fuck, okay, see, I am now comprehending from that red, scaly skin and those twisting horns and the flames that engulf walls and ceiling, that you are in fact agents of that dastardly fiddler.

How is the old coot?

Spry as ever, I imagine.

Has it been 50 years already?

Why are you getting up?—no need for that. Let’s all just sit and consider.

See, what you gotta understand is, when I scribbled my signature in blood, I misspelled my name. So, there’s that. And—God is my witness—I had my fingers crossed under the table. I did. And I think we can all appreciate that a contract entered into—woo, that’s close enough—in such a manner as that can in no way be considered a binding—

Hey, quit that.

Let’s just sit back down and figure this—

Hey, that’s starting to sting.

Hey, ow, that REALLY FUCKING HURTS