Monday, November 01, 2004


On the Verge

On the Beltway, the mantids swarm. Ahead lie Washington, the Enemy Fish, and Future Glory. At their head stands Pat Robertson, aglow with the setting sun.

"Onward!" he cries. The buzzing and the whirring as they start across the overpass drowns out thought.

* * * *

In the White House, Catfish Billy dives into the president's tank, breathes deep.

"Yes, Billy?" Lincoln says. "Good news, I hope?"

"Very good, Mr. President," Catfish Billy says. "The bomb is operational. The dolphins are swimming it to the Gulf as we speak."

"Excellent," Lincoln says. "And you've arranged for ground transportation from Galveston?"

"Of course, Mr. President," Catfish Billy says. "The bomb will be in place tomorrow morning before the polls open."

"We're really going to get her this time, aren't we Billy," Lincoln says.

"I think so, sir," Catfish Billy nods.

* * * *

"What's the matter, George?" Laura says, pouring honey all over her words. "You're so restless. Sit, please."

"I can't relax," George says.

"I know, hon," Laura says. "It's tomorrow, isn't it."

"Huh?" George says. "What is?"

"Tomorrow," Laura says. "The election. The Million Mantid March."

"The March is tomorrow?" George says. "I thought we watched it go by a week ago."

"We did," Laura says. "But tomorrow they converge on Washington."

"Oh yeah?" George says.

Laura blinks. "Well," she says, "if it isn't any of that, then what on earth is it?"

"Gotta take a dukey," George says with a squirm and a smirk. "And it ain't ready to come out yet. It just keeps rumblin around inside there like some kinda, I don't know, insect swarm or somethin. Fartin like a son of a bitch, scuse the language. Oh--oh, wait--wait, now--I think it's--sorry, hon, gotta run ..."

George crab-walks to the bathroom. Laura sighs.

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