“Yeah, I ain’t joking Sarg.  The order’s from the POA’s own account, an’ it literally says: ‘Cut the treason-iss traitor in two,’” the EPA soldier pushes his thick glasses further up his nose, strokes his thin goatee.  

            “It’s got one of them spelling mistake as he always makes,” he nods, purses his lips in a practiced manner, looks up across the desks at the Sergeant. “Did you know that the first one, the orange-ish one, that they had to get rid of for …, well you know and all.  Anyways, he useta spell like that too.  Dad says that’s how President’s write to show they’re like real people, not liberals an’ perfessors.”

            “It’s God as does that,” the Sergeant shakes her head, her cheeks and chins quivering.  “Y’all oughta knows by now, that He don’t trust human words, don’t have no respec’ for ‘em.  Y’all builds yer house on rock by listenin’ to our Lord’s words.  It’s all in t’Bible, Private Belanger – if an’ ye’re a lookin’ fer salvation.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Belanger says, leaning back to his computer, tapping the keys.  “He’s mad too, listen to this: ‘Videographic evidence to be provided to the office of the President of ‘Merica.’”

            “My, oh my,” she breaths out heavily, runs a pudgy hand through her regulation short, brown hair.  “Well, t’wages a sin is death, so’s I image this poor sinner’s a gonna git paid too-day.”

The Sergeant’s hands whiten as she strains to raise her bulk out of the chair.  Once standing, she uses the face-to-face metal desks to prop herself up, and scuffing her black, orthopedic shoes across the bare concrete floor of the loading dock, she starts to work her way around to look at her subordinate’s computer screen. 

“I never did hear no order like that afore, least n’ all not in my’s five years a here.” 

“I guess this Con G822 is an extremely treasonous traitor.  I mean this is from the Generalissimo’s official account … .”

“Don’t be a usin’ that word,” the Sergeant snaps. “It’s agin reg’lations!”

She speeds up her scuffing, rounds Belanger’s desk, her index finger pointing accusingly at his face.  

“On Wednesday, January 30, 2030, the Pres’dent writ a order forbiddin’ people as a callin’ him that word.  I ‘member that date too well, ‘cause an’ it was the day afore my little ‘un final …,” she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, “gave in ta the Crona-virus.”

She turns her gaze up into the iron structure of the loading dock ceiling. 

“An’ I hopes in Heaven they knows, if only he coulda stayed long enough ta talk, then he for sure woulda died in our Lord, like an’ all the Mashe family ben a doin’ since mamma’s mamma’s mamma foun’ Christ.”

She purses her lips, eyes unfocused, distant.  

“An’, … an’ Belanger,” she breaths in hard, her focus returning, arm raising, index finger re-aimed at her subordinate’s face.  “That’s the secondest time this week, I heard y’all a usin’ the ‘G’ word; once a more, an’ I’m a gonna have to write ya up – reg’lations.”

“Ok, ok, ok, Sarg,” Belanger tips his chair back on two legs, throws his gangling arms up behind his head, almost hitting the Sergeant’s red-shirted torso, as she shuffles into his space.  “Dad says, … well he used to say before it was illegal, that that name creates fear, and fear is what we need to root out the rest a them liberals.  Dad likes to say, ‘a little fear goes a long way in ‘Merica.’  He says that’s the Gen … President’s main philosophy.  And he ought to know – I mena he’s met the President, right?”

“I dunno,” the Sergeant answers, leaning on the desk, breathing in heavily.  “I don’t be a truckin’ with no phil …, phil…oss…sophie like an’ all as you Belangers be a wastin’ yer times on.  I lives by faith, not by sight, jus’ as the Bible a tells me ta do.  But let me tell y’all, the Safety Major in Palm Beach, who sees the Pres’dent alls the time, says the  Pres’dent thinks that word makes him sound like he’s a dick…tator, an’ not the God appointed leader of ours country.”

Belanger slams his chair back to the floor, pushes his palms down along the front of his shirt, lurches toward his computer screen.

“Wait’ll you see,” he breathes out, clenching and unclenching his teeth.  “This traitor’s probably a perfessor, or an abortionist, or a librarian – dad says they’re the worst, think they know so much more than regular ‘Mericans.  We all went to school too you know.  Heck, I went to Trinity School back in NYC, … when that was legal.”

“What…evers,” she leans heavily on his desk.  “This sinner’s gotta done sumpten real-real bad for the Pres’dent ta write a order like that.  Cuttin’ a corpse in two aint nuthin’ we wuz never ordered ta do afore.”

“Well, we had to shave that body one time, remember?” Belanger sits back again, arms easing up behind his head, eyes softening.  “And photograph it too.  It was some chic… woman that First Lady number four thought was having an affair with the President?  Dad says you shouldn’t get killed for someone just thinking you’re having an affair.  I mean, she had to be eliminated anyway, ‘cause it turned it out she was a lesbo-terrorist, but he says you should be tried and killed for the crime you committed, not the one … .”

“Belanger!” the Sergeant snaps, her nostrils flaring.  “Let’s a deal with t’problems we do gots, an’ not the ones y’all an’ yer pappy is burnin’ brain oil ‘magining.  Does we even have tools for cuttin’ a body in two?  Can’t believe I’m a askin’ such a question.”

“Sure, we still have the chainsaw I requisitioned for the time we had to cut that NFL’s player’s feet off to get him into the incinerator.”

“A chainsaw!  Well I’d a never thunk we’d come to cuttin’ up a Temple a the Holy Spirit with chainsaws – even an’ if the sinners aint a usin’ them Temples proper,” the Sergeant breathes out loud, shaking her head.  “But orders is orders.  I don’t remembers that guy, what’d y’all say he done?  N…F… what?”

She rubs her eye sockets with the balls of her hands.  

“It must have been back when you were quarantined.  See, this guy was with the South Florida Dolphins, the pro football team.”

The Sergeant looks blurry eyed blankly back at Belanger.

“You really should take a break from reading the Bible and watch a game some time:  They play twice a week, year-round, Wednesdays and Saturdays, taking Lord-day off.  It sure is violent, and them darkies is the most violent; course they don’t last long ‘cause of injuries and such.  But it’s a ton of fun to see them going after one another.”

“The Bible’s a ton of fun too Belanger; thinking ‘bout me ups in Heaven, with my little fellar, an’ maybe my ex too; y’all can get back together up thare you know.  The good book says ta ‘set yer mind on things above,” she casts her eyes up at the loading dock ceiling, “an’ not on earthly things.  Anyhows, all they is a doin’ on TV is givin’ ya bad news, an’ tryin’ ta sell ya stuff they thinks the bad news’ll scare ya inta buyin’.” 

She leans forward, her hands pushing flat against the desk, the skin whitening.  

“Make that screen big the ways y’all do for them photas a hop hippers.”

Belanger’s shoulders rock up and down, one hand holding his nose, the other reaching forward, his fingers splaying the screen wide.

“I done forgot my glasses – agin,” she leans in closer to his screen.  “I don’t know whats a goin’ on, but I can’t hardly see no more, nor remember nuthin’ neither.”

“You know,” Belanger leans his chair back again, arms rising behind his head.  “South Florida hasn’t hardly won a game, except for beating the Illinois Bears – three times in a row – since that idiot got himself eliminated for saying ‘Separate But Equal’ was wrong.  And him living in one of them special compounds the NFL’s got for darkies. ‘A return to a dark past,’ he says.  But he is a darkie, or at least he was before I burned his corpse down to ashes; so, wasn’t he just going back to his own past?”

Belanger laughs loudly, his whole body rocking.  

“Thing is, they do all look the same when I’m shoveling out the ashes, man, woman, darkie, white, lesbo, homo.  No matter: Ashes is ashes.”

The Sergeant leans further forward, her fingers bright-whitening as she peers closely at his computer screen.

“Dad says, that when we was finished with needing them darkies to build this country, they should of all have just gone back home,” Belanger rocks his chair back and forward on two legs.  “And now, with the President’s offer of free ships to Africa, there’s nothing stopping them, except those stoopid countries refusing to let them in.  Things aint good over there in the ‘dark continent,’” he unclasps his hands from behind his head, and makes a quotation mark sign, then re-clasps them.  “Dad saw on the See-cureWeb how they got some new virus over there that killed two million in a month.  I mean four weeks to kill two million – that’s ten times the number of rebels still holding out in the remains of New York City.  If only we could get that virus in there and eliminate all of them in just one month!” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the Sergeant shakes her cheeks and chins, and gives up trying to read the computer screen.  “A guy with a pappy as big an’ smart as your’n, should run for Florida District Council.  Ya all would git ya enough hits on MeTube as for the Party ta endorse ya.  Then y’all’d be livin’ high on the hog in one their pertected manshuns, not worryin’ ‘bout no poor old ‘nvironmental Pertection Agency soldiers down here in West PB; an’ us gittin’ orders now ta cut bodies in two.”

“No, the Party aint my thing.  I’m just a good ‘Merican, committed to my country.  Committed to rooting the last a them liberals out of here,” Belanger flaps his elbows behind his head, his eyes darting around the room.  “You know what’s weird, but I don’t even mind the blacks so much as the liberals.  I mean, the blacks we just want them gone – right?  But we’re stuck with them, living in those Separate But Equal towns, which, cause they don’t take care of them, are just piles of moldy old buildings with roofs caving in, no electricity, water, nothing.  You can kinda understand it with a young black guy.  If he doesn’t make it to the NFL, then he’s kinda got no choice but to end up bombing an’ killing.  But my question is: What is it that’s driving those white, liberal fucks for them to ….”

“That’s it Belanger, I’m a writin’ ye up!” 

She tries to lift her hand to slam it down on the desktop, but the weight of her torso prevents any sudden movements.  

“You know the Pres’dent is agin language like that bein’ used in a ‘Merican Facility.  An’ me, as a Christian mom, ‘r a widow-mom, … whatevers: It’s a sin for me ta hear them words.”

Now she’s erect enough to raise her hand and slap it down.

“Ok!”

“Yes’m,” Belanger whips his hands from behind his head, drags his chair back up to the desk, starts typing wildly on the keyboard, his eyes roving erratically all around the loading dock’s bare cinderblock walls.  “I’ll remember that.  For sure I will Sarg, I’m awful sorry, it’s just my … .”

He trails off into silence, disturbed only by his rapid tapping on the keyboard.

            “Oooo…kay,” the Sergeant breaths out loud.  “I don’t wanna hear no more of that now, y’all a hearing me?”

            “Yes mam,” Belanger clips, sitting erect in front of the computer, eyes still darting around the loading dock.

            “What time’s the corpse a coming down?”

            “Eh, eh,” his eyes return to the computer screen, he deletes the gibberish he’s typed into a cell in the Traitor Disposal Database.  “There is no time given, but he normally does the shootings just before lunch.  Dad says he heard someone at the bar in the Club say that the eliminations help the President’s digestion.  He’s down at WH Too, right?  I heard choppers flying over last night?  And there was gunfire this morning, probably him practicing.”

            “I couldn’t tell ya, even if an’ I knowed: Reg’lations,” she scuffs her way back to her desk, not turning to look at him. 

            “I guess you’re right … again … sarg,” Belanger purses his lips.  “Loose lips, sink ships, right?”

            He sucks in air fast and loud.

            “But I mean, I don’t even know why they keep White House One, heh?  That place aint hardly safe, what with so many darkies and all them liberals from the old commie dictatorship still up in the Mid Atlantic sector.  The other thing that I don’t understand is what do we need two Washingtons for?  You know there’s another one, or used to be anyway, I think it’s still there, somewhere out by where they nuked California, right at the beginning of the war.  Supposedly it was beautiful, the other Washington that is, not California: That was a scary place, all liberals and darkies, and mountain lions, and rattle snakes.  Can you believe they let things like that live with regular people?  But the other Washington was all mountains an’ rivers an’ fields, hardly no cities as needed shutting down.  I think we should get rid of the darkie-liberal Washington, just nuke it.  Dad said they were going to nuke Chicago, to eliminate all the rebels there, but they were afraid Lake ‘Merica would get too full of nukes, I guess they’re bad for you, even after the explosion, so they wouldn’t be able to use it for shipping.  And he says we need the shipping bad, what with the liberals blowing up all the railway tracks and hacking air traffic control all the time.”

            “Y’all an’ yer pappy be mighty busy reorg’nizin’ ‘Merica yet?” the Sergeant sighs, flopping into her chair.  “An’ silly me thought that all was t’President an’ t’Supreme Council’s job.” 

            “Just thinking Sarg, it aint a crime for a young man to think, is it?”

            “I honest dunno no more if a thinking’s good ‘r not.  But I do knows that Proverbs says; ‘the tongue has the power a life an’ death, an’ them as loves it, will fer sure reap its fruit.’”

            “Huh?” Belanger frowns so hard, his glasses move down his nose.

            She stares at him, breathes out, shakes her head, and pushes her face up close to the computer screen.

“Can’t see nuthin’ with n’ out my glasses,” she complains; slumps back in her chair; her torso ballooning her red shirt.  “So probly, it’ll be round’n bout one, by the time the corpse a gits here?  I’m still not a sure how we all git it a cut in two.  What else does it say thare.”

            “So here’s the whole order Sarg,” Belanger sits upright, draws in a deep breath.  “‘Con G822, to be eliminated, October 7, 2031, as a treason-iss traitor, pursuant to investigations of the Committee for ‘Merican Safety.  EPA to cut the body in two.  Videographic evidence to be provided to the Office of the President of ‘Merica, forthwith.’  That means, fast; like he aint messing round on this one.”

“Well, it’s strange fer sure.  I mean how’d we all a cut him in two?  An’ why take a vid-dao of it?” the Sergeant tries to fold her arms, but gives up and lays them on the desktop.  “We musta done a few hunderd, maybe a thousand traitors since the first Assumption to Power back in twen’y five.  I mean it was hard at first, but then when y’all heard how bad they wuz … the things Safety a said them people done!”

She shakes her head.

“An’ fer sure it was much slower under the one Without God, but maybe that wuz ‘cause the devil jus’ twisted he’s mind so bad, an’ he a ended up all lazy an’ greedy, an’ jealous, eatin’ all days ever’day, an’ them nakid women parties over in WH Too.  An’ … an’ then he’s mistresses gittin’ secret ‘bortions.  That was sinful, … so sinful.”

She shakes her head, breathing out heavily, runs the back of her hand over her forehead.  

“Did breakfast ever comes? My tummy’s a tellin’ me it’s gotta be at leas’ oh nine hunderd by now.”

            “I thought I just heard the Mississippi truck pull up out back.”

            He scrapes his chair back across the floor; walk-marches over to the loading dock door, executing sharp rights and lefts; pulls back the vision slot; peers out; then hits the red button to unlock the door.

Outside, the morning is hot, humid, the air thick with mosquitos.  

The Sergeant pushes her face up close to her computer screen, her eyebrows furrowed, forehead dampened with a sheen of sweat.  

Belanger grabs an aerosol can of Don’t Bug Me hung from a string screwed to the door frame, cracks the door open, and sprays the can out through the crack.

            “You dope!” the Sergeant shrieks, struggling to stand up, metal chair-legs dragging hard against the concrete floor.  “Y’all know them devil’s agents a comin’ in up top n’ down low, while yer a sprayin’ t’middle,” 

            Belanger doesn’t react, instead he steps into the haze of Don’t Bug Me, grabs the white paper bag, and ducks back inside, slamming the door closed, whacking the red button with palm of his hand.

            “There’s like tens a thousands of ‘em in here now,” she continues, panic in her voice.  

She stands by the desk; thrusting her bulk toward any sign of movement in the air; clapping her hands wildly.

            “I swear to the good Lord, if an’ I die from Nile virus, my moms a movin’ inta yer pappy’s ‘partment in PB.  Where else she’d a go?  We’d a lose the EPA ‘partment with me gones.”

            She yanks open a desk drawer, pulls out a pocket-book sized can of Don’t Bug Me, and starts spraying.

            “Hey, hey, hey!” Belanger almost yells.  “That’s poison, it’ll get on the food.”

            “The Pres’dent wouldn’t a be a sellin’ no bug spray, if an’ it done us no harm.  Anyhows, I don’t care, I’d a prefer ta die a poison than disease.  If Crona an’ West Niles didn’t happen to good folks, I’d a say they was new plagues, like outta t’Bible.”

She pouts, but stops spraying, her gaze drifting off into the loading dock’s high ceiling.

            “What’d you get?” Belanger says his face half in the bag of food.  “Bacon, egg and cheese?”

            “Yep, but two of ‘ems, on plain donuts, right?  An’ withs jelly?”

Belanger hands her the sandwiches and a tall, electric-purple drink.  For himself, he pulls out an iced coffee, condensation bubbling on the clear plastic.

“I ben a eatin’ this sandwich for thurty-three years, since I wuz like … three,” she peels back the paper.  “Truth is, I couldn’t a start my day, wouldn’t be able ta do my job right, if an’ I didn’t have a good breakfast like momma useta make.  Even when dad tooks off, an’ we was a livin’ in grandma’s leaky old doublewide, we’d all be a sittin’ thare at the little blue table, an’ the roof a droopin’ down on momma an’ grandma’s heads, I was too little for an’ it ta bother me, an’ us a eatin’ this vury same sandwich.”

The Sergeant sinks her teeth into the plain donuts. 

Belanger march-walks to his chair, stops, swivels, sits straight­-backed and takes a regulated first sip of his iced coffee.

            “Hey Sarg,” he says, the straw barely out of his mouth, “did you see on News ’Merica, how they caught some guy, like an old perfessor, I mean he wasn’t old, but he had been a perfessor when that was legal, before the Assumption,” Belanger leans towards his screen, taps the keyboard.  “Anyway, they caught him in a bombed-out apartment building with a bunch of books – old ones, even an illegal copy of the old, incorrect, Constitution.  It was somewhere real backwards, Boston or Baltimore or Buffalo, one a them stoopid places.  Anyways, he held off Safety for a few hours.  He had a gun – an old AR!  Could use it too.  I guess he was ex-military, he fought back in one of them liberals wars in Afghanaa… Afghanawhogivesashit, but Safety blas… .”

            “That’s it Belanger!” she slams her keyboard.  “I am filin’ a religion complaint, right now.  It’s a sin agin my Christian faith ta have ta work with someones as keeps swearin’ an’ cuss… .”

            “I’m so sorry Sarg,” he jumps to his feet, scraping his chair loudly.  “Look, I’m only twenty-two, dad says I just need to keep a clean sheet, and he’ll get me into Safety.  See, I didn’t hardly sleep a wink last night, my meds are all off, and now this cutting in two thing’s got me all stressed.  It’s just old habits from growing up in a city. I’m in a support group and everything.  I’m working the problem, believe me, dad’s got me on it.”

            She grabs her sandwich, chomps into it, her eyes blazing, mounds of jelly forming at either end of her lips, as she glares at him.  

            He tries to keep eye contact, but his eyes can’t stop roving.

            “Well, it aints mys fault, yer family was doofus enough,” she stops to inhale through her purple-food filled mouth, “as to live in a city. If an’ it wasn’t for the Pres’dent declarin’ them all liberal-traitor-swamps, then maybe t’Belangers’d still be livin’ thare.”

            She chews hard; a sheen of sweat rising on her face; takes a long, squelchy sip of her purple drink.

            Belanger stands still, his face pointed in her direction, but his eyes roving over the desks, the floor, the block walls.

            “Com’ on sarg, I prom…ise you, I’m on this,” he bows his head slightly, forces his eyes to settle on hers.  “We’ll get this traitor cut in two, and you won’t have to do nothing, only put your name on the form that says we completed yet another order for the President.”

            She chews and stares; her jaws moving in a slow circular motion; takes another long sip; but before she’s even removed the straw from her lips, her right index finger is aimed at Belanger’s face.

            “I’m a tellin’ ya kid, y’all aint Safety material,” she opens her mouth to breath, exposing a mash of purple stained bread, meat-product and jelly.  “My ex, he done like three months with ‘em.  Cuttin’ a stiff in two aint nuthin’ compared as to what theys gotta do.  There’s kids y’all gotta … you know … lot a times them liberals, specially perfessors an’ such, them have a lot a little ‘uns.”

            She stares at him, her jaws grinding the food.

“Well, they gotta goes too, don’t they?” she shakes her chins and cheeks.  “The Pres’dent a calls it ‘the rats nest phen…, phenom …’ thing, right?” 

Her eyes never leave his.  

“It aint that easy, is all I’m a sayin’.”

            “I’m ready,” Belanger swells his chest, shoulders back, arms tight by his side.  “Whatever it takes to keep ‘Merica safe.”

            “Hmmph,” she snorts and swallows noisily.  “Plus, I think they don’t take no ones from a city.  I mean, what with Safety’s air-oh-plane’s a pourin’ God’s sulfur an’ fire all over cities, peoples a comin’ outta thare gotta be pretty mess… .”

She moves to point her index finger at her head, then switches to lifting up her drink. 

“There might even be one a them secret reg’lations agin city folks a joinin’ Safety – jus’ sayin’.”

She stares out over the top of her cup at him; electric-purple liquid shooting up the plastic straw.  

Blindly, Belanger wraps a foot around a chair leg and drags it back toward him.  Sitting, he tucks himself into the desk, pushes his glasses up his nose, and peers at the computer screen.

The room is silent, other than the sound of the Sergeant eating, and the crinkle of paper as he opens his bag of food, then pushes it aside.

“Ok,” she drains her purple drink with a vacuuming sound.  “The Pres’dent’s order is for us ta cut this traitor in two – right?  So Private First Class Belanger, tell me how y’all plan on ‘chievin’ that?”

“Well,” he sits back in his chair, starts to lift his hands up behind his head, but stops when he sees the stern look on her face.

“One way would be to cut off the feet, just below the knees, the bone is thinner there.  Like I did for the NFL stiff,” he looks earnestly at her.  

She circulates her tongue between her gums and lips, bulging out the loose flesh, as she pursues fugitive food.

“I mean that would be strictly following the order.”

“Really?  Wouldn’t y’all be cuttin’ it in three?  I mean two legs, an’ the leftovers?”

“Strictly speaking, yes; but I can’t imagine the President would have a problem with more than two parts.  And it is a more efficient way to do the cutting.  I mean I had the NFL guy apart in, … like ten minutes, other than the hours of clean up.”

“I don’t a like it.  Pres’dent’s too smart for us to be a cuttin’ sumpten in three, when he said two, just ‘cause an’ it’s easier.  Y’all think ‘Merica’ got great by peoples doin’ thangs the easy way – heh?”

She shakes her cheeks and chins but stops to wipe the back of her hand across her mouth, catching the jelly smears.

“How abouts,” she starts, but stops to lick the back of her hand.  “We cut it right across the belly?  It’s only guts n’ stuff in there, be like cuttin’ melted cheese – wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, that could work,” Belanger takes a deep breath, raises his eyebrows.  “I mean, that could get messy, with the guts flowing everywhere, bits of them flying off the blade.  That chainsaw moves fast.  And the spine’s in there somewhere too.  I think that might be harder to cut than a leg bone.”

“Awright city genius; what’s yer big idea, ‘n it’s gotta add up ag…zactly ta two pieces?”

Belanger forces his chin down and out to the right, the skin on his face stretching so far, his glasses twitching on his nose.

“How … about we cut off the head, that adds up to … .”

“That’s decah … decap … decapitalization, aint it.  The Pres’dent’s order didn’t say nuthin’ ‘bout that, an’ he knows that ‘n all.  Back in the beginnin’, somebody done that ta one o’ them New York newspaper fellers; an’ the Pres’dent now, he was outta the army then I thinks, he wuz jus’ a wasting he’s time in that stoopid old Congress, but he didn’t like the cuttin’ heads off thing at … all.  Called it barbar-aric, like as them filthy Muslim terrorists a do.  No, we aint decapitalizing this guy, no way, no how.  That aint t’order.”

“For sure it’s not written in the order, but it does end up with two parts, and the chainsaw could do it, no problem.  I’d just come in from the bac … .

“Nah, they’re a looking for a vid-dao.  The Pres’dent could get mad, he’s got a temper y’all know, if an’ he sees a decap…, one of them head cuttin’ offs, an’ he’s  aspectin’ to see a vid-dao of a body in two big parts.  Now as I recall it, the Safety Major over in PB did tol’ me a story ‘bout one time that he had ta take a vid-dao of he’s guys draggin’ a traitor round the block a few times behinds a pickup.  It was some real bad spy, they’all a caught her a sendin’ army plans an’ photas ta Brazil, or China, or one of thems enemy countries.  Anyhows, t’Major submitted the vid-dao, per t’order; an’ he’s boss’s boss tol’ he’s boss, who tol’ him, that they’all showed that vid-dao one Saturday night when they had a bunch a Saudis over for one a them Unity Banquets.”

“Why does the President like the sand-rats so much - heh?  Dad says we should just invade and take all the oi … ,” he stops ‘cause the Sergeant’s face is twisted into snarl, as she tries to rise up out of her chair using one arm, the other arm aimed at him, index finger thrusting at his face.

“Ye’re all done Belanger, ya can forget ‘bout Safety.  I don’t care who yer pappy’s neighbors be.  Y’all aint a even goin’ to last with t’EPA.  The South Ah-rabs is our friends, maybe ours onliest real friends on this here planet, an’ them a taken such good care a the Holy Land for us n’ all.  An’ here y’all is, a EPA soldier, in a ‘Merican Facility, calling them names as only a city kid uses.”

She gives up attempting to stand, flops back into her chair, her torso flooding the space between the chair’s arms.

“I’m a gonna get Form one oh-oh seven a up here.  I’m a goin’ straight for firin’ this time, if an’ I can see anythin’ without ma gla… .”

A loud pounding on the door silences her.  

She flicks her eyes from the computer screen to the door, and back to Belanger.

The pounding continues like a regular drumbeat; the noise reverberating in the high volume of the loading dock.

Belanger jumps up; chair scraping back; hands closed into fists; eyes staring at the door.

“There are no other deliveries today, is there Sarg?” he turns to her, his forehead furrowed.

“Y’all wuz t’one on t’computer, only the cuttin’ in two a one, right?  Maybe they all had a party last night – made some more?”

“We need to get a camera for this door.  What if that’s some crazed librarian out there, looking to kill all of us working to keep ‘Merica safe?”

“Jus’ answer the door.  I ben here like five years an’ nuthin’ but stiffs come through that door, an’ one bomb, but that was a fake delivery.”

“See!” Belanger’s torso curves in on itself, his shoulders hunching forward.  “They’re out there, but Safety’s too soft on them.  I’d wipe out the goddam lot of them.”

“Belanger!”

The pounding on the doors gets louder, quicker.

“I’m a telling you for the final-final-est time, the Florida EPA General’s a reverend minister, an’ he don’t ‘preciate no one a takin’ Christ the Redeemer’s name in vain.”

“Go ahead an’ do what you got to do,” Belanger nods fiercely at her, his face taut.  “While I’m following your die-rect order to open the door and let terrorist abortioning perfessors overrun this ‘Merican Facility.”

He stomps over to the door; peers through the slot; whacks the red button; and whips the door open.

A human, in a bloodied jumpsuit, its face so wet-blooded the skin-tone can’t be made out, is push-stumbled into the room at rifle point.

Behind him swaggers a Kevlar suited and face-masked soldier.

“Here, … this traitor’s yours,” the soldier’s deep voice says, hooking his foot easefully around the jumpsuit leg, and pushing the prisoner forward so it falls face forward onto the floor.  

“AAAAHHH!” the prisoner screams, trying to writhe in pain, but the tight chain manacling it from feet to hands to neck, prevents any movement.  

The prisoner tries to turn its face to breath, daubing the floor with a bloody skid-mark.

“’An’ parently y’all gotta cut the dope two,” the soldier barks, waving a sheet of paper at Belanger’s face.  “An’ … they’all wants a vidao of the cuttin’ sent right aways ta the big house.  Needs it fer a berthday party as is happenin’ tonite up thare for Emp-poorer Poot’n.”

The Sergeant’s face blanches.  She clenches her teeth, and tries to spring from her chair, nudges forward, but gives up.

“Takes that pris’ner outta here with y’all,” she yells, aiming her pudgy index finger at the soldier’s Kevlar facemask.  “We’all don’t got nuthins’ ta do with living folks ‘ere; we on’y burns up dead bodies.”

The soldier’s shoulders and neck arch slightly as he turns his facemask towards the Sergeant.  

“Go on now,” she huffs up enough energy to stand.  “Git ‘im … it outta here.”

“Hah,” the soldier scoff-laughs, spittle flying out the mouth opening of his facemask.  “That’s yourn’s problem now.”

He turns and leaves, reaching his hand behind him to slam the door shut.

The Sergeant stares at the door, then flicks her eyes to Belanger, who’s staring down at the prisoner.  

She fast-scuffs out from behind her desk, leans over slightly to peer down at the prisoner, then back to Belanger.  He remains standing by the door, straight-backed, his eyes roving wildly from the prisoner’s blooded body, all over the room and back to the prisoner.

“Belanger!” she raises her voice sharply, glaring at her subordinate.

His eyes keep roving around the room and back to the prisoner. 

“What in the name of our Creator n’ Pertector we all gonna do now?”

Both sets of eyes settle on the prisoner trying to writhe.