The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror by J. M. Porup

educated. Taught that the way to happiness lies in following the Prophet’s air-only diet. It is my hope that one day soon we will both be out of a job.”
    Green cocked an eyebrow. “Because they fire us?”
    “Harry,” I said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I love you like a brother, but sarcasm does not become you. When no more food terrists remain to threaten our national security, a day that is coming soon, then our jobs will no longer be needed.”
    “Frolick’s got a point, you know,” Thinn said, jamming the last of his fries in his mouth.
    “You think so?”
    “Sure. Since the Amendment passed, D.C.’s become a corruption-free zone. I was just saying that down at the station the other day. Wasn’t I, boys?”
    “You was saying exactly that, Sarge,” Officer Nice said.
    I held my palms out wide. “You see?”
    Green crossed his arms. “Alright then. I’m open to suggestions. Who would do such a thing? A bulimic stick-up artist who picked the wrong guy?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I turned to look across the street at the Thin House lit up by floodlights. To think that purity could live so close to crimes like this. “Only thing I’m sure of is that I don’t like it.”
    “Neither does the Prophet,” said a voice from the shadows.
    I was on my feet before the voice finished speaking, Laxafier in hand. Green, at my side, had his out too.
    The owner of the voice stepped into the light. The cops swallowed hastily and hid their burger bags. Except for Thinn, who seemed surprisingly unconcerned. Green and I holstered our weapons. I forced myself to relax.
    “Jumpy,” the man said. He grinned, his face a death’s-head mask in the light of the streetlamp. “Aren’t we?”
    I stiffened my spine, flung my palm out at an angle. “Go the Power of Air!” I shouted.
    The others did the same.
    He wore the black trench coat and red tape measure of the Skinny Service. He flipped open his badge, but I didn’t bother to check it. His fourteen-inch waist said it all.
    He returned our salute with a limp hand. “Go the Power of Air,” he said in a bored tone of voice.
     
    When the Prophet took office, he transferred the old Secret Service to the FBI’s counterfeiting division, and hired a new squad of intensely loyal, super skinny bodyguards. You had to have at most a fifteen-inch waist just to get an interview. I should know. I had been bombarding their office with my resumé for the last two years. It had been my dream from the beginning to work for them. To report directly to the Prophet in the Trapezoidal Office itself. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get my waistline under eighteen inches. I’m sure many of you out there can sympathize with my struggle. I even tried eating less air. Nothing worked.
    What’s that? The Prophet redesigned the shape of his office so that it would no longer be in the same shape as the food paraphernalia known in street lingo as “platters,” which were often in the form of an oval.
    Now the SS were the best of the best, the thinnest of the thin. We called them the Unpinchables. As in, “can’t pinch an inch.” Their job was to protect the Prophet. It was also to root out corruption at all levels of government. This, despite the theoretical impossibility of such anomalies. The ATFF and Food Bureau of Investigation went after food dealers and grow-ops, and, increasingly, organized food crime. The SS went after people like Judge Ibble with his cheesecake—although I still think they were wrong about that one. Also district attorneys taking burrito bribes, even the occasional ATFF man caught with a single Tic Tac in his shoe.
    This last was the worst possibility. Possession of even a single calorie by an ATFF agent was considered a breach of the oath of office, and punishable by 180 days in Fat Camp, the maximum permitted under the Amendment.
    There is no crime more serious than a violation of the public