The Future of Terror / 1

The generalissimo’s glands directed him to and fro.Geronimo! said the über-goon we called God, and we were off to the races. Never mind that we could only grow gray things, that inspecting the horses’ gums in the gymnasium predicted a jagged road ahead. We were tired of hard news— it helped to turn down our hearing aids. We could already all do impeccable imitations of the idiot, his insistent incisors working on a steak as he said there’s an intimacy to invasion. That much was true. When we got jaded about joyrides, we could always play games in the kitchen garden with the prisoners. Jump the Gun, Fine Kettle of Fish and Kick the Kidney were our favorites. The laws the linguists thought up were particularly lissome, full of magical loopholes that spit out medals. We had made the big time, but night still nipped at our heels. The navigator’s needle swung strangely, oscillating between the oilwells and ask again later. We tried to pull ourselves together by practicing quarterback sneaks along the pylons, but the race to the ravine was starting to feel as real as the R.I.P.’s and roses carved into rock. Suddenly the sight of a schoolbag could send us scrambling.