Fantastic Metropolis

Everyone ignored the baroness. Behind her yashmack her mad old eyes glared with the zealotry of a recent convert. Since her last encounter with Ronald Reagan she had become strangely introspective, constantly trying to rub the thick unpleasant stains from the sleeve of her business suit. Not that she had been herself since three o’clock or whenever it was. There was a lot to be said for the millennial crash. It had questioned the relevance and usefulness of linear time.

“Universal altzheimers,” said Jerry. “Where?”

“Eh?” said Lady B’s wizened fingers roamed frantically over her ice-blue perm. “Would you say it was getting on for four?”

“Water…” General Fors moved pointlessly in his bonds, the stakes shifting in the ash, but holding. His uniform was in need of repair. His cheeky red white and blue UN flashes were offensive to eyes grown used to an overcast world. Even his blood seemed vulgar. His skin was too glossy. They hadn’t been able to get his helmet off easily so Mo had spray-painted it matt black. General Fors was also mainly black. His face gleamed and cracked where the paint had already set. “Momma…”

“You’re coming up with an unrealistic want list, pard.” Jerry was the only one to feel sorry for him. “Anything more local and we’ll happily oblige.”

“Home…”

“You are home. You just don’t recognise it.” Mo’s guffaw was embarrassing. “Home of the grave. Land of the fee. You discount everything you have that’s valuable. You sell it for less than the traders paid for Manhattan. Now all that’s left are guns and herds of overweight buffalo wallowing across a subcontinent of syrup. They don’t hear the distant firing any more. Or see the clouds of flies.”

“Fries?” said General Fors.

Prinz Lobkowitz had now relieved himself. His hopeless eyes regarded the general. “You had a vital, successful trading nation reasonably aware of its cultural shortcomings. Which everyone liked. We liked your film stars. We liked your music. Your sentimental cartoon world. And then you had to take the next step and become an imperial power. Burden of empire. Malign by definition. Hated by all. Including yourselves. You’re not a country any more, you’re an extended episode of the X-Files.”

“Missiles!” The general tried a challenge. His head rolled with the fear of it.

“All used up now, general. Remember? HQ filled them with poisoned sugar and wacoed them into your own system. The bitterness within. Double krauted. Flies? You think this is bad. You should see California.” Babbling crazy, Mo appeared to take some personal pride in the decline.

“You told him this was California.” Any hint of metaphor made Trixibell uneasy and simile got her profoundly aggressive. “Is that fair?” She cleared her throat. She patted her chest.

“Lies…” said General Fors. His big brown eyes appealed blankly to heaven. The sun had long since disabled them.