“Absolutely not, General.”
“You’ll be dazzled by her, Jenkins.”
“Nope.”
“Ahem.”
“Nope, sir”
“Balderdash. You’re a cook, Jenkins. And over every meal you prepare, you sprinkle a dash of balder.”
“Sir, what is an ‘Abibiman Nsoroma’?”
“Abillabong Nsurance.”
“Can we take as read the part where you humorously mispronounce the words two or three times?”
“I suppose.”
“What does that phrase mean, sir?”
“Summertime Master of the Burning Fire that Eats Sin with Great Big Teeth and Magic Sword.”
“I don’t think it does, sir.”
“Are you accusing an officer of lying, Jenkins?”
“No, sir. For a lie to exist, intent must factor in. I have no way of knowing the intent of your statement, so I have no grounds upon which to call it a lie. However, I will say that the statement you gave was anti-factual.”
“You’re saying we should blame the statement?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Capital idea. Take the statement outside and have it shot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Abyssianian Nsurrection means whatever it means. It belongs to the U.S. Army now.”
“I suppose you’ve given it–”
“She’s called the Screamin’ Mimi.”
“–a new name. Yes, sir. Excellent choice. From what weird foreign place did you acquire this deathtrap, General?”
“An ally of the United States. Except for Maine. They’ve broken off diplomatic relationships with Maine. There was an incident at a Portland discotheque.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“Winter was much colder when I was a child.”
“About where you got this thing from, sir.”
“Dammit, man, don’t interrupt an officer when he’s having a reverie!”
“I apologize, sir.”
“Mimi came from somewhere. She came from where she came from. Back down, young man. That’s an order.”
“You bought it off the internet, didn’t you, sir?
“I did, yes.”
“Is that within regulations?”
“Oh God, no, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed: a bit of a free-for-all situation going on right now. I struck while the iron is hot.”
“You got drunk and ordered the means of my death off Ebay.”
“Both statements are correct, Jenkins. Mine in a metaphorical sense, yours in a literal one. Now stop dilly-dallying. I forbid both the dilly and the dally.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Obviously, shilly-shallying is also off the table.”
“Obviously, sir. A question.”
“Quick one.”
“Are those bottle rockets?”
“No better friend to a soldier than a bottle rocket. Eisenhower said that.”
“If you say so, sir. What do they do, sir?”
“Jenkins, do you possess a brain or have you just a lump bit atop the stalk? If I were to put it in lollipop terms: a normal brain sitting on the vertebra and spinal cord would be a Tootsie Roll or perhaps a Blow Pop. Excellent lollipop, the Blow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But your brain would more resemble a Dum-Dum. Those stubby, sad candies that unhappy families hand out for Halloween.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Open up the wrapper and there’s a dollop of disappointment inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The bottle rockets are there to startle the enemy. You’ll sneak up on him in his hut, or dojo, or condo. Whatever the hell the enemy around here lives in is called. And then FEEEEEEE you fire those beautiful babies off. Scare the bejeebus out of ’em.”
“Sir, it’s a helicopter. It makes a lot of noise. They would have heard me already.”
“No, Jenkins. Stealth.”
“No, sir.”
“Yes. Stealth. It was in the product description. There’s a Whisper Mode. There was a picture of the button and everything.”
“This suicide machine does not have any stealth capabilities, sir.”
“You didn’t see this button, Jenkins. It was a big red square and it had the shield over it that you have to flip up. It was an impressive button. I saluted it.”
“Sir.”
“And I’m a general, Jenkins. I only have to salute a hundred people at this point. You see, son, the military’s a game. You advance by reducing the number of people you have to salute. Guy who wins only has to salute the president. I might go days without seeing anybody I had to snap one off to. It’s so freeing. I wish you could know what it was like to feel that kind of eternity on your skin.”
“Sir.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t have stealth capabilities per se, but it certainly can be described as stealthy. It’s painted a very stealthy color. Dammit, boy, why am I arguing with you? You have to salute everyone! Now, just get in the Sreamin’ Mimi and hit the sky.”
“If you would issue me one further indulgence, General, and allow one last question.”
“I’m standing on the verge of blasting your eyes, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir. The rocket launcher behind the canopy.”
“The one that shall soon be pointing directly at your head?”
“That one, sir.”
“Mm. What about it?”
“It’s pointing directly at my head.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Any particular reason?”
“This is to frighten the enemy. Make him believe you’ve gone mad. ‘My god’ the enemy will say. “He’s pointing missiles at his own head!’ Can you imagine that, Jenkins? The wild fear you’ll induce in the native! He will scatter and tell stories of your hideous bravery. It’s a game-winner.”
“Is it, sir?”
“Oh, yes. Provided you softened them up with the bottle rockets first, obviously.”
“Sir, I’m not getting in this mutant scrapheap.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to go out there and win the war this afternoon. Hup to it. Hup hup.”
“Why can’t we just use drones?”
“Spent the drone money on this baby.”
“All of it?”
“And prostitutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And drugs for the prostitutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And me. I enjoyed the drugs, as well. So: the money is gone and the Mimi remains. You fight the war you’re given, not the war you want. Now get in.”
“Just a short flight.”
“Hup hup.”
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