“I have no idea what this is, General.”
“It’s a plane! Well, technically, it’s 12 or 14 planes bolted together, but I think they’ve formed a gestalt. It’s a Voltron situation, Jenkins.”
“What?”
“And the part in the middle that looks like a doctor’s office?”
“Yes, sir?”
“It was a doctor’s office.”
“Did the landing gear used to be boats, sir?”
“Good eye, Jenkins! All that blasting of them we’ve done hasn’t affected your ocular acuity. Very acute occles on you. The boys in R&D–”
“Rudy and Dave.”
“–kit-bashed this beauty together with whatever we had lying around the base.”
“The doctor’s office was on the base?”
“Or right next to the base. In the basal area. It was a matter of national security, damn you! The Army is allowed to confiscate buildings if necessary, like a cop commandeering a civilian vehicle.”
“They actually cannot do that, sir. Strictly a Hollywood convention.”
“I went to one of those once. Paid ten dollars for Gary Berghoff’s autograph. Then I paid Gary Berghoff ten more dollars to leave me alone. Needy man.”
“Not that type of Hollywood convention, sir.”
“Why must you dither, Jenkins? You dither hither, and you dither thither. Whither do you do that?”
“‘Whither’ means ‘where,’ sir.”
“Whitherfore do you do that?”
“Checkmate. Sir, what is the point of this gargantuan mess?”
“City-killer, Jenkins. Ever see a city and think, ‘I’d like to murder it?'”
“No, sir.”
“Liar! I know you’ve been to El Paso!”
“Okay, once, but it’s not a good thought to maintain, sir. We try not to feed those impulses, sir.”
“Who be dis ‘we,’ white man?”
“Oh, sir, please don’t do your streetwise negro character, Skinny Dice.”
“Good gravy, Jenkins, everything is racist to your generation. Skinny is a tribute to the hard-working men and women that Mac Davis so perfectly described in In The Ghetto.”
“Can we just talk about the plane, sir?”
“No one understands the black more than me, Jenkins. Maybe Joni Mitchell.”
“The plane, sir.”
“City-killer.”
“That phrase is a war crime, sir.”
“We fly in low, we fly in slow, and then we eat souls. Nummy souls, Jenkins. Look how many soul-collectors R&D put on the Here Comes Death.”
“That sentence inspires at least a half-dozen questions about wildly differing topics.”
“Shoot.”
“The soul thing.”
“Mm?”
“Metaphor?”
“I’m back into the occult.”
“Ah. Moving on: the Here Comes Death?”
“I named it in a comedic fashion in order to add insult to injury. I’m considering painting it polka-dotted.”
“Of course. Sir?”
“Jenkins?”
“Does it fly?”
“On paper? Like a bird.”
“What about in the sky?”
“In the sky, the Death also flies like a certain subset of bird.”
“Certain subset?”
“Mm.”
“Penguins?”
“Penguins would be included in the subset, yes.”
“Ostriches?”
DOUBLE EYE-POKING LIKE THE THREE STOOGES USED TO DO NOISE
“Ow!”
“Your eyes needed a blasting, boy!”
“Uncalled for, sir.”
“Oh, no. Thoroughly called for. Your behavior demanded reprisal. Perhaps I was harsh, but to say that you did not deserve a thrashing is to tell piggy little fibs. Is that what you think of me, Jenkins? That I’m a piggy-fibber?”
“No, sir. Fibs are small lies. You don’t tell those.”
“Capital response, Jenkins. I do feel a twinge of remorse over the punishment, however necessary the rebuke was. I might have only poked one eye.”
“You’re halfway there, sir.”
“Let me make it up to you. Tooty Frooty on me.”
“Where is there ice cream?”
“On the Death. R&D put in a Baskin-Robbins. Full-service, shakes and the whole deal.”
“There’s an ice cream shop on the warplane?”
“We’re going to be up there for ages, Jenkins! Circling around Moscow or Beijing for hours and hours blowing holes in the infrastructure and population! I put an arcade in, too.”
“With video games?”
“And an air hockey table. You’ve never beaten me at air hockey, and you know why?”
“No, sir.”
“Because you lack character.”
“Is that why? Thank you, sir.”
“And there’s a roller skating rink. I know it’s silly, but I had the ice cream shop and the arcade and just decided to go full-on 80’s teen movie.”
“I think maybe I see the reason why this catastrophe won’t get off the ground, sir.”
“A hex?”
“The weight, sir. You might note that very few warplanes have roller rinks installed within them.”
“It’s not my fault the other planes suck. The roller rink converts into a disco at night. Look at all the weight we saved there not building two separate venues. That was Dave. Rudy wanted to put in a light-up floor like in Saturday Night Fever.”
“Sir.”
“I think Rudy’s getting high again.”
“Sir.”
“He can’t stop fingering himself. Man’ll just plunge his butthole while he’s talking to you.”
“Sir.”
“He’s taking sex drugs.”
“I’m just going to push forward. Sir, are those six-inch guns?”
“Eight!”
“And there are ten of them?”
“You count like the wind, Jenkins.”
“Thank you, sir. What happens when you fire all of them while the Death is flying?”
“The Death stops flying. We may have inadvertently discovered a new principle of physics.”
“That any physical action produces an equal and opposite reaction?”
“How did you know!?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Come take multiple looks at her, Jenkins.”
“What?”
“Wow, we never get two pictures in one dialogue.”
“Stop being meta-fictional, you oaf. Glory at Death. Praise her, Jenkins.”
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“Praise the city-killer, Jenkins!”
“Hey, plane. Looking hot.”
“Pitiful. I wish I had a lake of vomit to throw you into. Look at this beautiful beast. Her elegant lines. Her sleek shape. Her lethal bosom. Jenkins?”
“Please don’t say it, sir.”
“I want to fuck this plane. And I’m a general, so I can. And I will. I’m going to fuck Death, Jenkins. I’m going to fuck Death hard and long and then I’m going to cum all over Death, Jenkins. I swear to you this. I will cum on Death.”
“This is such an odd place for the conversation to have wandered to.”
“Jenkins, fetch me a map of the world and some darts. We’re taking her up.”
“What about your roller skates?”
“Bring those, too.”
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