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Great Writing - Home > Short S. > No Bombs Before Breakfast
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| No Bombs Before Breakfast | |
| By Deshler | ||||||||||||
| 16 July 2007 | ||||||||||||
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"The cul-de-sac will run red with the blood of the oppressors," Kevin McFadden said, slamming his fist on the breakfast table. "Not on an empty stomach it won't," said his mom, Tammy, sloshing a bowl of Lucky Charms down in front of him. "Ha," laughed George, his father. "The Great Satan is shaking in his shoes, slugger." Kevin started wearing his freedom mask to breakfast a month ago. It made Tammy sweat a little. This, she thought, is the most important meal of the day and I didn't want my son looking like the Skoal Bandit. There was no room for Pop Tarts with that bandanna wrapped around his face. They’d been arguing like this since Kevin started running around with his new friends. "Mom," Kevin would protest. "You don't understand kids my age. We don't want the Dictator's Army conquering America. This is what kids do today. We wear bandannas, we take to the streets, we bomb Iraqi motorcades for our freedom." Tammy tried explaining how the invasion might be a good thing. Maybe the strategic destruction of shopping malls and baseball stadiums, she thought, is a positive thing. God knows sixteen-year old boys can use a little discipline. Maybe tyranny will shape him up, she thought. But try explaining that to a kid who comes down the cul-de-sac everyday with the blood of oppressors staining his brand new jeans. "Kevin, just how do you expect to eat through your freedom bandanna?" She asked. "How can I eat anything while our land is being overrun with foreigners? They want to rape our country of its inexpensive fast food and outlet malls." He slammed his fist on the table again, "And I demand to know why." "Easy Kev," his dad piped up, chopping the boy's protest off like the head of an Iraqi advertising executive. Which, according to his newspaper, was happening a lot lately. Especially since it was open harvest on America's biggest resource: marketing secrets. "Your mom just wants to see you have a good morning before you and your Freedom Cell go off liberating all day." "I know," he mumbled, unknotting the scarf. "I'm sorry mom." A cracked grin spread over Tammy's mouth. Maybe a dictatorship rich in oil is exactly what this family needs, she thought. "But I'm so furious," Kevin said, scooping in cereal. "There's this big suicide bombing today. There’s an Iraqi motorcade stopping at the International House of Pancakes later this morning. Sitting ducks, you know? Benny down the street told me, like, six other cells are involved." "Golly, I bet that'll get their attention, son. But you can't blow yourself to smithereens on an empty belly," said George. "That's just it, Dad. Kip Washington says my hatred for the invaders isn't pure enough. God, he's the worst Freedom Cell leader ever." "Oh how is Kip? If you see his parents," Tammy said. "Tell them we say hi." "According to him only those with perfect souls may kill themselves in the name of America. Only the seventeen year-old guys are ready, he says. I mean, by the time I'm old enough there won't be any Wal-Marts or Costcos left to save." "Well, I don't see what all the fuss is about," Tammy said, starting to clang the dirty dishes around the sink. "I'm sick of driving all the way to the VFW hall to vote every November. Can't someone else make these choices?" She stopped and stared at what used to be the Griffins' house. Their cul-de-sac was accidentally bombed by friendly fire last week. The opposite side of the street was a buzzcut of prefabricated homes. "I'd like one ruler to make all our decisions. I can't wait until they help set up our own dictatorship in America." "Mom, you're so out of touch. You just don't get it." George looked at his watch and gagged on his cereal, "Well family," he said picking up his briefcase. "The Indian casino isn't going to run itself this morning. I better get going." He scruffed his son's hair and kissed Tammy on the cheek. Surprised, she swung around from the dishes and knocked his briefcase to the ground. George McFadden's dirty secret spilled across the floor. His patriotic cheeks blushed as red as his son's freedom mask. In his case, split open like a watermelon—six bundles of C-4 explosives, a detonator and a bandanna spun to a rest on the linoleum next to a map leading to the International House of Pancakes.
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