"The best was," a

  quieting of voices passing law students, "Honey, that's just a honey I'm home kiss.  I want another kiss with (i)flavor(i).  Man, did he kiss her."

  "Like a 'burst of flavor'?" 

  "Exactly." 

  "The room's not ready yet," a techie glanced up from a phone and said.  The slide projector slumped over a box of "family picks".  Because one corner of the cardboard was weak.  "Looks like your mango box is about done for," one person said. 

  "What? Has anyone seen these numbers?" 

  "Oh, numbers guy." 

  "What numbers?" 

  The voices behind the door grew louder.  "Used to be.  A lot of things used to be.  The guys in White used to consult with the military.  A girl used to be a girl you could count on to type things up properly.  I used to be your Dad.  And you used to ask me for my advice.  Now people are users.  And the machines want input!" 

  The door opened before numbers guy could pull the techie out of the way.  The elder man was still looking at the younger man coming out of the room.  It was a spectacular rebalancing dance but the elder never hit the floor.  

"There's nothing wrong with the writing." She

  told the worried administrator. 

  "What's the problem then? Or the 'issue' or whatever?" 

  The woman's head sort of drooped into a sigh and the normal-for-her posture of desk person.  She was torn between a little lecture and an upbraid.  Settled on a question.  "Have you ever hung out with a Press Corps person?" 

  "Can't say as I have." 

  "Ever been, um, not at home when policy or opinion hits the streets?" 

  "Maybe." 

  "Ever tried to get work done (i)in hiding(i)?" 

  "Should I get back in the closet?" 

  "Is that where you were?" The woman peered over the administrator's shoulder.  "And is that a wet bar?" 

  "The PS was surprised by certain visitors yesterday.  I fell asleep in there.  Don't touch the stuff myself." 

  The floor beams above creaked. 

  "As strange as this sounds Sir, we believe that guy with the yellow shirt has a transponder on him or (i)in him(i)." 

  "In him?" 

  The idea came across the woman's face visibly.  "Ask that group this question.  Any surgeries while you were overseas?" 

  "I have never entertained such a rude crowd!" The Press Conference answer-man was irate.  "What did they throw at me?" 

  "We had to put the royalty somewhere else until we get secure again." 

  "It was going so well." 

  "I'm not supposed to tell you that not absolutely everyone agrees, right?" 

  "Why? Because I had thirty-two appointments planned for me on one day and at the end of it, well I, just couldn't handle anymore constructive criticism." The man sat up a little in the hotel's signature collection wingback. 

  "There you have it Jeeso.  Even the protestors are calling you 'the fat one'.  Do you believe me now?  I tell you because I care.  They do it to antagonize.  And make you stand out as the unlucky king." 

  "Lucky to have married you." 

  "But, all this.  It means they are noticing everything about us." 

  "Like fishbowl." 

  "Fishbowl?" The lady asked as she flipped through the channels.  One news show had a closer up view of some of the action in the crowd of loudening people.  "Oh, Jeeso.  Is that our friend's son?" 

"Stop hitting me. What do you want me to see?"

  "Those are our voting rolls," she said to a man tasked with "bringing it in".  A perimeter of safety into a dangerous zone.  The journalism of place overwhelmingly proving why a (i)distrust in America by Americans(i).  Marketing, public relations, and big money donors/investors paying a lot of people to break it down into "manageable bites". 

  A quick check of who in the region might know the legalese around which crimes.  "More than just supposed voter fraud?" A voice on a conference call pushed for a little more detail.  Some interagency people wondered aloud if the stolen rolls and recent targeting for violence-against might be connected. 

  "Like (i)totally(i) connected or just a lil bit connected?" A guy in kevlar half-heartedly mocked a "valley girl".  "Not as important as obtaining the evidence," a man warned. 

  "Speaking of," a woman nudged someone to see. 

  "FUCK NO." 

  "We have to get in there now." 

  A latecomer grabbed a post-hole digger instead of a door basher in the rushing to task. 

"How did the meetings go?"

  "No more talking about those." The man handed what looked like fancy fashion shopping bags to "the little woman with a big voice" and disembarked.  In actuality it was a too warm coat, dirty underwear, and a pistol.  The gun purchased for self protection after violence in a ceasefire. 

  "Where you staying tonight?" 

  "With you, but not now.  Look, new toy." Said with many layers of meaning.  As yet not confident in the American military's wherewithall.  "It shows where those," he pointed to the sky, "are most coming from." 

  (i)POUND, POUND, POUND(i) and a voice, (i)EVACUATE, EVAC, NOW, GO(i)

  "WAKE HIM UP! NOW, please." 

    Thick, thick smoke, voices bleary.  "FIND SOMETHING METAL, GO, go." 

  "Missile?" 

  "Fire!  In basement," pointing (i)down, down(i), person out of breath.  Strangers on a high-rise stairwell. 

  "Saboteurs." 

  Just a glint of silvery metal in a flashlight.  Spurs on cowboy boots. 

"Whaddaya say? Go tie up some guy's genitals

  with a zip tie, or..." 

  "Whatever the (i)or(i) is would be the better option." 

  "We need to leave here." 

  "He would know.  Trust me." 

  Even before Fallujah the people were sensing seismic battle, and also that sense of concrete.  The kabosh on college for now; the thick-headed stupidity of people partying in shelters;  the sinking dread of dead end.  

  A kibbutz on borderlands between more settled than nomadic people-area became a symbolic touchstone in days of conflict unfolding.  Young and poor, the combination of factors lent itself to questioning everything.  And the many answers of the wise and wizened which seemed trite or quaint until such knowledge was saving lives. 

  "Why would they do (i)that(i)?" A man who'd stuck with service and family asked a radio. 

  "Broadcast it out or the action itself?" A woman asked. 

  "Both.  Or no.  Help me move these waters onto the shelving." 

  "I think they put it as (i)news(i) because it's become too dangerous to try and win the settlers over to keeping sane and civil" she said as she hiked up a knee-length skirt and dove into offloading a palette.  "Is this all they sent?" The man nodded a yes and counted the trays of bottled water.  The numbers he wrote on a form that was like a middleman between accounting. 

  "You know, the other night an elder woman to us, but not a mench, confronted papa."

  "Why?  The war is not his fault." 

  "He'd made a point at weekly meal to say that (i)war is for the youth of a nation(i)." 

  "And what did Marion say?" 

  "How dare you sit on your plump ass behind fortress walls conducting a war but say it is the youth." 

  "I bet the meal went downhill fast." 

  "The guests left.  And two more bottles of wine were drank.  That night." 

  "I'm sure that helped." 

  "Even if it's up to the youth just to defend, there is growing issue with a future life.  But the aggression will be the death of us." 

  "Yep.  Where will we be with no generations because of vengeance?  That's why they harm people that way.  They are caught in the messaging of wiping out the other." 

  "I don't know who can change." 

  "Maybe no one.  Maybe it's in God's hands." 

"I can't give you all the details,

  or even any of them," said the resolute man.  "What kind of question is that?" Was wondered out loud on the earpiece.  "Piece of shit magazine type." 

  "They're jockeying for assignments bro." 

  "Because it's an open case!  An act of terrorism no less!  Against our nation!" 

  "He needs help.  I'm going down there." 

 

  Relieved.  Ears still ringing from the explosion.  Sent to see where activists and protestors had had a standoff with "out of touch" politicians. 

  "The footages have not all been pieced together but there's no question that some of the people that were here, were also there at that time, and maybe, hold on, hold on," fast forwarding and rewinding. 

  "Be easy on the tapes boys." 

  "Because it's not a free-for-all," suits had spilled onto the lawn chasing paparazzi-in-disguise out of the building. 

  "Is this a change in tone mate?" 

  A stone-faced middle age man saw the young person being asked that split second doubt the silent strategy and crept up behind the zoom lens carrier questioning.  Knees into backs of the knees.  Camera then hanging down.  Another suit pulled at it.  The strap rubbed against the man's neck.  A third suit, a woman, pulled a pair of scissors from skirt pocket and cut the straps. 

  "Let's get more.  Same way," the suits moved away from the man rubbing his neck. 

Red faces, people barely breathing.

  "It went as a free market lets it go." Said a man of his trial budget.  "We can ask for another disbursement," said a woman sent into the field to help keep things on track. 

  "What we can't do now everyone, is be totally transparent." 

  "About the money?" 

  A sigh and breath out.  Shoulders slumping.  Rubbing a swollen ankle.  "You should cut down on the salt.  Just saying." Said a medical person.  "The money, yes.  And pretty much everything else too." 

  "Why? Anybody want this wine open?" Nobody did. 

  "Overseas, there had to be filtering put in place as survivors grouped up and in some cases moved on to another area.  So what started as (i)you're either with us, or against us(i) was honed into trust exercises and real vetting.  This had to happen in union with our strategy.  And it was fierce fighting so we couldn't be totally open about strategy." The soldier rubbed his temples. 

  "Things get more compartmentalized." Said a woman who also then told about "being in" since Vietnam.  (i)Whoa,(i) some of the people present commented. 

  "They'll also be some division of labor." An older commander eyed a younger commander.  The younger laser focused on the coffee table asked a question.  "Why did the photograph lady get rip shit mad?" 

  "That's not what we're talking about right now." 

  "Yeah, but she did.  Smashed the loop down and..."

  "Let's try to get an answer to that but not right now." 

  "I know why," said another communications person. 

  "It's getting off topic and we don't have extra time.  But keep it brief." 

  "Someone up on the hill had an unauthorized photo published as PR and it was compromising of the Navy and really everything." 

  "Really?" 

  "It was before more careful censorship." 

  "Ok.  Let's try to agree about these points on the Minutes.  And if someone can't we need to know why." 

  "Right." A recorder held up different sheets of paper.  "All anonymous 'voting' since opinions were messing with the minds of the upper ranks." 

  "So why even have this meeting?" 

  "There's so much in the pipeline that needs a going over, this will help the people bringing our stuff to more general meetings." 

  "Wine anyone?" 

  Still no takers.

On and on about GDP...

  It felt like we couldn't get enough oxygen even in the outdoor corridor stuffed with cafè tables. 

  "Almost time to interview your neighbor," a man with bushy eyebrows said in English and this cut through the din of Babylonian-style lunch talk. 

  "Okay." A person turned on the little tape recorder's microphone.  "On my countdown, say (i)fungible(i)." 

  "Why that word?" The French woman asked. 

  "It'll sound good in his deep voice." The Jewish woman replied. 

  "Leave my (i)husband(i) alone.  Don't nitpick on him when he's stressed about making a talk." 

  "I'm not ahstressed." 

  "Here," money for espresso.  An eyeroll.  "Please?" 

  She went to the small line of people waiting. 

  "I just think it might be better to team up." 

  "So you don't think we know what we're doing." 

  "Did not say that." 

  "I'm sure our ineptitude is pretty obvious." 

  "Don't.  (i)Don't cry(i)." The man handed one of the women a linen napkin. 

  "It's obvious how?" 

  "Look at us.  (i)Pathetic(i).  It just took five women to pool coins from around the world to buy one espresso."  Crying. 

  Reaching to safeguard the one espresso and two bean sprouts gleaned from the counter, two women's hands knocked into each other and an unexcited voice reported, "Half an espresso." 

  "I'll only put my tongue in it." 

  "Ew." 

  "I meant as (i)my share(i)." 

 

"Pick her up out of there."

  "But you just said not to be under your orders." 

  "That's not nuclear waste fool," the man in jeans and wet sweater pointed down at the girl dog paddling with her feet. 

  "We're not your commanders anymore." Another man on a bicycle but not knowing to get off or go said.  His voice echo'd some in the cement tunnel.  "If we ever were." 

  "Oh God.  Here's a towel." A small-framed woman dug around in the bicycle bag.  "She's lost her arms." 

  "But the water's not bloody." 

  "He just said it's not nuclear water." 

  "Oh Lord," a shallow breath in to sigh.  "Still broken or I'd be in there me self." 

  "Are you English?" 

  "We've been British for a while in our neck of the woods." 

  "Don't look at my butt." 

  "Hard not to I need the leverage." 

  A smack.  "Are you one of those?" 

  "Intelligence?  Dumb as a rock." 

  "Why'd you smack me when she was insulted?" Jeans guy asked while feeling the heat rise in his cheek. 

  "Not insulted loves.  Just out of the loops for a while." 

  "Where have you been honey pot?  My pies are sucking.  Like cardboard.  That one called them cardboardy.  I'll pull, you push.  Aim for the towel." 

  "Don't 

  "Bite me again and I'm leaving you in there." 

  "Pull on my neck." 

  "Push!  Lift the butt cheeks like your a stool!" 

  "Stool pigeon fer sure." 

  Like a cork the figure, mostly metal boned, rose.  Four arms worked to get under armpits and (i)heave, 

     (i)HO(i). 

  "Bloody stuck on a bit of cable or something." 

  "Is my make up fucked up?" 

  "Fuck you for eating all those waffles." 

  "Hold up, hold up." 

  "Johnny cakes they called them." 

  "Shit, shit, tipping over." 

The line of freak veeks stalked the grid

of dirt roads.  Puffs of dust in a smear of sun and soil. 

  Sparse talking.  Budgeting drinks-for-the-day parched. 

  An amphitheatre of parking. 

  "Wait here." 

  A little photograph pulled from a vest with many pockets.  A gruff pull on a shirt collar.  "You claim this man is a friend of yours?" A suddenly worried nod. 

  A knock on the paper thin door.  It creaked open.  People having tea.  "Excuse us, have you seen this man or this woman?" Photographs food stained and crease-crumpled. "I gave them the visitor's pass (i)on lunch(i)." 

  A horn blaring. 

  "I just meant to beep it.  It won't stop." 

  "LOOK!" 

  People creeping low, then stopping in place. 

  "GET THEM I'M SICK OF THIS,"someone hollered and spit out teeth. 

  The getting away made it to partially buried vehicles, dune buggies. 

  A careful chase. 

  Twinkies hitting the windshield. 

  "We're gaining on them!" 

  "Give me the megaphone!  And turn it on this time." 

  Man driving glanced past woman passenger.  Hit the pedal. 

  "Watch it!!!!!!" 

  A hastily written letter: 

     It wasn't your fault.  Ours got squashed between humanitarian out and us coming in.  We got T-boned by the Syrians with chemical weapons.  We miss you. 

  Put with other mail.  

  Catapulted.

"Sprats brats!"

  "Is it the money 'cuz I could buy you lunch." 

  "Toast, tomato, avacado and sprouts.  I actually bring them the stuff from the Farmer's Market." 

  "And they sell it to you?" 

  "Hmmm-hmmm, but by the third bite I need this," she took a packet of mayo out of a skirt pocket. 

  "Where'd you get that?" 

  "Seven tenths of a mile, that way," the sandwich and the man's nose almost collided.  "Convenience store."