Free The United States of Air: a Satire that Mocks the War on Terror by J. M. Porup

inflection.
    I slapped him on the back. “Good man.”
    His head hung low, like he was sleepy. I was tired too, but now was no time for a nap.
    “Come on, Harry,” I said. “Let’s go eat some caffeinated air.” I put my arm around his shoulders to lead him away. But he just stood there, staring at the Thin House lit up across the street.
    Erpent barked at Thinn, “Sergeant. Skinny Service cleaners—I mean, forensics team—is due here shortly. Make sure you leave no traces of your presence. Wrappers or…whatnot.”
    Thinn gulped, and tossed a greasy burger wrapper into the nearby garbage can.
    “Wrappers under control, sir.”
    “And Thinn?”
    “Sir?”
    “Have a talk with fuzzy cheeks here.” He turned to the rookie. “What’s your name, son?”
    “Officer Olde, sir,” the boy said, rubbing at his puffy eyes. Nice kept a tight grip around his friend’s bicep. “I said nothing more than the truth, sir. I believe in the Prophet. That’s why I became a cop.”
    “Isn’t that precious,” Erpent said. To Thinn: “Officer Olde needs a lesson in protocol. Don’t you agree, Sergeant?”
    Thinn pinched the rookie’s cheeks. “I’m putting demerits on your record,” he said. “You’ll be lucky to keep your badge when I’m through with you.”
    “But why would you do that?” Olde asked. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” He waved to me and Green. “Happy hunting!”
    “Don’t you worry about that,” I called over my shoulder as we limped toward the car. “We’ll have Fatso behind bars faster than you can say ‘Go the Power of Air.’”
    For some reason the cops laughed at that, a laugh Erpent cut short with a look. Thinn and his colleagues waddled over to their cruisers and drove off. The ambulance waited for us to follow. The park was empty now, except for the three of us and a blood stain where Nick Hungry had died. Only the murmur of the Thin House water fountain in the distance could be heard.
    We climbed into the Smart Car. The vehicle had no back seat—always a conundrum when transporting handcuffed suspects—so Erpent perched on Green’s knees.
    As I pulled away from the curb, I smacked my forehead with my palm. “You ought to give Judge Oscar Meyer-Weiner a call. We got the guy’s name and social, right?”
    “Get a warrant,” Green said. “Good idea.”
    “Put a toilet tap on the guy’s house. His family, his friends, known associates. Anyone goes poo in those toilets, or even a little pee-pee, we’re going to know about it. Maybe they can lead us to Fatso’s hideout. We might even find his Thanksgiving convention this year.”
    A toilet tap is just what it sounds like: the sewer company comes out and installs a fecal monitor on the sewer output valve of your home. It can also detect urine, and pretty much anything else you might care to flush down your toilet: tampons, used condoms, withered celery stalks, old boots, computer hard drives, sacks of flour—dime bags of ground-up grain were especially common during food busts—what have you. The sewer company also has fecal monitors on all the sewer branch lines. This way we can compile effective statistics as to which neighborhoods harbor the most food terrists, and what kind of food they consume. Although the press had kept silent about this new technology at the Prophet’s request, word had begun to leak out into the criminal community. Many hoods had taken to building latrines or outhouses in their backyards, which severely limited our ability to track their movements. Their bowel movements, that is.
    Erpent snickered. “A warrant. How quaint.”
    “Hey,” I said. “We swore to uphold and defend the Amendment. The Constitution is part of the Amendment, last time I checked.”
    “It’s the other way around,” Green said.
    I frowned. “Are you sure?”
    “Judge Meyer-Weiner!” Green said into his cell phone. “Sorry for the late call. Got an emergency for you.”
    We’d had a citywide toilet tap authorized by