Free My Life as a Computer Cockroach by Bill Myers

ran up the porch steps as fast as we could. Any second I expected those giant guns to open fire, any second I expected to be turned into a little pile of McDoogle dust. But nothing happened. Nothing at all. Well, unless you count the part where Wall Street opened the door and I
    K-Bamb
    ran into the edge of it.
    â€œCome on, Wally!” she cried as I began my typical stumble-and-fall routine. “Quit clowning around.”
    I nodded, doing my best to stay on my feet as I staggered back toward the door and
    K-Bamb
    ran into it the second time.
    By now, I’d been on the porch just slightly longer than forever, and I couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t already opened fire on me until
    K-Bamb
    I hit the door the third time. That’s when I heard the snickers coming from the direction of the tanks, then the laughter, then the out-and-out knee-slapping guffaws. It was a great comfort to know I was entertaining the troops (it would have been an even greater comfort if they had been my troops—but I suppose you should spread goodwill wherever you can).
    Finally, Wall Street grabbed me by the collar and yanked me through the doorway. Once inside, she cried, “Are you all right?”
    â€œYeah.” I nodded, still dazed from all the door K-Bamb ing. “I wonder why they didn’t shoot me.”
    â€œMust have thought you were on a suicide mission,” Wall Street said as she examined the three giant bumps on my forehead.
    By now, my vision had pretty much stopped blurring, at least long enough to see what they’d done to the house. I suppose it wasn’t too bad . . . if you don’t mind a few walls knocked down to make room for the machine guns, or that the kitchen was now being renovated into a missile launching center. Then, of course, there were the trenches and foxholes being dug in the living room. (War can be a real hazard to carpet sometimes.)
    â€œWall Street . . .” I slowly turned to her.
    â€œI’m thinking,” she said. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking . . .”
    Knowing that she was thinking brought little comfort, although I appreciated the effort.
    â€œBURP.”
    I spun around to see Opera coming out of the back bedroom. “Hey, these rations aren’t BELCH half bad.”
    â€œWhat are you eating now?” Wall Street sighed.
    â€œSpam chips.” He grinned.
    Her expression made it clear she was sorry she’d asked.
    â€œMister President?”
    I turned to see the General motioning for me to join him at the front window. (Well, it had been a front window—now, with the glass smashed out, it was more like a front opening.) “We’ve reestablished the electricity and utilities for this quadrant, sir.” He held out a pair of night vision goggles. “Would you like to survey the troops, sir?”
    I walked over to join him. “Did you see those tanks outside?” I asked.
    â€œNo problem, sir.”
    â€œDid you see all those guns pointed at the house?”
    â€œNo problem, sir.”
    Suddenly, a half-dozen red laser beams poured into the room, filling it with a half-dozen bright red circles.
    â€œWhat’s that!?” I cried.
    â€œThat might be a problem.”
    Before he could explain, the phone rang and a nearby soldier picked it up. “Hello?” he said. Then, with a trembling hand, he held it out to me. “It’s for you, sir.”
    â€œWho is it?” I asked. Unfortunately, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.”
    â€œPresident McDoogle?” the voice on the other end asked.
    â€œUh, this is Wally McDoogle, yes.”
    â€œThis is the President of the United States. How are you doing today?”
    â€œUm . . . not real good, sir.”
    â€œOh, sorry to hear that. Well, listen, do you happen to see a bunch of bright red laser dots filling your room there?”
    I glanced around. “About half a dozen,” I said. “Ah,