Free The War Against the Assholes by Sam Munson Page B

This young Mr. Charthouse here understands.” I began to wonder if this guy was an escaped Nazi. Lived in a secret tunnel. German accent. Fancy suit. It made sense to me. “Not that,” said Mr. Stone, “very much the other thing, I am afraid.” “Are you talking to me, sir,” I said. “You know very well that I was,” said Mr. Stone. “We all have ability. That’s a beautiful sentiment,” said Charthouse.
    Everyone was looking at us. Alabama, Hob, and Vincent. “Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “we are in the middle of a war.” I laughed at that. I could not help myself. No one else laughed. So I stopped. When you’re that age it’s frightening to laugh on your own. “I assure you it is not funny, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “I’ve never served,” I said. “There is no reason a man cannot don multiple hats,” said Mr. Stone. He had a point. He palmed his long chin. “You do understand,” he said, “if you say no all this is forbidden to you.” I nodded. “And you understand this is quite real,” he said. “That’s the part I sort of have difficulty with,” I said. “Do you have a cigarette,” said Mr. Stone. I offered him the bundle of brown ones I had with me. “I’d like you to smoke one,” said Mr. Stone. I set one in my mouth. Slapped my pockets. “I can’t find my lighter,” I said. Vincent snorted. I looked. Hob was holding it up: clear red plastic. “This is not a problem,” said Mr. Stone, “put the cigarette in your mouth and light it, that is all. I am not asking you to perform an impossible feat. I am not asking you to fly .” He grinned as he said fly . His teeth huge and white. The rats on his chair chittered in glee.
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘a war,’ ” I said. “We’re in a war against the assholes,” said Hob. He had not spoken much to me so far. I think he was worried I’d make a fool of myself in front of Mr. Stone. “Makes sense,” I said, “nobody likes assholes.” “Mr. Callahan is correct, I am afraid,” said Mr. Stone, “and I know an excessive amount about, as he puts it, assholes. Light the cigarette, please.” The black rat danced. The gray rat chattered to the brown one. “And who are these assholes,” I said. “They run the world,” said Charthouse, “although you’ve never met any of them, I doubt.” “Will Alabama shoot me if I don’t,” I said, “light it I mean.” “You never know,” said Alabama. The gray rat ran down from its perch. It crossed the black table and sat at my elbow. I admire rats. I still had to struggle not to flinch. “Wittgenstein likes you,” said Mr. Stone, “I take that as a testament to your good character. And no. She will not. I have never permitted violence in my home. Light the cigarette, please.”
    The deck of cards was in my hands. I found myself shuffling it. The way you might find yourself biting your nails. The cigarette dangled from my mouth. It was still not lit. “Against the assholes,” I said. I admired the phrase. I was not fond of assholes at that point in my life. Wittgenstein sat there eying me. As did my human companions. “It is a question of precision, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “Hob tells me you are an athlete. So you understand precision. Light the cigarette, please.” His voice resonant and his eyes clear. He had not blinked once. So I sat there, pondering what to do, the cigarette hanging from my lips. Well , I thought, if I can fly there’s no reason that can’t happen . It’s easy to let go of your prejudices when you’re young. I tapped the deck to even it out. I shot the cards from hand to hand. My parents at home. With their shows about apes and dragonflies and their tennis rackets. The nuns