Shanti felt that snake of truth coil around her legs, threatening to squeeze.
“I didn’t mean …”
“No one ever does,” Petra said, shoving the baton back at Shanti.
CLASSIFIED
THE REPUBLIC OF CHACHA
18:00 HOURS
MoMo B. ChaCha was not happy. His favorite pajamas were not yet back from the cleaners. When MoMo was unhappy everyone was unhappy. With a sigh, he settled on a pair of cotton pj’s. In the morning, he would have the cleaners assassinated.
MoMo removed his custom Elvis-with-sideburns hairpiece and placed it carefully on the plaster of Paris wig form made to look just like MoMo, complete with long, fat mustache and oversize sunglasses. Without the wig, the dictator’s head was like a smooth pond covered by thin strands of brown floss, strands that had grown thinner during the fifteen years, four months, three days, and twenty-two hours he had been absolute ruler of the Republic of ChaCha. It was a small country, but rich in natural resources of the type that made other countries bend over backward to accommodate it. For this reason only, MoMo had a seat in the UN where, on more than one occasion, he had stood on the table in his platform shoes and ermine-trimmed bell-bottoms and danced out his protest against U.S. sanctions. He hated everything about the country of the Miss Teen Dream Pageant, except for three things: Elvis Presley, the greatest entertainer who ever lived; reality TV, especially the raucous Captains Bodacious; and Ladybird Hope.
For this reason, every night after dinner and executions, he would retire to his secret bedroom on his private yacht, which had been wallpapered ceiling to floor in photos of Ladybird Hope. He would don his Elvis Comeback Special black jumpsuit pajamas, crawl into his heart-shaped bed, and pretend that Ladybird was beside him, as if they were a couple on an American sitcom.
“Ladybird, why do we not have the sex? A little less conversation and a little more action, please.”
“You are so fresh, Peacock!” MoMo answered himself in a high, Ladybird Hope voice. “Let us to watch episodes of Captains Bodacious now, and in the morning, we kill defenseless animals with our big guns.”
“As you wish, Ladybird. Dreams come true in Blue Hawaii.”
With a sigh, MoMo settled into the enormous bed and watched the state-sanctioned news, which told of the army’s resounding defeat of the mountainside rebels. This was not entirely true. The rebels were a constant annoyance, an unlanced bunion on the foot of the country. But soon he would take care of that problem. Soon, he would travel by yacht to The Corporation’s private island, away from prying government eyes. The arms deal would be made with no trouble. He reached over and opened the desk drawer that housed the secret DVD he had made, his insurance policy that everything would go according to MoMo’s plans.
MoMo cackled. “Oh, sometimes, General Good Times, I am to make myself so happy with my scheming. It is like I am Elvis Presley in Roustabout and those college boys are in for a surprise karate chop. Oh. But you have not touched your food, my friend.”
General Good Times, the stuffed lemur, sat in the leather desk chair. He had been dressed in his special ninja pajamas with the words Silent Killah stitched over the breast pocket.
MoMo flicked on the TV to watch Captains Bodacious. It was a rerun, but he didn’t mind. He liked those rock-star pirates. His favorite was the one called “Casanova of the Sea,” who kept a blog about his romantic conquests. Maybe one day, he would meet them all, tour their ship, see the gangplank and the cannons for himself, wear the white, poufy shirt of the captain, shake hands with Casanova. Maybe he would kill one of them for fun. Maybe not. Mood was everything.
“I like these pirates, Ladybird. They bring the giggles,” MoMo said to his imaginary fiancée. “When we are married, let the cameras to follow us always, even when we make the pee-pee. Let us never to live in private. Private is for small people, yes?”
“Yes,” he answered in his high Ladybird voice. “We are not small people. We are stars.”
“Soon, we will have our weapons. I will release the videotape, and we will be famous on American TV. Sing along, General Good Times.”
General Good Times did not respond.
The scientist sneaked from the compound to the abandoned temple where he had secreted tubs of Lady ’Stache Off and an old radio he’d outfitted with some new wiring. It only needed to be assembled to make contact. Benny’s stocks had taken a real header during the last crash. By his calculations, he wouldn’t be able to retire before he turned ninety-eight. Corporate espionage was the answer. Another company would pay highly for his weaponized jars of Lady ’Stache Off. That’s why he had hidden a case of them and the radio in the old temple. Now all he had to do was rewire the radio, send a message, and wait for his contact to arrive.
Once inside the temple, he was surprised to discover that his weaponized jars of Lady ’Stache Off were no longer there. Nor was the radio or his ration kit. Instead, he was looking at the business end of a gun.
“Going somewhere, Benny?”
Benny held up his hands and backed away. “I-I just needed some fresh air.”
“That’s a good idea. I think we need some fresh air in the department, Benny.” The laugh echoed in the ruins. A flock of birds scurried through the broken roof as if sensing trouble. “That was a good line. You gotta admit.”
Benny tripped over a gnarled vine and fell hard to the ground, his hands still up in a defensive gesture. “Please …”
“Who’s your contact, Benny?”
“I’ll tell you! It’s …”
The gun, a Corporation Git R Done 447, went off, killing Benny instantly. He lay sprawled against the rocks. The top of his head was missing.
“Oh, dammit!” Harris said. “Thought they fixed that.” Harris kicked Benny’s inert body and sighed. He hadn’t gotten the information he needed, which was a real bummer. It was going to take a lot of Pong to make him feel better.
COMMERCIAL BREAK
(Images of Americana scroll across the screen: Fourth of July picnic. Loving families. A suburban neighborhood. Playground.)
WARM, REASSURING VOICEOVER
Dear Valued Customer: We know you want to protect what matters to you most. That’s why we manufactured the Git R Done 447 Personal Safety® handgun with honor and pride, so that you can go to sleep each night with the knowledge that the outside world stays outside, and if it tries to come inside, you can shoot it dead.
However, it has come to our attention that there is a small safety “glitch” with the Git R Done 447, which might cause it too fire too soon or even randomly, accidentally killing someone you love. Awkward, we know. That’s why we are issuing a voluntary recall of the Git R Done 447 Personal Safety® handgun. Issuing this voluntary recall shows how much we care, and it is hard to dislike or take legal action against those who really care.
CUT TO: Image of the Git R Done 447 with a red circle and line through it.
VO, CONT’D
If you purchased a Git R Done 447, please do not fire the weapon. Do not exhale or laugh within a five-foot radius of the 447. Instead, go to our online fulfillment center at www.thecorporation.com/gitrdone. Type in code OHCRAP447 and you will receive a discount on the purchase of The Corporation’s Home Weapon Containment Robot. Once the Robot has successfully disassembled the Git R Done 447, simply mail it to The Corporation and you will receive Corporation credit coupons, which you may use for ordering any of our many fine products.
CUT TO: Shot of Corporation employees waving
VO, CONT’D
As always, we at The Corporation are committed to making your lives better, safer, and happier. You’re welcome, and have a nice day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“All right, Teen Dreamers. Let’s take stock of everything we have.” Taylor marched before the line of sleepy beauty queens, inspecting them drill sergeant–style. “Miss Nebraska, what are the island’s natural resources, please? Report.”
Mary Lou scratched at a bite on her leg with the toes of her other foot, holding on to Adina for balance. “Um, trees. Plants. Grubs. Fish. Coconuts. Water. Mud. That’s all I can think of right now.”
“Very good. Miss New Mexico, what salvaged materials do we have from the plane?”
Miss New Mexico listed things off, using her fingers to keep count. “Some teeth-bleaching trays, padded bras, three safety razors, bobby pins, thongs, the jars of Lady ’Stache Off and the radio Jennifer and Sosie found, the hot roller sets, two straightening irons, bathing suits, assorted shoes, some makeup, and a few evening gowns, including that unholy beaded green thing over there.”
“That was Miss Massachusetts’s, I think,” Brittani said.
Petra smirked. “Maybe it wasn’t the plane crash that killed her. Maybe she actually saw herself in that dress.”
“Let’s not speak ill of the dead, no matter how hideous their fashion sense,” Taylor instructed. “All right, Teen Dreamers. These are our tools. Starting today, we are adding a new survival skills portion to our pageant. I want you to treat this with the seriousness you would your other duties, like tanning and exfoliation. You need to wow the judges. Think about what you can make with what we’ve got.”
“It’s like an episode of Design This!21 All we need is Roger Piston to come in and say, ‘Do your magic!’” Miss Montana said.
“I’m turning our program over to Miss California and Miss Colorado. Please give them the same attention you would the makeup artist showing you how to contour your nose and make your lips look bigger under the lights, which I never have to do as my lips are in perfect proportion to my face.”
Shanti and Nicole stood side by side, but they’d left plenty of space between them. Nicole’s arms were crossed.
Shanti cleared her throat. “The first thing —”
“Who said you were first?” Nicole interrupted.
“Do you want to go first?”
“No. But it’s nice to be asked. Go ahead.”