Hash
Dear Planet Earth,
The troops are getting restless. General Talpa told me so this morning.
“The troops are getting restless.”
The new propaganda posters around the city are starting to make everyone a little tense. People are accusing one another of stealing their stuff, of being sleeper agents for the mole men. To top it all off, the general is getting hounded everyday to cede the decision making process over to an elected body.
He leaned closer to me over the picnic table and laughed, telling me he almost missed the good ol’ days — meaning two weeks ago — when our enemies were really enemies, when the only thing we had to worry about was surviving to the next day.
I understand the feeling. Despite the constant bombardments of helplessness and sorrow, there was a sense of excitement battling the mole people on a daily basis, a feeling of unrivaled accomplishment in taking down a foe that, by all accounts, should have had no trouble squashing me like a bug.
“I’d take that battlefield, Scott. I’d take that battlefield any day over this, this. . . ,” he crinkled his forehead to think of the word, “politics.”
The sun had fully risen at this point, illuminating the mess hall and marking a fulfilling conclusion to our conversation. I offered him some of my hash browns as we watched the peaceful chaos engulf New Seattle on all sides.
Beneath Average 