Ever since I’ve been confined to this damn wheelchair, I can’t really change my scenery all on my own. I have to get the attention of some orderly, raising my hand and waving someone over if I’m not near a call button.

Don’t get me started about why I’m even here in the first place. It has something to do with the krauts, I know it. I enlisted with my friends, we fought, but they sent me home when I got injured. Hence the wheelchair. But why they had to put me in this place, I’ll never know. I guess they view anyone with fighting experience as a threat.

They being the government—I know they’ve been taken over by those fascist sons of bitches. So now they’re wrangling all of us who know something about what’s going on and sticking in us in these miniature concentration camps. I don’t know what in the hell they’ve done with my wife and kids, though. But I’m going to find out.

I pretend I don’t know what’s going on. It’s safer that way. They try to drug us here so that we’re sedated, easy to manipulate and control. That’s why half the people in this hell-hole just stare out the window, drooling and shitting themselves. I do it, too, but it’s strategic on my part. I stay fresh by putting the pills under my tongue then spitting them in the latrine.

They try to confuse me by sending in people who claim to be my family—children, wife. Brothers. Even a buddy or two I know is over there fighting them. They do a pretty bad job of rounding up lookalikes. Get this—for my five year old daughter, Joan, they brought in this 50 year old woman. 50! Why they think I would fall for that is beyond me. She sure knew a lot about me, though. Things I thought only Joan would know—nicknames we gave each other, stuff like that.

But you see how devious these people are? They have eyes and ears everywhere! That’s why I have to stay alert, vigilant. So I sit and stare out the window, I watch the world, but I’m tuned in. I see cars going by—CRAZY looking cars, I think, but you know those German engineers. Driving way too fast, of course.

And the people on the sidewalks, they’re all walking around with communication devices of some sort. This is how the Jerry’s keep track of everyone; know what’s going on everywhere. But they get kind of complacent, looking at those damn things. Running into each other, never even looking at each other.

Oh, one day, listen to this—one day, that so-called “look alike,” you know the one they try to tell me is my daughter? God, this is so funny—listen. She came to see me. Talking to me like I was an idiot or a baby or something. She talked about my wife. Kept calling her “mom.” Can you believe that shit?

Anyway, I suffered through this for, I don’t know, 30 minutes? An hour? Hell, it felt like eternity, with all that inane babble. That doesn’t really matter. It’s what happened when she left. She wasn’t too happy with me by the time she walked out of my room. She never is, really. Sometimes I play along with this whole thing, just to make life a little easier. But mostly I don’t give them the satisfaction.

Like this day I’m talking about, I didn’t say a single word to her. I mostly just glared at her. Growled a bit.

Apparently it really upset her, because she said something about “texting” her brother. I suppose she meant my son, but who knows. And don’t ask me what the hell “texting” means—it has something to do with that device she makes calls on and gets random bits of garbage information on.

She storms out of the room, looking at that thing, rubbing it with her thumbs. I knew she was parked across the street from my window, so I inched up close to it and shoved the curtain to the side. I wanted to see how mad she was—it was the most entertaining thing I’d seen in some time.

She comes clomping out in those high heels, like she was trying to drive spikes into the concrete. She was practically steaming! But still looking down at that damn device. And she steps right out into the road and one of those ugly cars just blindsides her like a linebacker! Oh, God, I still laugh about it! She was hit by one of her own! HA!

Some camp guard posing as an orderly had to come in and restrain me, because I damn near fell out of my chair busting up. I mean, can you believe that? It’s like the most beautiful ironic poetic justice shit I’ve ever seen!

A few days later they tried to make me go to this lady’s funeral, like I care about this spy posing as my “daughter.” It was completely pointless me being there, because I couldn’t stop myself from laughing when they wheeled me up to her casket. It upset a lot of people, I could tell. But what do they expect? I’m gonna cry or something? Over some Nazi fräulein, posing as my daughter? Please! I mean, come on, how delusional do these people think I am?



Cody is both a writer and a pastor, and the only Flying M-Inkling Emeritus. He’s an idea generator, partly borne out of his eclectic reading style; he’s willing to discuss any of those ideas with anyone who wants to listen.

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