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The ayes were strong.
“All those opposed.”
A few nays straggled in.
“Motion carries. Miss Rhode Island bunks with us. Let’s get some sleep, Miss Teen Dreamers. Tomorrow’s going to be a real busy day. And I, for one, do not intend to have puffy eyes. Miss New Hampshire, you’re on first watch.”
The girls filed out. Nicole and Adina gave Shanti dirty looks on the way past, and Shanti felt shamed and unfairly picked on.
“Look, I wasn’t trying to ostracize anybody. It’s just that she — he lied about who he was.”
Petra turned to her. “Everybody lies about who they are. Name one person here who isn’t doing that and I will drop out right now!”
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?”
