The military is prepared to act. There are noises in the room downstairs. A group of people is clustering by the door, listening to the dogs bark. The kids (don't call them kids--they are teens, and one might even be twenty) have put on novelty t-shirts, the boys and girls alike, and are in the process of eyeing each other, deciding when what was donned can be doffed. One is sweating too much. One is giggling without full control. One is already thinking about which bed she'll use. She's the one who's twenty. The people listening to the dogs are much older, mostly bald. Their thoughts are chaste. Someone somewhere calls out the name of a great song. A bald voice begins to sing it. The one who is twenty makes up her own lyrics, which have everything to do with geopolitics and philosophy, and nothing to do with love. A grasp of dogs is clustered by the gate, listening to her sing. "Hot Shit University," says one shirt. "Cinco de Mayonnaise," says another. "Take My Hand, Contraband," says a third. The song is almost finished. The dogs are almost finished. The military is prepared to act.
⊙2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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