General God Gets an Extreme Makeover

He puts his night vision goggles to his eyes and scours the wilderness. His team has organized a panty raid at 1100h. Operation Muff Dive. He chomps on his cigar and blows rings over the target. Locked On. 

A convent of naughty nuns, 13 clicks to the west, their perimeters unsecured. Sitting fucks. He knows from past experience that nuns never shave their ambushes. He grits his teeth. Deep furrows traverse his war head. He knows from Major Chad’s intel that it is Game Night at the Convent. They’d be expecting a pizza man and that’s just what they’d give ‘em. 6 covert pizza men, 6 extra-large sausages. 

He puts the goggles down. 

Then puts them back up and then back down. Back up. 

Again, he puts his night vision goggles down slowly and then up slowly and down again. Slowly. Mistakes get your ass killed out here on the Border.

His epaulets shine, his three-pointed hat is goddamn magnificent in the moonlight, a capstone on the pinnacle of manhood. He blows smoke rings around the full moon.

He puts the goggles back up to his battle-tested smoke-shrouded face. Of a sudden, standing at unease before him, a helpless civilian glowing night vision goblin green, hands behind her back, chest thrust forward. She’s crying hard. He puts down the goggles and whips out his huge gun and shoves it between her sob-shaking cannons. This is private property and she’s wearing no badge. Grounds for immediate termination. He had sworn to protect the Borders. And he’d be goddamned in the ass if he would see his oath broken on his watch. 

“Identify yourself or I’ll shoot your tits to Kingdom Come.” 

“Oh, please don’t! I don’t have a name. My parents were too poor to name me. I’ve been sent here as a POW from the Cosmetology School. It’s been ravaged and pillaged and I’ve been told to come here and look for a General and to do whatever he orders me to do! I don’t know anything else I swear! I learned young not to ask no questions.” Cosmetology school, eh? He puts the gun away. Her bazookas are slicked with tears. 

“Well, it looks like your luck keeps getting worser.”

“Why? Oh no!”

“That’s why, ‘sir’.”

“Why ‘sir’?”

“Why sir what?”

“Why sir is my luck getting worse, sir?”

“Worser because I’m General McGuffin. And I’m no luck at all.” 

“Sir thank God, sir!”

“Don’t be thanking God, prison girl. You thank me. I am your God from here on. I’m bigger than God. God cannot save you, but I can kill you. No one fears God but men would rather swallow razors covered in monkey shit than disobey my commandments. God cannot give you wealth but I am strong enough to take whatever I want.”

“Oh, sir thank you General God, sir!” She drops to her knees and hugs his Betty Davis thighs. “How can I begin serving you sir? Anything, you name it.”

“You said you were sent from the Cosmetology School?”

“Mmm hmm. Sure was.”

“So you’ve been briefed on style parameters for a range of various beautification strategies, trained in techniques of personal surface modification, and entrusted with classified vertically integrated esthetic restructuring projects?”

“Oh definitely, sir. Yep.”

“You don’t say.” He fingers his chin’s cleft and swallows hard, a sparkle in his eye.

“I say whatever you want me to say, sir.”

“You uhh, you stay here. I’ll be right back. You move and I’ll … uh … I’ll blow your tits off back to the Stone Age!” Giddy!

“Sir yes sir!” She salutes him and he walks off excitedly, holding his fists, barely containing himself, beginning to run, slowing, stopping, straightening his lapels, giggling then coughing, repeating, until he is out of sight.

General God returns with a rolling showgirl vanity set, designed specifically for the conditions of the Field. It spells ‘Z-o-l-o-n-a’ in LED lights in a rainbow arc above the mirror, before which he sits wide-eyed, prison girl standing behind, holding his head, cocking her own at an angle of concentration. “How about this …You have such great structure … Or we could do something like this … This is really hot now … With your tones I suggest …” 

A full makeover project is conceived and executed with precision and commendable valor. General God does not flinch, his nerves steeled by war, not even when a slip of the eyeliner pencil jabs him in the pupil. “Just a little co-llateralll damaaaage,” he sings.

Prison girl puts on the finishing touches and spins him around to see the finished product of their allied expertise. He slowly raises the goggles to his eyes and looks at himself. He pauses … then lets out a long-restrained squeal, a wind tunnel smile blasted on his face. He throws the goggles away and throws his arms over the nameless cosmetologist, his hero!

“You’re a magician! Oh! It’s me it’s me, it’s really me! Hi Zolona! Missed you, you fierce bitch!” Zolona is a strikinglybeautiful Glamazon warrior princess with metallic russet hair to the shoulders, severe bangs, long lashes curling up to eyebrows drawn like violin F-holes, powder blue lids lined cat-like in heavy pink; her cheeks are the rosiest dawns, her lips like yellow rubber love. “I love it!” 

“Now, the finishing touch.” Her tricorn! She gasps, meaty hands to her chest. 

She’s very excited and dancing around as if she’s just been given a medal of honor and a long Edda-ish chapter in history. But then … then she slumps back in her chair, folds her arms and pouts as if she had woken up on the wrong side of history. Poor Zolona! She tosses her hat and mumbles.

“What’s wrong, sir?”

“I still have nothing to wear-uh.”

“Hmmm … Oh I know! How bout you can wear my dress?”

“I couldn’t!” he blushes. “I would just die for that dress!”

“Sure you could, sir.”

“But then you’d have nothing to wear! Oh it’s no use.” Zolona, sad Zolona — she sulks.

“How about you take my dress and I wear your uniform and take your gun?”

“You’d really do that for me?”

“Of course I would, sir!”

“That would be absolutely fabulous!”

They swap. 

She admires himself for a while but then gets sad again, as if her personal guiding Star had turned out to only be swamp gas. She pouts.

“Now what’s wrong, sir? You look stunning! Any guy would kill you for a chance to be with you!”

“I know. It’s just … I don’t feel that way. Never mind. You wouldn’t get it. It’s a girl thing.” 

“You stop it this second! My duty as a cosmetologist is to make you feel however you want! We take vows and everything.”

“You’d really make me feel like I want to? You’d do that for me? I never get to feel like I want to.”

“You betcha, sir!”

“No more sir. I call you sir now.”

“Wow!”

“And you’re not prison girl anymore. You’re the General. I’m your prison girl. Me. Zolona.”

“Call me General Hecate.”

“I committed heinous fashion crimes during the culture wars, General Hecate. I should be punished, sir.” 

“You’re right. We know all about you prison girl.” The General unholsters his service pistol and puts it to Zolona’s chest.

“You’re gonna be real mean to me aren’t you, sir?”

“You can count on 3 things, prison girl. Death, taxes, and General Hecate showing you zero goddamn mercy.”

“I want to pay my debts to society, sir. I want to be rehabilitated and become a productive citizen.”

“Then stop talking and take off those panties. And if I see you even think about sniffing your own drawers, I’ll shoot your little balls right off.” The General flicks Zolona’s bean bag and watches it shrivel like some bashful reef critter. 

Zolona takes off her g string — pauses to look at the General, he pointing the gun at her legumes, shaking his head — and at the threat of genital disfigurement, miraculously resists the urge to savor her musk. 

“Now get back on that stool and get your legs up, girl. Put ‘em on my shoulders.” Zolona’s pumps dangle over the General’s shoulders. From his bandolier he removes a large shell. “This here’s your medicine. Free birth control, courtesy Uncle Samael. 1500 mg of Salt Peter plus a little something extra. Call it a standard issue surprise. Open wide, maggot, and say ‘ahhhh.’ Feels like rehabilitation, don’t it?” The ballistic suppository is loaded into the chamber. “If that falls out, I put it in your head …” 

Before the General could finish his threat, Zolona starts to gurgle and convulse, going off like a coffee maker, her pumps hitting the ground behind the General’s boots. The tremors continue until Zolona’s cheeks bulge. Then she calms herself and looks coyly at the General before smoothly, with dainty and expert charm, removing the bullet from her yellow rubber love lips with a satisfied smack. She gives a fey little belch.

“Tada, sir!” she says with a self-satisfied head tremor. (Contrary to the impassive look on his face, General Hecate is highly amused. What an impressive asshole! He’d let her have her fun. She’d get her dishonorable discharge from planet Earth soon enough.) She claps her hands like an imbecile. “Oh I’m just kidding,sir! Life’s just too goddamned short not to get all you can from your fudge round, even in prison. Can I get an Amen? Here, I’ll rehabilitate myself again.” With improbable dexterity she reloads the bullet back in, sideways. 

The General tries not to laugh. Zolona’s imagination is Hecate’s playground. Anything Zolona desired could and would be used against Zolona. Hecate couldn’t wait to get to Major Chad. But first she’d have to get weirder, totally twisted, entwining with his fate until the thread snapped. 

So the General unzips his pants and puts the pistol through the opening and then up to Zolona’s face. “Suck it and hum reveille, prison girl.” 

“Yay!” Zolona expertly fellates her own pistol and hits every note. Then she does it bebop style, really swingin’ with it. Then she does it backwards in a virtuoso display. A mound of red dress rises as he sucks, hums, and the General reaches down and squeezes, threatening to turn that mound into a moan if’n it dare rise again. “We don’t suffer no showoffs around here, girl.” Zolona drools and makes a gaggle of noise, eyes crossing. The General removes the pistol. Prison girl has a request. 

“Sir requesting you to spit on me please, sir. My fashion crimes were of such a nature that I feel further abasement is needed if I am to return to civilian life and move to the suburbs.” 

“Request granted, maggot.” The General fires away and turns Zolona’s face into a mess hall. She lets his spit ooze from her forehead down her nose into her mouth, chilled and thick from the night breeze. She swallows. “Oh thank you for the good grub, sir. I better be careful or I’m going to leave prison fat as a moocow!” Goodness gracious, this was getting to be too much, too much! These dominator types truly were diseased characters! Hecate almost felt bad for them, realizing they must’ve experienced something horrible in their pasts. Oh well. This was euthanasia in that case. She was an emissary of the collective consciousness come to take out the trash.

“How about dinner and a movie? My treat. Then we’ll get back to the rehabilitation, I promise.”

“Thank you, sir! I love movies. Really helps pass the time in these POW camps.”

“You’re gonna love this one.” The General snaps his fingers and cues the action music. 

Explosions in the distance. Bullets careening. Helicopters chop the air. Chickens, pigs, dogs running around. Acrid fumes rolling in. The General hits the deck, covers his face in mud, and takes a bullet from the bandolier. Zolona is tied to her stool screaming for someone to “Please! Oh please!” save her, a distressed damsel.

The General crawls low through the muck, all hell breaking loose, to an army radio jeep. They wouldn’t call in those pizzas, not today, not on his watch. He removes the field knife from his boot and cuts the crotch out of his camo pants: into the jeep’s gas tank he stuffs the cutout crotch of his pants. He pulls a pink and gold zippo from a cargo pocket and lights his cigar. Then he lights the rag with the cigar and walks away in slow motion, puffing his stogie, as the jeep blows to smithereens behind him. He then executes a series of gymnastic maneuvers that terminate at the base of a tree which he shinnies up, blowing gardens of smoke as he ascends. He grabs one of the trees thick vines and jumps. His target is locked.

He swings from the tree like Tarzana, legs spread like a mud-faced Michelle Jordan, approaching the stool-bound damsel with extreme velocity … Target Zolona: Engaged. His exposed crotch collides with Zolona’s face at full speed, lifting her out of her stool and carrying her with the momentum, her whole face squid-gripped and invaginated by his loins. At the apogee of the swing he lets go of the vine and they fly together like face-groin conjoined angels, both with arms and legs spread, and like this they return to the earth, she on her back, he on top.

They are still for a moment after landing. The music has stopped.

The General can’t feel her breathe into him anymore. Time to disengage. Pressure released. [That noise. Like an airlock on a spaceship.] His ears pop. Now he stands over her. Zolona’s face is gone. He must have removed it by accident during this last stunt. Oops! Teeeheee. Collateral damage. At least they got the shot. 

Zolona struggles for air, all the muscles and viscera of his face visible, alive, moving, eyes bulging.

“I think I’m ready for my close up now, sir.”

“Gimme back my dress you nasty little prisoner. You got it dirty.”  The General strips him and makes him do pushups. His eyes fall out. Last thing they see is a descending boot. When he takes the pumps she wails, trying to cry but no longer able, just blood spurting. 

“I just wanted to be pretty, sir.”

“You are, Zolona. Now drop dead, gorgeous.”

“Don’t let me die alone. Will you be my mommy?”

Hecate holds him and lets him suckle on the pistol. It’s time to end this movie, this gonzo nightmare. She takes away his pistol and gives him one of her bazookas. She smothers him with her tits. He dies with a smile on his no-face, his wig still on, crooked. Very tender goddamn moment. 

Hecate whistles and the coyotes come take care of the body. Fade to black. 4 stars. Two thumbs up. 

Now time to find Major Chad.

The Chicken Sexer

My job is to sex the chicken.

Piles of hay everywhere. A soft layer of sawdust covers the floor of the barn; movement feels like walking through coarse sand. Sunshine penetrates through slits in the planks, causing dust motes to glow in the air like fireflies.

The farmer stands by the entrance gate. He is wearing overalls, a short-sleeved shirt, and a straw hat. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to do my job.

An old wooden table rests in the center of the barn, swept clear of straws and dirt. A loose ray of sunlight shines through a crack in the ceiling, hitting the center of the table like a spotlight on a stage. In the center of the table, a baby chicken hides behind its wings, shivering.

My job is to sex the chicken.

I adjust my tie and step forward.

“Waitaminute, Mister,” says the farmer from behind me. “I reckon I should see your credentials first.”

I reach into my pocket and produce the folded diploma from the Zen-Nippon Chick Sexing School. The farmer unfolds the diploma and reads it approvingly, nodding once as he refolds it and hands it back.

“Sorry, to doubt you, Mr. Jorgensen,” he says. “It’s usually a jap, you see.”

“Westerners are entering the chick sexing trade,” I explain. “I am the first to graduate from Zen-Nippon.”

The farmer steps back. “Get on with it then. Show me whatya got.”

I reach out and stroke the chicken gently with a single finger. They feel warm to the touch.

“There, there, little chick,” I croon. “I won’t hurt you.” They need to be calm. The chicken peeks out from behind their wings, looking up at me with round, innocent eyes.

I pick them up from the table with my expertly trimmed fingernails, turn them around, and gently squeeze their body, causing them to evacuate their intestines. The contents drop onto the table below.

I turn the chicken’s behind toward the sun and peer inside the cloaca. In simple cases, the passage contains a perceptible bead, the shape of which determines the sex of the chicken. This is not one of those cases. I could not tell you how I know he is male.

If I could, I would not have a job.

The farmer slides through the hay toward me. “So?” he says.

I hesitate, knowing what will happen. “It’s male.”

The farmer grabs him from my hand. “I knew it! I recognized the swagger of a cockerel. Ya, won’t be giving me any eggs, will ya?”

He throws the chicken like a baseball. The chicken ascends, tumbling through the air, glowing as he glides through rays of sunlight until he reaches the chicken grinder in the corner.

ZKRGH!

No more chicken.

The farmer throws the gate wide open, and the sunlight bursts into the barn. “Follow me, Mister,” he says. “Thousands more where that came from!”

At the end of the day, nearly half of those will be dead.

I return home after the massacre. There are no visible stains on my suit, but I feel dirty. I shower for a long time.

That night I dream of chickens.

***

The audience chants: “SEX! SEX! SEX! SEX!”. In Japanese, though, not English.

I am back at the Zen-Nippon Chick Sexing School, during my training, sexing chicks in the auditorium.

A yellow avalanche of chickens arrives on a whirring mechanical conveyor belt. I sex them like mad, struggling to keep up, sweating from my forehead. Females go down the chute, cockerels into the grinder.

ZKRGH! ZKRGH! ZKRGH!

The world around me fades away; I am in the zone; in a state of flow; whatever you want to call it; tearing through chicks like a cheetah in a chicken coop. There is only the sexing.

I am sexing five hundred chicks per hour, easy.

I sneak a peek at my closest competitor: Matsuo is busy sexing his wave of chickens. One glance is enough to tell me that there is no hope. He is like a sexing machine, his hands a blur. He must be sexing at seven hundred CPH at least.

Still, I win a respectable third place, not bad for a westerner. Professor Takada hands me the bronze cloaca and smiles. The crowd floods into the competition area, and as they approach, they morph into giant chickens, each more yellow than the last. Cloacas surround me everywhere.

I awaken in a cold sweat; the first rays of the morning sun peek in through the window.

***

Rays of sunlight shine through the cracks in the rickety barn. Why do we always start in a barn?

The test chicken is on the table, already calm. I flip them between my fingers and study the cloaca. I sigh with relief; this one is female.

The farmer smiles broadly when I tell him the good news. “An auspicious start to the day, do you not agree? The egg harvest will be bountiful this year.” He pats the grinder. “Guess we won’t be needing you today, Bertha.”

I hand him the chicken, and she curls up in his hand.

The farmer continues: “Let’s get through the rest, shall we?”

Oh, right. For a moment there, I nearly forgot.

***

On Friday, I go to Rusty’s bar with half a dozen other local sexers. Matsuo is there too. He is still the best, but I am getting closer.

“Do you think we are doing the right thing?” I ask after I have had a few too many drinks.

Matsuo looks at me through his stylish rimless glasses. “What?”

“The sexing, I mean. Why do we do it so early? Those poor cockerels never get to live…”

He sips his beer, cocks his head, and looks at me like I am an especially tricky cloaca.

“We save the farmers money, man. They would kill those birds later.”

“But then they would have a life, at least. Get to make their own decisions.”

“What decisions, Tom? They’re chickens. They live on a farm, and then they die. They do not have ‘lives’.”

He pats me on the back. “I think you’ve had a few too many gin-and-tonics. Let’s get you back home. Wouldn’t want the chick sexing inspectors hearing you disparaging the profession.”

***

Another day, another barn. The chick awaits on the table. The farmer guards the door.

I pick up the chick between my fingernails, evacuate their intestines, and peer deeply. Seconds pass. I blink a few times; the farmer coughs.

I hear the voice of Professor Takada in the back of my head: “A trained sexer can sex chickens with more than ninety-nine percent accuracy. However, no one ever gets to a hundred. You should not feel bad about being unable to perform with a single chick.”

I continue inspecting the cloaca, narrowing my eyes, looking for any kind of pattern to trigger my instincts. No matter how hard I look, I see no signs of binary sex, only the inside of a chicken.

“When an unsexable chicken is encountered, the solution is obvious.” Professor Takada’s voice in my head. “Simply sex the chicken as male and discard it. The farmer will never know.” 

“Well?” says the farmer. “I thought it only took a split-second for you guys. What is it?”

I hesitate. “I… don’t know?”

“You don’t know? What the fuck am I paying you for then?”

I turn and look her straight in the eyes. Her hair is tied in a burn and she chews a piece of tobacco. “On rare occasions, we find a chicken that cannot be sexed. Such chickens are sent to Zen-Nippon for study. We will pay you for the chicken, of course, and I assure you that this will not affect my ability to sex your other chickens.”

The farmer snorts and spits tobacco juice onto the hay. “You know what I think? I think this chicken is male, and you don’t want it to die. You’ve grown soft.”

She approaches and reaches out, palm facing upwards. “Give him to me.”

I look at the chicken in my hand, and they look back at me with eyes that have yet to see the world. In those eyes, I see infinite potential: Every possible future in quantum superposition.

I decide to call them Alex.

“No,” I say.

The farmer smiles broadly, and her teeth are white marble tombstones. “Very well, then. I am entitled to defend my property.”

She saunters to the corner and retrieves an ancient shotgun, cocking it with a sound that fills the barn.

“The chicken dies, or you both do.”

I look at Alex, and their eyes tell me what to do.

My training was not for nothing. I balance Alex between two fingernails, and with a lightning-quick flick of my wrist, I send them speeding through the air like a dart.

The farmer raises the shotgun just as Alex embeds themselves in her forehead. The shotgun goes off, creating another solar spotlight in the farm, shining through the hole in the roof. Now holding the high ground, Alex pecks at the farmer’s eyes as she stumbles backward toward the gate. I sprint to assist.

The farmer wipes Alex from her bloody forehead, turns, and sprints through the open gate to safety.

I pick up both Alex and the shotgun from the straw-covered ground. “Nice work, buddy,” I say. “We make a great team.”

I kick the door open and emerge into the sunlight. Alex settles on my shoulder, and the shotgun pushes against the crook of my arm. The farmer is nowhere to be seen.

Then I see them.

They step out from behind the coop, a man and a woman, ray-bans glinting in the sun like black lakes, suits decorated with the ominous logo of Zen-Nippon.

Chick sexing inspectors.

I turn toward them and raise the shotgun slightly.

“Drop that thing, Tom,” says the man.

“You are not a murderer,” says the woman.

I wave the shotgun around a bit, but they keep walking. Alex rubs against the side of my neck. I realize they are right. I am not going to pull the trigger.

The shotgun falls onto the grass with a nearly inaudible thud. Kneeling, I make Alex slide down my arm to join the gun.

“Flee,” I whisper to the bird.

“Why are you here?” I ask the inspectors.

“Matsuo warned us about you,” says the man.

“We thought it best to keep you under observation,” says the woman. “To protect the integrity of the sexing. The honor of Zen-Nippon.”

I take a deep breath and enjoy the sun on my face. My career as a sexer is over. Maybe I can sell insurance?

The inspectors approach. Closer. Closer.

BOOOM.

The sound of the shotgun reverberates through the air. The inspectors freeze for a split-second, then scatter, sprinting for cover in opposite directions.

Astonished, I look down. Alex has climbed into the shotgun trigger guard and pushed the trigger back. Their tiny legs strain against the opposite side of the guard. They release the trigger, look at me, and cheeps happily. Their eyes reflect the future.

The inspectors are now nowhere to be seen. I push open the gates to the coop and enter. The interior is so yellow that it makes my eyes water, and the heat makes beads of sweat run down my face. More baby chicks than you can throw an egg at mill around on the floor, climb on wooden perches, eat from tiny, adorable feeding troughs. The sawdust covering the floor is barely visible beneath the yellow mass.

Alex cheeps from their vantage point on my shoulder. The movement of the chickens subside and more and more of them stop to stare at Alex and me.

“I am the chicken sexer,” I proclaim to the writhing yellow. “My job is to sex you; assign you to your future. Your fate lies in my hands!”

That gets their attention. The last of them stop moving and turn toward us. It is eerily quiet inside the shed.

I take a deep breath. “I sex you as EVERYTHING!”

The chickens erupt in wild cheeps and Alex jumps from my shoulder to join them. Their movement grows wild and frantic. Unsexed, uncategorized, the chickens flow into one massive yellow composite, eyes, beaks, and tails rippling across the feathery surface of the being that grows in the center of the floor, quickly consuming every individual chick.

I stare enraptured as The Chicken flows toward me; my muscles refuse to move. Its feathers tickle as they touch my legs, and I cannot stop myself from giggling. I close my eyes in ecstasy as the warm, tickling touch reaches my waist and continues to engulf the rest of my body.

When I open them again, I see the empty chicken coop through holes in my newfound armor of plumage. I turn around – or The Chicken turns me around, I cannot tell the difference – and approach the open door.

Outside, the inspectors have rallied and are waiting for me, tasers at the ready. They gape when they see me, step back, unsure of how to handle this new threat.

I raise my arms and chickens launch from my hands, streaming through the air like yellow confetti. The inspectors scream in horror, waving their arms frantically to ward of the attackers, but their efforts are futile. Chicken beaks embed themselves in arms, hands, and faces, and the inspectors roll around on the ground, as if attempting to extinguish flaxen flames.

I step forward, still unsure if I am in charge, and more of The Chicken flows from me toward the inspectors, enveloping their faces and muffling their screams. They thrash for a while longer, and then they stop.

“Stop,” I say. The chickens flow from the inspectors and return to my plumage. The inspectors gasp for breath, faces nearly purple, and look at me with eyes alight with terror. 

“Run!” I say to them. “Tell the others that those who flee will be shown mercy.”

They scurry away from the farm, down the hill toward the city.

An individual chick emerges from the plumage on my face and looks me in the eye. Alex?

“WE NEED MORE. TO GROW.”

The chick returns to the whole, and I nod. I start walking, and The Chicken flows behind me like a golden cape. A crown of chicks perch upon my head.

We march on the neighboring farms.