Soldiers tromp through unfamiliar soil hunting prey with Uncle Sam’s eyes. Invisible radar scans, gleaming. The sun roasts up above, heat waves dance in rolling gaits, darting every which way. Muffled cough, steady march, synced thought. Mirage breaks monotony. Sarge stops, signals battle maneuver. Trigger fingers anticipate, twitch expectant.
Back home, politician clamors with competitive charisma. Invokes fear, desperate fear, reliant fear. Mr. and Mrs. hear him, see him from mounted plasma screen, an honest Western face, a suited savior. Instant agreement in cheap faith. An answered prayer, a sinister hope. Let it never end.
False alarm. Soldiers continue their drone march. An ant stares, resigns knowingly, and then is splattered under jagged boot tread. Another MIA. The animals flee before a great war machine. It mutilates and discards, tromping.
A ghostly face appears transcendent before the gore. Laughing dollar signs, fiery amusement, a gleeful celebrator. The phantom is politic.
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