TOO MUCH PSYCHIC JESUS BLOOD - Bryson Newhart

Can one jump a swiftly approaching car if the roof is low enough? Our commanding officer, Corporal Leadfelt, decided to test the theory. Many of us had witnessed him high jumping into a shower, barely clearing the bathtub curtain, so maybe he had a chance. There was a highway that encircled our camp like an ouroboros, its cars returning to consume their own exhaust, and they honked as Leadfelt marched onto the highway. He wore a cone-shaped hat and a wetsuit for purposes aerodynamic, but unfortunately the car he chose turned out to be a funny car, and at the last minute it turned into a tank. We melted Leadfelt’s dog tags to spread on our toast, then toasted the dead man, all the while drinking copious amounts of Jesus blood. I called my wife to tell her, but she doesn’t believe me.

Outside our camp, the war dragged on with debris from the fallen moon, which we imported from Zarathustra. The moon was cheap, just a crescent because we bought it too early in its cycle, and its boomerang of an orbit dropped it spinning into our camp like an awkward simile. On the periphery of our battle, craters snapped open to swallow burning wads of cash. They know when someone’s been to the bank, they can smell the withdrawal, and are always waiting for the match to strike. Call me paranoid, but in this carnival of noise and nonsense surrounded by death and hope, which are not exactly what we wanted from a war, the safest bet is to carry a machete in the sheath of one’s dreams. A waffle might crawl onto your plate. It needs to be sliced. Or you could wake up choking in a field of lavender.

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