Zero and the Anti-Dollar

Zero sat still with the anti-dollar in his scarred palms.

The war had begun and the fear was flying through the air like blood. Zero felt the poison stir in his lungs. The television was growing fat with virulent statistics, hospitals and fire. He stared through the screen and imagined

a V-sign projected on the far wall. The anti-dollar sweated in his hands:

it made his veins thicken with potential. Zero painted on a mask with chalk; stocked

up on fish and brine sealed in tins; locked

every door and window, and kept a sharp eye

on the gun case that concealed a remote control and two spare batteries. The war moaned on: the drive to Damascus lit the evening news.

Zero sat at a safe distance, counting the bodies.

At midnight, his doorbell rang.

It was a man from the government.

Zero slammed the door, held up the anti-dollar to the light

and saw the sick, grey face of a tight-ass God.

The anti-dollar fluttered to the floor with a bang.

The next morning he awoke in time. The air was caked with signals from the television. Voices struggled for dominance. Zero licked the ricin from his lips and watched the mouths move up and down like ventriloquist dummies. "The rapid advance on the capital is incredible progress,"

reported a mouth to another mouth. Remembering that the human race is always about to fall apart at the crucial moment, Zero suspended the anti-dollar in front of the mirror.

Its image was a kind of truth. Zero exhaled and terminated the picture screen. The poison was wearing off.