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here because our F*L*A*C insists we have to change our image ‘to suit the times,’ forcing us to incorporate mattress-back pop tarts who’re here because they want to be famous, not because they know or care one whit about protecting people or national security or what it means to have fought a war every day for the last forty-five goddamned years of your career while they’re flitting away their mayfly existences preening and prancing around and having their highly publicized perverted little ‘sexcapades’ and publicly dragging the name of this organization through a urinal, making a mockery out of what real heroes—men like Hawk King, women like Iron Lass—have sacrificed!
“I,” he shouted, gripping his chair by the arms so hard his glide-flaps and whiskers shook, “feel furious!”
Stages of Grief: Lust for Vengeance
F estus Piltdown III panted, grimaced, blinked—I couldn’t tell whether from exhaustion or embarrassment. Finally, after regaining his breath, he said simply, “That’s it.”
“Don’t hold back, Squirrelly,” yelled a voice from the ceiling. “You might still have some spleen or pancreas left up in there to spit up—”
“André, please. Let’s positively reinforce Festus’s commendable first foray into self-revelation.”
“And that’s another thing, Miss Brain,” said the Flying Squirrel. “In my day, people didn’t call their elders or their superiors by their first names. One said Mister So-and-so and Miss Such-and-such. Would you go around calling Hawk King ‘Hawk’? No. It’s called respect. Propriety. And maybe if we had a little more of that, our Fraternal Order wouldn’t be swirling down the toilet right now.”
“Can I say something, Eva?” Power Grrrl reverse-rocketed to a stop and raised her hand as if she were a schoolgirl.
“Only if you turn that music down, Syndi.”
She wagged her hips, and the music ceased. “Why is it okay for Mister Piltdown to be sitting there judging us and insulting me? If he wants to be respected, doesn’t he have to, like, treat the rest of us with some respect?”
“ Bzzzt for me too, girly!”
I openly fondled my whistle, but, lost in their escalating id-confrontation, my F*O*O*Jsters raged on obliviously. “Treat you with respect?” spat the Squirrel. “I’ll treat you with respect when you goddamn start acting like you deserve some respect! What would Hawk King say if he could see—”
“Festus—Mr. Piltdown, please. Please. Look deeply. You spoke a moment ago about propriety. Don’t we need to model the behavior we wish to have others emulate? Focus on how you feel instead of what other people are doing. That way you can take ownership for your own feelings. Remember, you’re a stockholder in the exchange of your own emotions, but only your own. You can’t control other people.”
The Squirrel crossed his arms, leaned back. “That’s the goddamn problem. These children need controlling!”
Syndi wagged her hips and the music resumed. “I don’t have to take that!”
I blew the whistle.
But nothing happened. As soon as my team realized that they were not paralyzed by behavior-modification migraines, they waded back into their swamp of invective. I raised my voice. “All right, now—which of you did this? Who used their powers on my whistle?”
They met my interrogative with stares of faux innocence.
“I see. Presumably, had only one of you sabotaged my whistle, someone else would have revealed his or her name out of vindictiveness. Since no name is forthcoming, I have to assume all of you attempted to or succeeded in using your powers against my whistle. That’s disappointing. And I’ll have to report that to your F*L*A*C.”
They raised a chorus of objections against me, but none was willing to lay the blame at another’s feet. Either they were all guilty—a bad sign indeed—or they were protecting one of their confederates, which meant there might, indeed, be hope for reducing the
“I,” he shouted, gripping his chair by the arms so hard his glide-flaps and whiskers shook, “feel furious!”
Stages of Grief: Lust for Vengeance
F estus Piltdown III panted, grimaced, blinked—I couldn’t tell whether from exhaustion or embarrassment. Finally, after regaining his breath, he said simply, “That’s it.”
“Don’t hold back, Squirrelly,” yelled a voice from the ceiling. “You might still have some spleen or pancreas left up in there to spit up—”
“André, please. Let’s positively reinforce Festus’s commendable first foray into self-revelation.”
“And that’s another thing, Miss Brain,” said the Flying Squirrel. “In my day, people didn’t call their elders or their superiors by their first names. One said Mister So-and-so and Miss Such-and-such. Would you go around calling Hawk King ‘Hawk’? No. It’s called respect. Propriety. And maybe if we had a little more of that, our Fraternal Order wouldn’t be swirling down the toilet right now.”
“Can I say something, Eva?” Power Grrrl reverse-rocketed to a stop and raised her hand as if she were a schoolgirl.
“Only if you turn that music down, Syndi.”
She wagged her hips, and the music ceased. “Why is it okay for Mister Piltdown to be sitting there judging us and insulting me? If he wants to be respected, doesn’t he have to, like, treat the rest of us with some respect?”
“ Bzzzt for me too, girly!”
I openly fondled my whistle, but, lost in their escalating id-confrontation, my F*O*O*Jsters raged on obliviously. “Treat you with respect?” spat the Squirrel. “I’ll treat you with respect when you goddamn start acting like you deserve some respect! What would Hawk King say if he could see—”
“Festus—Mr. Piltdown, please. Please. Look deeply. You spoke a moment ago about propriety. Don’t we need to model the behavior we wish to have others emulate? Focus on how you feel instead of what other people are doing. That way you can take ownership for your own feelings. Remember, you’re a stockholder in the exchange of your own emotions, but only your own. You can’t control other people.”
The Squirrel crossed his arms, leaned back. “That’s the goddamn problem. These children need controlling!”
Syndi wagged her hips and the music resumed. “I don’t have to take that!”
I blew the whistle.
But nothing happened. As soon as my team realized that they were not paralyzed by behavior-modification migraines, they waded back into their swamp of invective. I raised my voice. “All right, now—which of you did this? Who used their powers on my whistle?”
They met my interrogative with stares of faux innocence.
“I see. Presumably, had only one of you sabotaged my whistle, someone else would have revealed his or her name out of vindictiveness. Since no name is forthcoming, I have to assume all of you attempted to or succeeded in using your powers against my whistle. That’s disappointing. And I’ll have to report that to your F*L*A*C.”
They raised a chorus of objections against me, but none was willing to lay the blame at another’s feet. Either they were all guilty—a bad sign indeed—or they were protecting one of their confederates, which meant there might, indeed, be hope for reducing the
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