The War on Terror, Moping in the Living Room
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Soggy film from his Gauloises hung in the air. It drifted, tangling around Guy Debord's giant hands as he spoke. I thought I heard the bathtub spigot. It was a fire truck outside the living room window.
"She's not eating the food that tastes like Enalapril," I continued. Flashing lights through the window, on the walls. The febrile dogs upstairs barking; in the future all these little jokers will be studied in high schools and colleges. "If the War on Terror doesn't eat her medicine, her heart will shrivel like an artichoke."
"The War on Terror is the opportunity to go and see what has been banalized, Shimmy."
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I heard a rumor someone found a rat in the basement.
"Shimmy, we made the War on Terror while there was still time to talk about it."
"What about her kidneys? The War on Terror isn't eating her special Renal LP kidney formula that gets squeezed out of a white packet in corky little squares and shiny gravy."
Debord licked his finger and rubbed his eye with it.
"The end of Guantánamo," he said, "manifests itself in its preservation as a dead object for spectacular contemplation."
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Debord's hands are made of small particles that look taller than they are.
"Guantánamo still has its wonderstruck face and its body, the best of promised lands," he said. "It is an unfinished adventure."
"I'm not giving up my Wastebasket Enemy Combatant just because the White House said so."
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