Slash and Burn

head. In front of him were a dozen bottles of various origins: Coke, soda, a petroleum jelly jar, all glass. And in each bottle there was an insect, different species, varying sizes from a beetle to a horsefly. And if a visitor looked carefully, he’d see a fine thread feeding down through the bottle’s stopper and tied around the abdomen of each creature. The result was that when released from their prison they could fly only to the end of the thread. And if a visitor was to take the time to notice, he’d see that the bugs buzzing orbits around the boy’s head were attached by thread to his baseball cap. The lassoing of the insects would have taken a great deal of patience. The doctor tried to speak to him but the boy laughed deep in his belly and ignored the old man. Ugly was fascinated by the display. It wasn’t long before other members of the team had gathered around the insect cowboy. Two of the Americans took pictures. Everyone agreed it was extremely cruel, but terribly cool. Ar, the head of the village, stepped up to claim the boy. Both father and son had cheekbones you could stack plates on.
    “My youngest son, Bok,” he told Phosy. “Never been right in the head. Can’t talk.”
    “Is this all he does?” Phosy asked.
    “He thinks if he can get enough of ’em he’ll be able to fly,” said Ar. “But of course they all die the same day. So he spends all his time hunting for new ones. I tell him he’d need a thousand of them to lift him off the ground but he never gives up. If only we could find something with a longer life span….”
    Ar had obviously given the proposal a good deal of thought. It was as if somewhere at the back of his mind he believed that if the insects lifted his son the boy might become normal.
    But you can only stand and watch beetles on leashes for so long. Both teams gathered in the meeting room to discuss the next plan. Ar pointed in the direction in which their sorceress had seen the dragon crash into the moon. After lunch they would take a hike across that ridge to the crash site.
    “You do realize,” said Civilai, looking off into the distance, “that if the explosion actually took place over there and the tailplane found its way here, the odds of finding even a little piece of this pilot are less than finding a gram of common sense in the Politburo.”
    “Not necessarily,” said Lit. “He was in a confined space surrounded by metal. Even if there was a fire there could be some remains inside the cockpit.”
    “I don’t know,” Dtui said. “All this expense and bother for one man. It seems unfair to me. These hills are littered with the dead relatives of families who can’t ever hope to reclaim their bodies.”
    “Oh, Dtui,” said Civilai, about to launch into one of his famous, “You don’t think….” tirades. “You surely don’t think this is a mission to find a body? This is much more than that. This is the empty coffers of Vientiane cooperating with the bankers of Wall Street.”
    “Good, Civilai,” said Daeng. “We’re doing this for the money.”
    “Common sense, young Madame Daeng. Because we ride fearlessly on the back of the Vietnamese tiger we have to join them in their condemnation of China. Last month our prime minister stood up in parliament and said that China was a bunch of international reactionaries. As a result we are going to lose one of our most generous benefactors.”
    “I thought you hated the Chinese more than anyone,” Siri laughed.
    “Not true. I hate all evil-minded usurpers in equal measure. But any fool, even you, Siri, could not fail to notice that with Peking on its way out our beloved leaders have begun making overtures to enemies past. The Thais, a nation of corrupt capitalist pornographers, have suddenly become our useful allies. Cracks have appeared in our resolve and televisions and motorcycles are leaking through them. Cultural exchanges are being arranged. A famous short-skirted pop singer has been invited to sing at our next That Luang festival.”
    “Nan … nan … Nanthida, I like her,” said Mr. Geung.
    “You be careful, Geung,” said Dtui. “We don’t want anyone getting jealous, do we now?”
    Geung blushed the colour of a week-old chili.
    “See?” said Civilai. “Corrupted already. And now we’re encouraging a CIA comeback. Next thing you know they’ll bring their Beatles over here to subvert our youth.”
    “I think you’ll find the Beatles are English,” Dtui told him.
    “All