Bottles

You can’t get the honor without doing anything honorable.

Standing in front of gullible people and telling them

exactly what they want to hear is pathetic,

not honorable behavior. When the outer

is so unlike the inner, the compound can’t

hold together forever. One day, it breaks

apart and the whole collapses into a heap.

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If you pretend to be tough but need constant refueling, you’re probably ready for a fall.

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Bottles

The fairground smelled of diesel and frying sugar. Dust clung to boots, and the banner above the stage whipped in the wind, its hem already ragged.

The emcee called up the speaker, a broad man in desert camo, chest glittering with military ribbons. His boots shone, his hair was barbered, his build was gym-tight. But as he moved toward the microphone, the emcee turned slightly aside, wrinkling his nose. The sponsors on the dais visibly reacted too. The whiskey smell was strong.

He thumped the podium. “I bled for this flag. Don’t let them take it.” His voice rang out, burnished with plenty of practice from bellowing on his podcast and social media channels.

A roar of applause came from the crowd.

When it died down a tall man with a cane, face weathered by sun, came out of the shadow of the elm. His voice was loud but unthreatening: “What unit? Show us your DD-214.”

The camo man spread his arms, and grinned far too broadly. “Classified. Black ops. You wouldn’t understand.”

The veteran shook his head. “That’s not how it works. Your patches don’t match. That ribbon’s upside down. Everyone who’s served knows this stuff.”

A ripple passed through the crowd. Some laughed nervously, others fell still. The speaker bellowed more loudly, railing against “deep state enemies” and “traitors in our ranks.” His voice cracked. Sweat ran down his temples. The whiskey smell on the dais was unmistakable now, rising in the heat.

Sponsors by the stage stood stiff, arms crossed, saying nothing.

The veteran tapped his cane once against the floor. “You never served,” he said, then sat back down.

The impostor scanned the restless fairground. Applause thinned, the cheers died out. He left the stage alone, jaw set in defiance and muttering threats against everyone.

Weeks later, his videos became entirely deranged. He made them in dimly lit motel rooms, blinds drawn, bottles lined up around and behind him. Someone was poisoning him, some shadowy, deep-state demons, he swore. But in the end, it was his liver that failed. The bottles had done their work.

Each summer the fair raises a new banner. By fall, it’s always gone.