Endless miles of plastic highways swerve underground deeply into encrusted tunnels, an arterial labyrinth to be navigated by a microscopic submarine armed with laser beams. The theater of operations is antiseptically sterile as white jumpsuited technicians wearing safety yellow hardhats sidestep one another checking the numerous lighted gadgetry beeping irregularly. Uniformed men peer from behind open Venetian blinds covering thick glass window, ready at the last moment to abort. And an automated voice can be heard throughout the complex mechanically counting down the remaining seconds until ignition.
The tough, old coot lies jaundiced, awaiting Armageddon. Every so often, furled brows reluctantly Morse code short dots and long dashes of convulsions, spasms that belie an intestinal fortitude. Memories like his cherished boat float adrift morphined dreams chasing both King and Queen squarely ahead and well within sight. Soon he will digest a liquid concoction dyed for easier visibility.
Twice removed, the point of this exercise then is to build double indemnity before the shrunken crew leaves the triple airlock to release a huge weather ballon as all converge upon the alien intruder. Around his spleen, glowing radioactive pus choke off his own climate control usually synchronized to an atomic clock. The battle itself remembers the Alamo because the handful of Davids stave off wave after wave of Goliaths disguised as renegade antibiotics in attack formation. It is the art of war, constantly struggling to attain medicated bliss.
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