“you ever wonder,” i said,
“why we get to have nukes
but if anyone else even looks interested,
we call it a threat?”
karsten took a hit,
blew it out slow like the smoke was classified.
“because we’re the good guys,” he said.
“haven’t you seen our movies?”
“yeah,” i said.
“we always win,
even when we commit war crimes.”
he nodded.
“that’s just efficient storytelling.”
i picked at a loose thread on the arm of the couch.
“iran’s evil.
israel’s righteous.
russia’s bad.
we’re misunderstood.”
“don’t forget north korea,” he said.
“they’re cartoon villain bad.”
“right.
we test missiles, it’s defense.
they test missiles, it’s provocation.”
“seems fair.”
he passed me the joint.
“might makes right.
and right makes documentaries.”
we sat in silence
while someone mowed their lawn outside—
a one-man crusade
against overgrowth,
armed with conviction and gasoline.
“you think we’re better?” i asked.
karsten shrugged.
“i think we’re louder.”
“you think god picks sides?”
“god,” he said,
“is just trying to get out of the group chat.”
we laughed,
but not really.
the kind of laugh you do
when you’ve already read the ending.
“we killed half a million iraqi civilians
to stop a guy
we armed in the first place,”
i said.
“and we still get to lecture people
about restraint.”
karsten nodded.
“because we wear suits
while we do it.”
“we call them terrorists,” i said.
“they call us invaders.”
“maybe everyone’s right,” he said.
“and everyone’s full of shit.”
outside, a dog barked at nothing.
or maybe at everything.
“you ever feel like the only honest position
is confused?”
“yeah,” karsten said.
“confused and slightly high.”
the joint was ash.
the sun was still punishing the windows.
“you think we’ll ever stop pretending
we’re the good guys?” i asked.
he stood up, stretched.
“nah.
we’ll just change the costumes.”
he walked out.
i sat there,
still confused,
still slightly high,
watching the ceiling fan spin
like it was deciding who deserved to live.
