Merlot had visited his mother in the hospital, red roses in hand, guilt tucked beneath the petals. He'd politely declined the contract, despite Alan's pleading. Alan now worked weekends as a grocery store cashier, thanks to a landlord whose generosity extended only to rent hikes. They rarely saw each other anymore.
Alan said he liked the way Merlot turned countries into people—Uncle Sam, the begrudging landlord; Borealia, the neighbour with selective memory. She loved to brag about the Underground Railroad, an escape from Sam's farm, but forgot that "freedom" only arrived when you turned twenty-five. Uncle Sam accused her of cherry-picking like a politician on the campaign trail.
Merlot explained it was easier that way. The nicknames made the nations feel less real, less dangerous. It was safer to write about masks than about mothers.
Alan said it felt like reading a story within a story. Merlot didn't argue. Personally, he preferred short stories—at least they knew when to end. Books that dragged on past their final chapter only reminded him how long he'd been waiting for closure.
Uncle Sam had maxed out his credit card trying to imprison draft dodgers and pot smokers. Borealia said the real crime was being jailed without weed. Sam said the real crime was not being able to profit from it yet. Uncle Sam bent on pot smokers, freeing a few after one puff, but not on executions—mercy wasn't habit-forming
He accused Borealia of being reckless with money. Borealia denied it, insisting the washroom upgrade in T-Dot was necessary—waving her hand over the sensor had become too much work. Now it flushed automatically after she finished her business. Uncle Sam hated the new system. He felt rushed, working against the clock, to toss the toilet paper before the bowl declared itself clean.
Despite all the money spent training his army, Uncle Sam was bitter that he'd never won against the Blue Dragon. Borealia reminded him that soldiers weren't magicians. They couldn't wave a wand and make losses vanish. Sam decorated failure with medals, the way kids decorate trash cans with stickers. He might've claimed he'd defeated the Blue Dragon, but Borealia reminded him he came home early—not triumphant, but broke, having maxed out his credit card on the war.
Uncle Sam bristled. He'd spent fortunes chasing dragons, but none of them vanished on command. The Blue Dragon had scorched his pride, and now he was poking the Red one—hoping for a reaction, something he could spin. Borealia told him to stop being a sore loser, to quit chasing dragons, and to start looking after his own people.
Please, Uncle Sam's people were well cared for. Those with good jobs got the Cadillac of medical plans; those with not-so-good jobs got the economy version—enough to patch a rib or treat a cold, but don't expect miracles.
Borealia cursed Sam for the financial drain his people caused under her turf. Non-residents now face limits on buying Ozempic at discount prices. If Borealia hadn't been so stingy on the lifesaving drug for type two diabetes, Sam would have tapped her on the shoulder with tariffs, opposed to a hard slap on the face. First bullets, now prescriptions. The battlefield had shifted, but casualties still marched under his flag, dodging diabetes like gunfire. Uncle Sam had spent trillions chasing wars and patching pride, but none of it lowered the price of survival. Borealia had decided universal health care was strictly for her, and the borders were getting an extra lock. Sympathy was rationed—and subsidized—for her people. Uncle Sam happily forked over triple for the same pill.
If Borealia had just let him borrow her credit card, Uncle Sam could have stayed longer in Sagion. Borealia reminded him he still owed her from the last time he borrowed—plus interest, plus dignity. "If I lend it to you again," she said, "I might as well shred it first. At least then I'd know where it went."