Intimation: Hinting at a meaning but not stating it explicitly.
Things are a little “different,” You know? I’m fading out. But I’m not fading away. I’m going down that wide-open highway. Got it?
My model airplane club “American Flyboys,” is going to a “Flyathon” outside Summit, New Jersey in the Watchung Hills. There are three landing strips left over from the defunct Air Force base that was located there during the Cold War. What an inspiration to fly—possible world-destroying war! Atom bombs! Too good to be true. I’m bringing my “Inola Guy,” my version of the WWII bomber that dropped the big one on Japan, ending WWII and saving the world from Japanese Imperialism and putting an end to its Emperor’s rule. I’ve made a miniature A-Bomb I’m going to drop on Summit or Chatham. Oh, you think I’m crazy? I don’t blame you. Maybe I am.
My wife didn’t believe me, and how could she? But I had the bomb. I found plans for building an A-bomb on the internet. I miniaturized every thing in accord with 21-st century technology. Plutonium 239 was hard to obtain. I had to take a trip into a government facility posing as Max Planck’s great grandson. I showed them a fake cancelled check for his Nobel Prize. I asked for a crumb of P-239 as a souvenir of my visit. They took my picture and ran it through the machinery. There was one match, but it was not me. I closely resemble Bluto, Popeye’s nemesis. But Bluto is a cartoon character, so it was rejected. Then, there was DNA and fingerprints. The DNA was “suggestive” but not definitive. I found I was a distant relative of Yogi Berra. No wonder I liked to squat! There were also, faint traces of Max Planck lineage. I had tricked the DNA test with DNA I collected from Max Plank’s toothbrush that I stole from the back room of the max Plank museum. I brushed it around in my mouth before they did the DNA swab. The fingerprints were inconclusive. I matched nobody in the known universe. They gave me the crumb and I put it in an envelope that I had marked “A-bomb.”
When I got home, I put it all together, loaded in a plastic Easter Egg—I thought the irony was hilarious. I glued the two halves of the egg together, and glued on some tiny stabilizing fins too. I set the bomb in Inola Guy’s bombay. The bombay doors would be opened by remote control and the bomb’s detonator would be remotely switched on. At the last minute, I changed my target to the Short Hills Mall.
There was a vigorous knocking at my door. I opened the door and half a dozen military police stormed in. Then, a Colonel came through the door and said, “Mr. Ubermensch, we did further analysis on your DNA and found you are a direct descendent of Alexander the Great. Your war-like lineage disqualifies you from ownership of P-239. Please return the crumb.
“The hell I will” I yelled and ran out the door with Inola Guy. I launched Inola and steered her toward the Short Hills Mall. One of the MPs grabbed the plane’s controls and crashed Inola into a tree. There was no explosion. I ran to the tree and there WAS an explosion. It sounded like a cap pistol.
Two people in haz-mat suits “escorted” me to a military police ambulance. They took me to an “undisclosed location,” poking and prodding, looking for evidence of radiation poisoning. I was “cleared” and remanded to a prison cell, prior to shipping me to Guantanamo, where I’ll probably spend the rest of my life. I’ve met this really old guy named John Kennedy who has a luxury cell. He assures me we’re “outta here in two weeks max.”
POSTCRIPT
This document was turned over to the State Department. No action was taken. In fact, State Department employees claim the document is a forgery authored by “little fairies.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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