1. I've never engaged in disordered eating. 2. I'm a little teapot. 3. I have a great relationship with my mother. 4. My sex life is and has always been healthy. 5. My name is Elvis Flintstones Rameshbabu. Five lies as payment.

I exit the PX with two cans of soup and a loaf of dusty bread. My stomach is a brick of antimatter. I have another pocketful of lies to spend, but there’s no subverting rations. 6. I never supported the rebels. 7. I did not fold with cowardice after my neighbor was taken.

A meathead with a scar, arched ear to ear like a sunset across his head, ushers me out. At home, I eat. I’m still hungry.

#

The next day, prices are up. Three lies per can. My hand shakes as I hold the pen. I try to act less desperate, but my wrist has begun to resemble a dried linguini noodle. My stomach bloats like those kids on Save the Children commercials. I wait my turn, trying to recall previous lies, trying to remain standing. Duplicates will not be tolerated. I write.

1. I never cry myself to sleep. 2. I haven't ever dreamt of making love to He-Man. 3. I love the soup. 4. My jaundice has cleared up. 5. Oliver Twist is my favorite book. 6. I have twenty-six toes.

No duplicates, the meathead tells me. I did twenty toes a week ago. Small adjustments are treated as duplicates. No second chances. I sign the ledger, marked red from my misstep. One can of soup. No bread as punishment.

#

Today, I’m not so hungry, though I’m not well. The sign says five lies per can. Two per loaf. For once, I don’t care. I ate well last night. I write.

1. My dog Murphy died of natural causes. 2. The meathead with the scar is cute. 3. I was once considered attractive. 4. I was diagnosed with leukemia. 5. I’ve never consumed dog meat.

The meathead smirks and circles my fifth lie. He makes a note. One can of soup. My stomach is fermenting. Spit-roast mutt will do that.

When I get home, there’s a message. Good news. I’ve been granted employment.

#

One week later, I sit at a counter, picking at a toothache. The tooth comes out, and I toss it into the fire. Uniformed couriers bring me ledgers. I compile the lies, categorize them, determine where there is a surplus and where there is a shortage. I report to the meathead. He reports to his boss. They pay me in food I can’t stomach. It piles up. Cases of soup. Baguettes like so many arrows in a quiver. I compile the statistics. I still have one of Murphy’s legs left in the freezer.

That afternoon, a woman comes in with a new batch of lies from the PX in Huntsville. Her hands shake. Her overcoat might as well be mesh. Water from melted snow pools around her feet. She is a stalagmite in my office, waiting for me to sign off on her delivery. I sign the paper and she smiles weakly. A spark. Recognition. A flash of the before-time.

When she exits, it hits me like a hunger pang. Murphy’s vet. My stomach growls.

I wait for her to come back. Every day I wait. I need her. I need a reminder of what once was. I want my dog back. Nothing can possibly matter in a world built on lies.

The door rings. Black boots. Black overcoat, threadbare. The meathead. He extends his hand, but there is no envelope. Rather, a gun. He squeezes. I think about Murphy. That's not true. I can't tell when I'm lying anymore. There’s a can of soup in my hand the size of a fist, or a heart, or a tumor. I’m still breathing. The gun has a little flag. It says BANG!

There’s a lie on the tip of my tongue. I bite it off.