Moody was not pleased.

A line of cars frantically honked because the large wooden horse was blocking traffic at the border of the city. The eight men inside, dressed like Greek soldiers from around 1200 B.C.E., didn’t respond because they were hidden with their weapons ready.

The two-story wheeled horse was gas powered and operated like a car. Inside, lights were strung on the walls. It was womblike, smooth and rounded, for the ten men, five of them at the command consoles who manned the controls, the navigational equipment, and the three cameras. A camera was mounted in each eye of the horse and one on the rear. A ladder led down into the belly of the horse to where the other five men waited on a bench and then to the wooden entrance hatch located in front.

Outside, in the thick dusk, the cars kept honking at them. One sweaty guy in a beat-up blue Subaru was really laying on his horn.

There was a steady stream of invectives coming at them from all sides.

Can’t we speed this thing up? Moody asked, noticing how slowly the horse was moving.

We can only go three miles per hour, Forsythe responded.

Hey, you’re blocking traffic, you fucking idiots! shouted a woman’s voice.

There was a crash. The horse lurched to a halt.

What happened? Moody asked, spinning around to see if they’ve been breached.

We hit something, Barkley said.

Moody knew he shouldn’t have trusted Barkley to drive the horse. With his monocular vision, his depth perception was lousy in spite of his thick black-framed glasses.

What’d we hit?

I think a car, Barkley said, his mouth twitching unhappily as he checked the cameras.

Are we insured? Moody asked Forsythe who shrugged his hairy shoulders that protruded from the frayed coarse tunic.

Ask corporate, Forsythe replied, scratching his nose.

Moody called down the hatch as to the status of the five men down there. No major injuries. One injured soldier, head wound, Jacobs who weren’t wearing his helmet per orders because he said it was messing up his hair, and Morgan’s arms and shoulders grazed by Jacobs who had been playing with his sword instead of leaving it secured as ordered.

They had had training but still this happened.

There was a knocking on the hatch, the sound reverberating through the wooden body, fading away.

Moody turned to Forsythe, Get that, would you?

Forsythe saluted and climbed out the hatch, his steps tentative due to the slippery bottoms of his sandals.

Outside the horse, near the front right wheel, Moody could hear him talking insurance with some guy.

They swapped driver license information.

The guy asked him why they had this big wooden horse on the edge of the city. Forsythe replied, It’s a present, which seemed to satisfy the guy’s curiosity but was also helped by the fact that they had barely touched his car’s bumper and the damage was minimal and the insurance was current.

Forsythe climbed back in, shutting the wooden hatch behind him.

Taken care of? Moody asked.

Yes, sir, he replied. What are our orders now?

I don’t know, Moody replied. Take a break.

Can we leave the horse? Forsythe replied. I’d love a smoke.

Not yet, Moody said a little frustrated because he wasn’t exactly sure
what he was supposed to do next. His orders were not that clear. The radio they were supposed to be using for communication was getting interference from a local radio station and it kept picking up world music.

Will you please shut that damn radio off, Moody ordered.

Sorry, sir.

The world music stopped.

Moody knew he could try his cell phone but he had trouble getting a signal inside the horse and he was told by his superiors that they really didn’t want him using his cell phone to call and that their orders would come over the radio or the “old fashioned” way.

What’s the old fashioned way? he asked. They were all sitting in their board room on the 53rd floor in their nicely tailored suits and little white cups of espresso in front of the three of them. The head of the group, Steven something, was in his 50s with graying hair and a vacant smile. Moody thought he was the guy who’d always rather be fishing. Not smart but people seemed to like him.

We were thinking of having men running orders to you, his first assistant said.

Didn’t they run naked back then? his second assistant asked.

Could we have a naked man running?

Not down the city streets.

We want publicity.

We don’t want that kind of publicity.

Can’t we just use our cell phones? Moody asked.

The advertising men looked disappointed. Clearly, Moody had a lack of imagination, not the vision that they had.

No, the first assistant said. We’ll do it our way.

Steven hadn’t said a word at all. Probably fly fishing in a creek somewhere.

Moody and his men had been hired by this advertising agency. It was very hush hush with little information given out while trying to make their campaign sound as interesting and mysterious as possible in order to generate more interest. The horse had been built somewhere in Massachusetts by, from what Moody heard, old shipbuilders who thought it was the funniest damn thing they heard until it was made clear to them that they weren’t exactly supposed to make a horse that you could sail but one that needed to travel on land. From Massachusetts it was transported in pieces inside several large diesel rigs where it was assembled outside the city. The horse was originally supposed to hold 40 men but, with budget cuts reducing the size of the horse, that number was whittled down to the crew of eight.

The crew members consisted of mostly unemployed actors, temps, and others, like Moody, who were disenfranchised from their long-term places of employment. Moody used to work for the city government in the planning department. Why was he doing this? Why was he wearing armor that cut into his chest and arms? Poorly-made but historically accurate sandals that made his feet itch? And this silly helmet with the upside down broom on it? He was stuck inside this humid horse with nine other guys and it didn’t smell good, the sweat building on their sagging, out-of-shape bodies, and the odors, musky and bitter, were trapped within this wood; it was nauseating and Moody had to fight the urge to puke twice already when some unsavory odor touched him, threatening to crawl up inside him and linger. Why? Because he needed the money. He had two kids from the divorce, one boy, one girl, and of course kids were sick all the fucking time, his boy’s eight and his girl’s six, already Moody had to think about the college funds, and their mom lost her job at the private school and she had this boyfriend Moody thought was the biggest dirt bag in the world, sucking face with his ex-wife right in front of the kids, making the kids uncomfortable, some fucking bond trader named Jim who worked on the Street and Moody had the urge more than once to kick the shit out of this guy but he didn’t want to aggravate the situation cause he wanted to see his kids, more than anything, he’d like to call them right now but he had bigger problems because he had to figure out what they’re going to do next with this five-story tall horse.

It’s like that story, he overheard Barkley say to Smith.

What story? Moody interrupted.

That story about the wooden horse, Barkley said.

What the fuck you talking about? Moody replied. Just check your gauges.

Barkley nodded and went back to monitoring the gauges.

Now what do we do, sir? Barkley asked.

We wait, Moody replied.

That’s it?

That’s it.

Oh, he said. The men looked disappointed.

One man grumbled to his buddy sitting next to him, I thought it was going to be more exciting than this. The buddy nodded in response.

Moody looked over at them, hearing that, but he didn’t say anything. What could he say? They were right. They thought it was going to be more of an adventure than that. They thought it was going to be exciting. Something to tell the wives and girlfriends when they eventually got back home and retreated into the grind of their nightly lives: home from work, help with dinner, kids’ homework, eat, chat about the day if everyone was in a good mood and chatty; if not, quick eat, some TV, some more homework, bedtime for the kids, bedtime for the folks, an attempt at very quiet foreplay if the participating adults were in the mood, didn’t doze off, didn’t get distracted, or had something on TV and they really wanted to see the end. Then tomorrow it started all over.

What’s the plan, sir? Barkley asked.

To keep going, Moody said. We drive into the center of the city. At the predetermined time, we leap out and say the words they told us to say. That’s the plan as it was explained to me.

And what’s the point of that? Barkley asked.

Beats me, Moody responded. Something to do with an advertising campaign.

We’re having trouble starting the horse, Forsythe said.

Moody took a breath and counted to ten as he had been taught to do in the therapy session with his wife. It had been couples therapy and they had been arguing frequently. The therapists gave them the “Count 10” advice whenever they felt anger coming on so they could redirect it and not channel it back to their partner, thus opening up lines of communication between them and establishing a dialogue. Which worked. Except he charmed the female therapist with some easy humor and she asked that his wife return without him so that two of them could begin some real therapy.

His wife had not been pleased by his deception.

Their relationship never really recovered from that.

Even after he had volunteered to return to the therapist, explaining what he had perpetrated, and sign up, in advance, for at least a year of therapy.

His wife decided to leave him instead.

Best fucking thing I ever did, she later said, and he believed her. Even after she fell in love with Agnes and they bought a two-bedroom apartment in Queens.

He liked Agnes despite the fact that his ex-wife told him that she was a better lover than he’d ever been. He merely thought of that as spite.

He told her that Agnes was a better cook than she was but then his wife dumped Agnes when she met that bond trader. Agnes still sent him a card at Christmas.

Sir? Forsythe called over. Still can’t get the engine to turn over.

Moody hit Camera 3 which was in the horse’s left eye but it didn’t help.

Do you think it’s because we hit the car? Barkley asked.

Moody shook his head. No one had mentioned anything like this. This wasn’t in the manual that had been given to them. This was supposed to be easy. That’s what the advertising guys had told him. A lark they said. A walk in the park, they added. Moody had been surprised by the number of clichés they advanced, since they were supposed to be creative types, but, what the hell, they were paying him and he’s had to listen to worse drivel for free.

Hmm, he said. He noticed his men staring at him, looking at him for guidance, waiting for the right answer from him.

That’s when he decided to break protocol. He took out his cell phone, went to his phonebook and found the name of the advertising guy who had hired them. Moody wasn’t going to take this on alone. The advertising guy had told him that this had all been set up and taken care of.

It went straight to voicemail: Hi, this is Steven, and I’ve already left the office for the weekend. I’m heading up to the weekend house so I’ll be out of cell reach and won’t be able to check my messages but if you leave me one, I’ll get back to you on Monday.

Moody hung up. He was getting pissed. This fucking guy had already left the office while this project was underway and here was Moody standing in this dank wooden horse sweating his balls off while this guy was packing his freaking golf clubs and fishing pole in his BMW for a trip to the country.

Moody decided that he’d personally burn this guy’s country house down if he ever found it.

Moody called information and got the number of the advertising company who called themselves, again a stroke of creative genius, The Advertising Company. He was in the voicemail system for over two minutes before he finally reached the receptionist.

Hi, he said in the nicest, calmest voice he could imagine. This is Tom Moody and I’m working on the Wooden Horse Project.

Who do you want to talk to, sir? she asked in her nicest voice.

Well, he replied, I tried Steven but he seems to be out of the office already.

I can send you to his voicemail.

No, I’ve been there, thank you. I was wondering if someone else there could help me.

Let me check.

He heard the shuffling of papers and her mouth breathing into her headset.

I’m sorry, she came back on, but he’s the executive in charge of that. He’s nowhere to be found.

Moody again started to count to ten but made it to seven and a half.

Look, he said, a tiny bit of edginess creeping into his voice, we have a situation here that I’d like to confirm with them.

Try back Monday, she suggested.

We’re into overtime, he stated.

Monday, she said and hung up.

This time he made it only to three.

His men were looking at him. He didn’t want to shake their confidence.

Okay, he said, putting away his phone. We’re on our own.

He didn’t really understand this situation. He thought it was going to be like a re-enactment. All make-believe with the pretense of reality. Maybe this was the present dilemma he found himself in but he couldn’t be sure. He had a job to do. If he didn’t do it, as it was underlined in his contract and pointed out to him by the advertising guys, he would not be paid. If he wasn’t paid, he would have very little money at all, having only a few dollars left in his bank account. He couldn’t walk away now, stuck down in the wooden bowels of this horse, the rough edges of a few unfinished boards jutting out in front of him, the dull hum of the cameras and other equipment, the GPS navigation with its green blips on maps, down below the soft murmurs of the men, his men wondering what was to be done with them, knowing that none of them got paid if they walked away now.

How would he explain that to his ex-wife? He had alimony to pay. What would he tell his kids? Sorry, guys, no pizza this week, Dad can’t afford it, have another glass of water. It’s filling and good for you. If we put lemon in it, it might help you lose some weight as well.

He couldn’t do that to himself. He’d be the failure that his wife always proclaimed him to be, that he never wanted his kids to see, giving him that speechless look, that stare across the table, the glance between them, he knew what that meant. He hadn’t even told them what kind of job he was taking.

He told them that it was in advertising.

He didn’t tell them exactly in what capacity.

The men were getting nervous.

All right, Moody said. We’re going out.

The order was passed down, down into the bowels of the horse, and Moody thought this was good, better than the men sitting around waiting and wondering.

Swords out! Forsythe shouted over the intercom.

Throughout the horse the clang of swords echoed.

Moody could see the dull shine of the light off the blades throughout the horse.

Do we know our lines? Moody asked.

Yes, sir! the men replied.

The men readied themselves and Moody stepped forward first. He could smell the men and how it mixed with the horse and it seemed all right as if the two things finally blended and Moody thought that his kids would be happy with this, they would be proud of him and they would understand and be proud of him when he told them the story when he got back home.

As they opened the door, Moody’s cell phone rang. The mission was canceled. Steven, the director of advertising, was fired on Friday for a failed laundry detergent campaign and Moody was instructed to shut it all down.

Okay, he replied and hung up.

His men were staring unhappily at him. Maybe they sensed what was happening.

What’s up? asked Forsythe.

Moody knew he should tell them something, make a little speech, but he couldn’t do it.

Men, ready, Moody commanded. His men raised their flimsy swords. Barkley and a couple men smiled.

Go! he yelled. His men eagerly jumped out of the wooden horse, swords raised into the air, screaming the lines from their scripts as they ran toward the surprised crowd of people gathered to see what this horse was all about.

Moody raised his own sword and ran after his men, screaming as loudly as he could, wanting it to mean something that he was afraid it would never be.

Ron Burch has new work in Juked, Pequin, Eleven Eleven, Pank, The Dream People, and Aquila Review. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.