Instead of attacking one more foreign city, hammering it into rubble, we adopt a new strategy and start bombing with money. We fill shells with dollars instead of explosives, and drop them from planes, and they crack open on streets and temples and malls. We fill the artillery cannons with all the cash it would take to make more artillery cannons, and we lob them at embassies and schools. Instead of paratroopers, we drop only their combat boots, floating on small silk parachutes — beautiful boots full of chocolate and money. Instead of leaflets, we drop clouds of rubles and dinar, euros and yen. Instead of blowing up bridges, we airlift bales of red carpet at night, and when dawn unfurls, all the bridges are red as fresh blood, but deep, and soft, and easy on the feet. Confused and happy, the nation is crowded with millionaires: instead of a country of one-armed, one-eyed, and one-legged men, a place of Volvo mechanics and art-gallery openings. The secret police move to the country and take up violin; their daughters become engineers and fashion designers. Everyone gives up their demands. What looked like a problem is no longer a problem. The war was expensive, says the president, but it was worth every cent. And he smiles that inextinguishable, million-dollar smile that implies what money is worth: good shoes, dental-whitening agents, and quiet in the night, which is treasured by people everywhere.