I'm rather disappointed at the lack of Catch-22 material that currently exists, so I decided to try to rectify the situation with this story. It'll basically be a bunch of drabble things set at random points in the novel. I have concrete ideas for the first four - beyond that, I'm completely in the dark, so if you have any ideas or prompts you want to give me, just pop em in the reviews and I'll write you up a lil something. Disclaimer: I am not Joseph Heller, he's dead. RIP

Yossarian could never be sure whether it was Orr or Milo who started the food fight in the mess hall. On one hand, it was Orr who stood up and hurled the plate of stewed tomatoes at Havermeyer's face like he had hurled his ping pong paddle at Appleby's nose in the officer's club a few weeks before. Nately stood stock-still, tight-lipped and white-faced in shock, where he had sprung up moments earlier in a futile attempt to stop Orr's spontaneous aggression. Havermeyer stared dumbfoundedly at the mashed tomato bits streaming blood-red down his face and Yossarian, knowing what was coming, ducked for cover under the table as the world exploded around him. Stewed tomatoes were flying with reckless abandon across the mess hall, and the stench was overpowering and unbearable. Just as Yossarian decided that he would begin believing in God so that he could pray that no one would find him, Aarfy's face appeared under the table, grinning vapidly as a streak of tomato trickled down his cheek.

"What are you doing down here?" Aarfy laughed, and Yossarian was seized with an intense desire to murder him.

But just as Yossarian opened his mouth to respond, the world went red - Aarfy had shoved a plate of stewed tomatoes in his face. Yossarian bent over and vomited piteously onto the floor; he hated stewed tomatoes. He curled into the fetal position and waited for the ordeal to end. But just as the men around him began running out of plates of stewed tomatoes, there was Milo selling his surplus of Athenian tomatoes at five times the normal price.

"Supply and demand," Milo had explained when he snuck into Yossarian and Orr's tent the night before. "Basic economics. No one will buy my tomatoes right now, because everyone hates stewed tomatoes. But if you two start a food fight," he gazed at them hopefully, "I can raise prices, sell all my tomatoes, and make a profit for the syndicate. And the beauty of it is that everyone has a share, so everyone benefits."

But neither Yossarian nor Orr cared what the beauty of it was, for Orr was busy tinkering with parts with which he hoped to create a stove, and Yossarian was busy ignoring Orr's goddamn tinkering.

"Milo," Orr giggled, "Do you want to know why that girl was hitting me over the head with my shoe in Rome?"

Milo was perplexed and nonplussed. "What girl?"

Orr tilted his head in disappointment, but turned to Yossarian. "Yossarian," he cackled, "Do you want to know why that girl was hitting me over the head with my shoe in Rome?"

Yossarian was too busy ignoring Orr to respond to him. Orr tittered and returned to his stove parts. Milo was growing desperate and, seeing that Orr was the more receptive of the two, pleaded with him.

"You hate Appleby, don't you, Orr?"

Orr's eyes glittered. "I suppose I do, Milo."

Milo seized these words like a lifeline. "Splendid! Then you can throw your stewed tomatoes at him tomorrow at lunch!"

"Why should I do something like that?"

Milo spluttered in disbelief. "Because you hate him!" he finally managed to choke out, astonished at Orr's audacity.

Orr began giggling wildly. "No, no," he admonished. "I said I suppose I hate him. Of course I don't hate Appleby."

Yossarian shook his head as Orr dissolved into peals of gleeful laughter. Really, Milo knew better than to fall for such a simple trick.

But Milo was determined. "How about Havermeyer then?" he appealed to Orr.

Orr shrugged. "I suppose I could throw stewed tomatoes at Havermeyer," he agreed affably.

And that was that.

When the food fight was finally mercifully over, the men were forced to trudge, covered from head to toe in red paste, to the office shared by Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren.

"So, men," Captain Piltchard began awkwardly as the men stained his office red, "I think we all know why things like this can't continue to happen. It's childish, not befitting of a professional unit at all. Captain Wren has more to say to you on this subject."

"Yes, very unprofessional," Captain Wren weighed in. "And that's all I have to say on that subject."

"You've put Colonel Cathcart in a real tough spot here," Captain Piltchard added. "It'll be a real black eye for him if he lets this go unpunished."

But it turned out that the men were saved, for at that very moment, Milo Minderbinder was showing Colonel Cathcart the figures for the immense profit the syndicate had made from the food fight.

And everyone had a share.

My motivation to write fluctuates like one of those heartbeat monitor things, so I dunno how regular updates are gonna be, sorry.