separated the pair. Within moments they'd rearranged the addicts so that Snake and his adversary sat at opposite ends of the room, breathing heavily, and sweat dripping from their brows. They looked pathetic. They needed some of their dignity back. They needed some crack.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when six government stooges wearing orange hazmat suits entered the room, two carried trays like holocaust butlers, the remaining four held sub-machine guns and arrayed themselves in the corners, their reason for being stunningly clear. Move and you die!
"Welcome to the Skunkworks," a voice came from a speaker in the ceiling. "You all have been invited to participate in a brand new program to save the world."
The proclamation was met with giggles and a few groans, but nothing more.
"My assistants will be passing out crack pipes for your smoking pleasure. Please accept them in an orderly manner. No pushing or shoving will be allowed."
Suddenly all eyes snapped to the men with trays as they began to pass out small unadorned pipes. Each was accepted by greedy shaking hands. Many of the men wept openly, effusive with gratitude as they cupped the pipes in their hands. A hair-lipped Hispanic with wiry arms and collapsed veins barked his impatience as he leapt past an old war vet. Two of the orange-clad government men opened fire, three round bursts stitching the man in place. He spun, then collapsed, his arms and legs folding in upon themselves like those of a dead spider.
"Please stay in your seats." The calm voice was pure Mr. Rogers. "We won't allow disorder."
Jethro glanced around recognizing the barely contained glee in everyone's eyes as their dreams came true. All their midnight prayers and begging had finally delivered to them what they so desperately craved. His eyes lingered once more on the empty chair amidst the brimstone circle. Was it for one of them? What did one have to do to sit there?
A sticky net of melancholy entrapped him as he realized how far he'd traveled from his life in Iowa. He could have stayed with his family, he could have been part of a heritage first ground into the soil two hundred years ago, but instead he'd followed a dream fueled by rock music, porn mags and impossibly long-legged girls. He'd found happiness and fame for a time between their legs, but when the industry had crumbled beneath the enlightenment of the 1990s, he'd nowhere to go. He couldn't go home. For him Iowa was a clean place, a place where his family had grown for generations, and a place where people rarely even kissed in public, much less...
He didn't want to finish the thought. At least he had the Big Rock Candy Mountain. Unspoiled and unpopulated, it was his heaven and a place that even his sordid history could not spoil.
Two orange-clad men entered the room from the door at the rear, and drug the body away. A third mopped up the blood trail, backing out the door so that the only evidence that something had gone wrong was the empty seat.
When the drug tray came to Jethro he tried to be cool, but couldn't stop his hands from shaking with anticipation. Putting the pipe to his lips, he inhaled deeply, tasting the unlit crystal resting in the bowl as he hummed a string of song– There's a lake of gin, and we can both jump in, and the handouts grow on bushes.
"In just a moment, we will be passing out lighters. Please take your time and enjoy the product. Thank you for your cooperation."
The addicts fumbled with the lighters when they came, their excitement making the simple procedure complex beyond quantum physical standards. Still, they managed to light their pipes, the flare of red, then blue, then acrid smoke shot through their lungs. Almost as quickly they sagged in their desks, legs askew, backs arching and relaxing as the drug pumped through their systems. Eyes rolled madly, sometimes nothing but white.
When it became Jethro's turn, he couldn't contain his desperation as he grabbed the blue plastic lighter and snapped it once, twice, then sizzle, snap, crackle, pop goes the weasel, the sweet mad taste of chemical that took him to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, traded for a memory of his mother's first smile that split to infinity. He sagged as his muscles jumped and twitched. He let his hand rest on the desk, the pipe loosely grasped in case there might be another welfare rock