Jack Acid, Freelance Priest

By Miracle Jones

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” – The Beast

There is something comforting about a trailer park. Surely. Surely there is something comforting about a trailer park. Why the fuck else would people live in one? There are cheaper apartments to be had any day of the week, trailer parks are festering sewers of rotten resentful discontent, and you are forced to be financially liable for a piece of laughably fragile sheet metal and curtains which is just waiting to explode or get inclementally airborne. I don’t really understand it; I don’t think I ever will; I don’t even think I want to. So I assume, blindly, that there must be something comforting about it. However, the day I come home to a trailer and say, “Yep, now this here is high living the way God intended. Gonna fuck me a dog before the sun goes down and eat me a whole bag of Oreos,” I want you to slit my throat in the night. Let my corpse be sucked bodily into a tornado as a solemn process symbol. And fill my pockets with condoms so they will rain down upon my trailer park brethren, and hopefully give them the right idea about family planning.

Strangely enough, living in a dumpster didn’t seem to bother me. I guess logic has no place in my arbitrary semiotic hierarchy. I navigate this world by sense of smell, like any good evildoer.

Jack, on the other hand, must have had the permanent sniffles. He actually seemed to enjoy himself during our vacation at Beer O’ Leary’s. Maybe that’s what pissed me off so much. The way he effortlessly seemed to integrate no matter where he went, like he was the independent variable his new friends had been missing this whole time. The intangible area under some magnetic curve. An infinite series of charismatic rectangles. I suppose his voodoo kept me from getting in any unnecessary fights, but it was still irritating. Admirable, but irritating.

But this is not the place to unravel my bitter skeins of playful personal criticism. Let me focus. This is supposed to be the story of how, under impossible circumstances, Jack and I did our damndest to right a wrong, failed, but did what we could anyway, Jack showing me the virtue of endless tenacity and backup plans. It began in the trailer park, and – like most stories that begin such – it ended in maximum security custody.

We were sitting around in front of Beer’s trailer, drinking Shiners and watching little children smack each other around. I assumed their parents were off doing the same thing, probably fueled by a little meth and butt sex. I couldn’t wait to get back into the city, but Jack kept telling me to be patient and learn from my surroundings. I didn’t know what exactly I was supposed to be learning. There was certainly nothing erotic about a double wide, the acrid smell of gun polish, and professional wrestling on a big screen TV (bad professional wrestling: the kind where you can’t tell the clay pigeons from the superheroes). The people here reminded me entirely too much of the sorts I used to deliver drugs to as a kid. Scarred, sweaty hands and they always wanted to make sure you had Jesus in your heart. This meant you were saved from a good old-fashioned Christian ass-kicking.

It was a nice day, but a dull one. Beer was telling us about his adventures working as a day laborer in the Valley. I wasn’t really paying attention.

“See, the thing you got to remember ‘bout Mexicans is that they are deep down, in their soul of souls, very lazy people. But see…that ain’t necessarily a bad thing. Like if I was to say that all senators are sly and crafty. What’s wrong with being sly and crafty? Especially in that line of work. In the right frame of mind, see, it’s useful to be lazy and vicious. Like Mexicans, right? If you was to work hard as Fritz all damn day in Texas heat, you’d be dead before noon. That’s why all the Texas Germans live in the Hill Country: so they can pretend to be superior.”

“No kidding,” said Jack.

“You spent much time around Mexicans?”

“I don’t believe in race,” said Jack gently, setting his empty bottle down on the ground.

“Well, sure…I ain’t no racist neither. This here’s Austin – it sucks that shit right outta you. That’s what I’m tryn tell you. I like Mexicans. I like black people, I love Asians, and I ain’t got a hating bone for Jews in my fine Irish body. Hell, I’m even okay with Brits, most of the time.”

“No, no…not racism. I don’t believe in race. It is a myth - a fairy story - a comfortable illusion that keeps us stupid. Eventually we will be beyond it, much as we are beyond Newtonian physics, or the color blue.”

“The color blue? What the hell are you on about?”

“It’s a valid insight, and soon to be a fashionable one. Abstractions are reductive, fractalized descriptions of intangible experience. What is blue? Show me blue, and I’ll believe in a Mexican.”

Beer pointed to his jeans, his eyes sort of goggling. “Blue. Are you fucking simple?”

“Then what color is our sky tonight?”

“Oh. Er, well…it’s light blue. Big deal. They are both blue.”

“And yet so different that with proper understanding we don’t even have to call them blue at all. In my world, that (he pointed to Beer’s jeans) is Caribbean midnight, and that (he pointed to the sky) is cerulean. Which also don’t exist, but let’s not be hateful.”

“What are you sayin’ exactly?”

“I’m saying we live in a culture violently hemmed in by imaginary linguistic abstractions. Our leaders, seeing no alternative, preach the equality of blues. In actuality, they ought to teach the impossibility of naming every shade. There is futility and real danger in doing so. The concept of race is inane. How many races are there? Ten? A hundred? Just two; white and other? The reward of worshipping illegitimate diversity and rallying around our unjustifiable differences is always war. Cultural and spiritual. Insane and unending.”

“So…what are you sayin’ exactly?”

“He’s being an asshole,” I said, “But he’s right. There’s nobody lazier than whitey. Look at yourselves. You guys want another beer?”

“I’m in,” said Jack.

“Yeah, snag me one, too,” said Beer.

I got up to go inside. I turned sharply – too sharply - and ran smack into an obelisk of unyielding fleshly humanity, nearly decking myself on an outstretched arm. The arm belonged to a local gorillo (shorthand for big monkey bastard) I had seen milling about in the trailer down the street. There was no telling how long he had been standing there. He grunted, and shoved a newspaper into my hands. My first instinct was to upturn my chair and use it to knock him cold, but then I thought better of it and managed to contain myself. I was a civilized specimen of aristocratic humanity. Plus, this guy had some sort of disease. The last thing I needed was to scrape my knuckles against a face full of contagious pus.

“Why hello, Mikeska,” said Beer, as if speaking to a dog or a baby. Or a retard. The last one nailed it for me. I was glad I hadn’t thrown a punch. This was a gorillo by nature and not by choice.

“My brudda in the paper,” he said, pawing at the Austin-American Statesman I now held. “I’m sad to you.”

The swarthy giant collapsed into the skinny mildewed recliner I had just vacated. The chair buckled and screamed, but didn’t bust. Mikeska furrowed his dirty eyebrows and seemed to be trying to digest a thorny thought generated somewhere deep. All over his face and neck ran sores that looked like embedded Jalapenos pickled pink in their brine. It looked as if you would be able to pry them out with a jackknife and elegantly furnish your burrito.

“Lemme see that…” said Beer, snatching the paper out of my hands. “Would you mind grabbin’ a Diet Coke fer Mikeska while you are up?”

I did as I was told, fumbling back a few minutes later with three fresh Shiners and an aspartame nightmare. I handed out the goodies. Jack barely even registered me. It looked like I had missed an important conversation.

“What’s up?” I asked, choosing to squat on the ground rather than battle Mikeska for rights to the chair.

“Grim news,” said Jack.

Beer handed me the newspaper with a heavy sigh. “Election year bullshit,” he said, “I guess this is kind of personal to me, though. Mikeska and Ernie are cousins. At least, that’s what my ma’m always said.”

It wasn’t hard to find what he was talking about. The front page headline capped a grainy mug shot of a bearded chappy giving the prison camera a flinty wince. He could have been Mikeska’s twin. His brudda, certainly. There was even a dumpy resemblance to Beer, if you looked at him with the right kind of skeptical appraisal. Maybe everyone in this trailer park was related.

The headline read: “Texas to Perform Public Execution.” And then under it in italics: “Ernie Raines Maffko to be Example to Us All, Says Governor.”

“This is pretty fucked up,” I said, “Is this legal?”

“Does it matter? The law is the law,” said Beer.

“Keep reading,” said Jack.

Austin, TX. To combat a growing overcrowding crisis in the Texas prison system, the State House of Representatives decided today to bring back the time-honored tradition of public execution on a trial probationary basis. The first such execution will take place at the Capital later this week and will be broadcast live on local ABC affiliates. Ernie Raines Maffko, the notorious “Waxahachie Hatchet,” was scheduled to die by lethal injection next month, but his execution has been duly expedited to coincide with the end of this congressional cycle’s voting period, and the State has instead sentenced him to the electric chair for A/V reasons.

“We want to go out with a bang,” said Sheila Partridge, D-Tomball, “I guess it’s more like a sizzle. Some people are nervous about the smell, but I think it will be fun.”

Studies conducted at Baylor University show that public execution is instrumental in making sure capital punishment retains its deterrent effect. Statistics show that in countries where public execution is a cultural mainstay, violent gun deaths are often lower and recidivism is almost nonexistent. Though outlawed in Texas at the turn of the century, an overwhelming majority of people feel it is time to take executions out of prisons and put them back in town squares.

Some people are concerned, however, about the theatricality of the event.

“It needs to be tasteful, and the pomp needs to not distract from what we are really trying to do,” said newly-hired Execution Coordinator Malabar Hennessy. “We don’t want this to turn into some sort of willy-nilly funfair. It needs to be serious and powerful, with lots of purples and greys. I’m looking to the past for inspiration. Executions have a tendency to be anti-climactic, but I think this will be an unforgettable experience for the families of all the victims and for everyone watching at home.”

Despite unilateral support in the House and Senate, not everybody is happy with the decision. Some locals even plan to protest, sparking the city of Austin to hire independent security contractors to quell potentially dangerous crowds.

“We don’t feel that the death penalty is right, and we damn sure don’t want our children to see us kill people on TV,” said Robert Cannon, head of the Coalition to End Death and Pain. “I’ve been painting signs around the clock and we are definitely going to march, whether there are stormtroopers with tear gas or not. You got to be active about your beliefs. Most decent people don’t like the death penalty, but are too scared to say anything about it. I want my kids to respect me someday.”

The Governor could not be reached for comment, although his speech to the House called for “examples to be made” of terrorists and those that would “poison our beloved peace-loving civilization.”

Instead, Press Secretary Sally Narwall responded to Cannon at an impromptu press conference last night.

“There are lots of states that don’t have public executions, and Texas isn’t one of them anymore,” said Narwall, “Michigan, Maine, and Missouri all don’t have public executions, for instance. If you don’t like the way we handle crime here in Texas, maybe you ought to move. You sure won’t be the only one migrating. I foresee the criminals getting out of here first, taking up all of the seats on the out-of-town buses. I’ve always felt that liberals and gangbangers keep each other good company.”

Ernie Raines Maffko was sentenced to death in 1992 for using a homemade pipe bomb to murder eighteen retired veterans at a Waxahachie VFW hall. While being questioned, he stabbed a police officer in the back with a crude tomahawk and attempted to flee, earning him his nickname. He is currently the only Caucasian on death row, leading many to question the political expediency of the decision to execute him publicly. Some feel it is in keeping with the current administration’s policy of hiding the problem of disproportionately imprisoned minorities.

The execution will take place on Thursday evening at 6 PM. Traffic will be blocked off from Congress to MLK, but seating is first come first serve. Spectators are asked not to bring beach balls or air horns, and public intoxication will NOT BE TOLERATED. If you are interested in running a merchandising kiosk, please contact the City Commerce Desk. Children are welcome, but sensitive viewers and pregnant women should use appropriate discretion.

“This is amazing,” I said, “There’s no way they can get away with it. This is cruel and unusual out the ass.”

“Who’s gonna stop ‘em? It’s already too late, man,” said Beer, ”Ernie ain’t got a lawyer worth mule puke. I met the guy once at Ern’s going away party. The guy kep’ falling asleep, like he was on the nod. I swear he had big ol’ needle tracks down both arms. He’s a state lawyer, right? How good can he be if he’s willing to take job security over free market cash?”

“My brudda is a very bad man,” said Mikeska solemnly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Beer, “Cousin Ernie is a sick little shit. That kid used to fill a whole room with cats and then light one of 'em on fire, just to watch him run around and light up the rest of 'em like the Olympic torch. He called it his Dog's Pentecost. I’m glad he’s locked up, but killing him on live TV is still pretty goddamn putrid.”

“The death penalty is in its last throes as a viable means to dealing with the problem of sociopathology,” said Jack, “If it’s any consolation, history will not be kind to our time and its ignorance.”

“No, it ain’t any consolation,” said Beer. “None at all.”

“It’s just so silly,” I said, “What always gets me is that the same people who are pro death penalty always seem to be against abortion. They cite the inherent sanctity of life, which evidently can be forfeited. Ignoring the obvious logical contradiction there, what happens when abortion finally gets tagged as murder and therefore outlawed? Any woman who has an abortion gets the death penalty? That’s gonna be a fucking funny day in court.”

Jack snorted mirthlessly.

“Let me git sumptin straight,” said Beer, “I hate any and all murderin’ bastards. But at least I can dig when its fer money, or kicks, or revenge, or sos you kin feel your pecker again. When the government does it, it is cold blooded as a snake. It’s incomprehensible. I don’t understan' it.”

“Nobody understands it,” I said, “It is joyless carnage – bad patent medicine. Who benefits? Who feels better after all is said and done? Seems to me like if the state keeps murdering people for murdering people, justice says that it has waived its right to live. The eagle has gone rabid and is plucking out the eyes of whoever chances to look up. Something ought to be done.”

“Why?” said Jack, “What do you hope to accomplish? Violent reactionary thought has always been the bane of authentic revolution. The true rebel must think deeper than his adversary. She must think like a glacier.”

“So we just sit back and see how far we can fist each other? Because I think you guys are going to lose.”

“I am not a loser,” said Mikeska, “You are a loser.”

“I just have one question,” asked Jack, staring at Beer’s yellow station wagon.

“Do we know anybody else with a car?”


2.

Veronica wouldn’t look me in the eye. But she smelled incredible. And strangely familiar. It was bugging the crap out of me.

“I know you are pissed for getting dragged into this, but I have to ask…what sort of perfume are you wearing? My zipper is about to become a deadly projectile. Left unchecked, it will tear through your dashboard, careen through your engine, snap all of your timing belts, and kill us all as it bounces off of your bumper and then decapitates you and your lowly passengers.”

“He sure does talk, don’t he?” said Mikeska from the back seat.

I thought I saw the tendons in Veronica’s face tense slightly in either a flinch or a moment of suppressed giggletry. I could have been imagining it.

“He talks a bit too much, actually. It’s just something the girls and I have been developing,” she said, “Very top secret.”

“You can tell me. I like secrets. I forget ninety percent of everything I hear, anyway. It’s the only way I can stay sane. I chunk huge sections of what actually happens in my life out the window and then give the whole thing a fresh rewrite.”

“Making yourself the misunderstood antihero, no doubt.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, the odor is elegantly devilish in design. Insidious, really. What we have done is to create a composite smell out of glossy print-ink from magazines and a pastiche of the most common perfume samples. The smell is designed to replicate the exact odor of a Playboy, Hustler, or Penthouse. For 90% of American men of your age and older, that smell is inextricably linked to their first orgasm, to their very first experience of sexual fantasy. It is almost guaranteed to trigger a strong nostalgic aphrodisiac response and drive you wild.”

“Does anybody even read girly magazines anymore, since the internet? I can’t even remember the last time I looked at one. They send me copies when I publish, but I just toss them in my closet. I try to keep business and pleasure as separate as possible.”

“It’s in your head somewhere, nonetheless. We are going to call it ‘Wank.’ Someday the noise of a CPU fan will do the same thing, but we want to capitalize on a perfume before it is too late. I imagine it is going to make us disgustingly rich. I’ve already got some great ideas on how to spend the money.”

“On expensive gifts for family and friends?”

“Top secret. I’ve said too much already.”

“Come on…”

“It’s no use. We’re here. Everybody out of the pool.”

She threw her Beamer into park. To be honest, Veronica is always trying to give me money – and I consistently refuse to accept it. It’s actually a point of occasional contention, but I feel pretty strongly about my financial situation. I’d rather starve than be the slightest bit dependent, even in my mind. Nothing bends a relationship further away from ideal than an inequitable cash flow.

We piled out of the car and walked to where Beer’s station wagon was parked in front of us on the street. Veronica and I were both dressed in matching white jumpsuits. Jack wore the same. Beer and Mikeska had on their normal clothes, and Beer immediately took Mikeska by the hand, gave us a salute, and went trudging dutifully inside the Capital.

“Hats on, my flying monkees,” said Jack, as soon as they were gone.

We obliged, pulling on our matching floppy chef’s hats. Now we all looked liked dangerous escapees from one of the Mushroom Kingdom’s many insane asylums. The princess is in another castle, bitch. And if you shoot another fireball out of your ass, I am going to arrange for a big green pipe to slip from its moorings and crush you in your sleep. You are all out of extra lives.

“And now the beverage carts and five star meals," said Jack, hurrying us along. "Everything in order in your car, Veronica?”

“I’m pretty sure nothing tumped over,” she said.

“Then let us do our job like the professionals we are. Big grins, sweethearts. And remember: we are all a pack of flaming idiots. We are caterers. We are the sort of people who fold napkins into festive shapes and file workman’s comp claims on chafing dish accidents. Our cubed cheese is more intelligent than we are by half.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to pull off,” I said.

“Actually, Miracle, you don’t even speak English. You are my au pair slash gardener slash brother-in-law. From Spain.”

“Dios mio,” I said.

“Let’s do this, then.”

We began unloading. Veronica and Beer allowed us to give their cars new paint jobs for the day’s mischief. They were both now black and tan, and on their sides were decals I had cooked up at Jacks’ request. They were pictures of the Grim Reaper wearing a soiled bib and picking his teeth with his scythe. Underneath in garish type was our company name and slogan: Last Chance Catering, “You’ll Wish You’d Heard of Us Sooner!”

We put the carts together, and set up all of the food. I don’t know where exactly Jack got such a spread, and he ignored me when I asked. We just met him behind a strip center on Mopac and loaded it all in. Maybe he had cleaned out a Best Western and they were trying to put tablecloths over wheelbarrows this very moment, trapped in a logistical room service crisis. All I knew was that we were under specific instructions not to damage anything.

The food was piping hot and smelled like a teenage wedding. It didn’t seem like particularly good food, but it was definitely eclectic. For instance: one whole tray jingled, like maracas. Two carts were for us (Jack wouldn’t let us peek), and there was a cart full of fried chicken, key lime pie, and black coffee for security. Quickest way to a screw’s heart.

“Okay. Semper fidelis, ad hoc propter hoc. Take no prisoners.”

“You promise this isn’t a jail break?” asked Veronica for the fortieth time, “Because we wouldn’t get away with it.”

“Relax,” I said, “He means ‘take no prisoners’ literally. If this were a rescue operation, we’d leave somebody in the car with the engine running. Just keep to the plan.”

With our carts of food, we made our own clandestine protest march to the Capital. Fuck the hippies; they could battle the gawkers and cops all day long if they wanted. And they’d have to. Tomorrow morning, this place would be chockablock with hyperbolic hordes of shirtless, howling breeders. People whose lifelong ambition was to own a boat so it could sit on stumps in front of their house and kill their grass in generous boat-shaped swatches. People who had never ridden a horse or butchered a cow, but who openly wept at country music and who had bellies the size of spring calves. They would assemble in record numbers to watch a native son cook, the spittle of confused vengeance drying on their lips as they smelled his burning skin and realized it reminded them of their favorite, folksy restaurants. They would have a sudden desire for pinwheel mints and blue cheese fries. My people. My burden. There were already a few camped out on the lawn, watching portable TVs and inhaling bean bag chairs into their rectums with every wheezy breath.

We trolleyed up the handicap ramp and across the State seal to the front desk (I had once destroyed an alarm clock on that seal, declaring my freedom from all things sucky). We passed through three separate metal detectors. There were guards everywhere, and preparations for tomorrow’s “Celebracion Con Carne” were well under way. There were streamers, PA boxes, and even stadium seating for VIPs. A giant Mylar balloon of McGruff the Crime Fighting Dog was being inflated for the kiddies. The Chair itself was newly polished and gleaming on a portable dais tucked in one corner. I assumed they would carry Ernie out to his execution like a very unsexy Cleopatra. I wondered where they got the ordinance: Texas switched to lethal injection in the 80’s. Maybe they had it shipped in from the Sudan.

“We are here to bring the prisoner his last meal,” said Jack to the front desk attendant.

“He is meeting with relatives right now. Can it wait?”

“We brought enough for everybody.”

“Everybody?”

This was my cue to lift the lid on the fried chicken and give the desk guard a knowing wink. He didn’t even bother to cool his greedy, grafty eyes. I clamped the steaming pot shut, and gave the cart a push toward him.

“Compliments of Last Chance,” said Jack. “Be sure to recommend us to your other prisoners when their time comes up. We also do terminal cancers, experimental brain surgeries, euthanasias, grand jury testimonies against the Mafia, and bachelor parties.”

Jack handed him a business card.

“And what’s your story?” said the guard, giving me the eye, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“Si, si…muy bueno. Hoy es miercoles.”

“You are a Mexican? I guess that makes you an equal opportunity employer, Mr. Acid. I hope he's legal. Anyhow, go right in,” said the guard, “It’s the third door on your right.”

“You share, now,” said Veronica, letting him see down her dress, “Leave some for everyone else.”

“Yes, ma’m.”

We wheeled on by.

(“What happens if they call the number on the card and realize we are fakes?” whispered Veronica as soon as we were clear.

“The number is for an anger management clinic downtown,” said Jack, “They’ll either cope, or learn how from trained specialists. Impersonating a caterer isn’t a felony yet, and stealing juicy government commissions is an American right.”)

We walked through another security checkpoint. Some very dour folk indeed patted Jack and me down, but they cheered up when they saw Veronica. They spent twice as long checking her out, but if she had been packing, they probably would have missed it. They were so enamored with her, I think she even swiped one of their nametags as a souvenir. She jounced out the door with a wiggle, and as per the plan, they completely forgot to check our carts.

We passed through another heavily bolted door, down another hall, and then suddenly we were there.

They were holding Ernie Maffko overnight in what looked to be an old supply closet. Beer, Ernie, and Mikeska were all seated around a card table smoking Lucky Strikes. I really couldn’t believe I was standing in the same room with them. He was my first murderer, outside of doctors and veterans. My first impression of Ernie Raines Maffko was that he could have sold insurance or taught public school, had his life gone differently. He sure didn’t look like a threat to anybody’s national security.

But it was an open and shut case. I did the research. The Feds found elaborate plans to topple the world government through insane, silly means in his two-room apartment (they involved setting free all enslaved house pets, which he naturally assumed would do his bidding), and eventually he even confessed to the bombing, right before turning drugstore Iroquois. He published some public statements during his trial, and I read a few of them. Let me just say: he was downright canny. But he was also crazier than a taste tester at a lead paint factory.

He looked just like his brother, except that where the light of intelligence in Mikeska’s eyes was a stick of incense burning feebly in a dank wood, Ernie’s shone like a newly napalmed Vietcong village. Mikeska was a little older, and you could sense he was both ashamed and yet still protective in some unspoken, inept way. They both had stringy brown hair that looked like it came from a can, and their ears both jutted out at the same Jughead angle. It looked like prison medicine had spared Ernie whatever disease was eating up Mikeska, but that must have been small consolation, considering.

“You guys bring the eats? Steak fingers, and a whole shitload of mashed taters?” asked Ernie enthusiastically.

Ignoring him, Jack sat down across the table and laced his fingers together. He took off his chef’s hat and let down his long blue hair.

“Did you know a ‘shitload’ is an actual unit of measurement?” I said.

“No way,” said Jack.

“Sure. It’s what toilet paper comes in. Insider jargon, of course. I used to work nights at a supermarket warehouse.”

Jack reached over and took the lid off of one of the chrome dishes. On a tray were three white bread sandwiches, all expertly decrusted. He handed one to me, one to Veronica, and took one for himself.

“Peanut butter for Miracle, pate for his sister. You two must be starving. I certainly am.”

He took a big bite. I knew from experience it was a BLT – broccoli, lettuce, and tomato. A splotch of mayonnaise escaped, leaping sloppily to settle on the corner of his mouth. It was…

“Cute,” said Ernie, “Are you gonna feed me my last meal or not? I got rights and privileges here. In case you hadn’t noticed, my ass is barbecued scapegoat in about twenty-two hours. I don‘t need shit from anyone. Especially from punk-ass hired candy-boys like you. I need some tenderness and understanding.”

He gave Veronica a hard, creepy stare. I was starting to not like him very much.

“Simmer down now, Ern,” said Beer, “These guys are with me. They are here to help.”

“What are you talking about?” said Ernie.

“We are here to offer you a deal,” said Jack, “A boon, if you will. A chance to escape justice at the hands of the State you despise.”

“So you aren’t really caterers?”

“Not as such, no.”

“And there isn’t any steak and taters under them trays?”

“Ah…not on our budget. All our money went to the chicken for your guards.”

“Are you guys gonna bust me out?”

“Actually, there’s no way we can do that, I’m afraid.”

“So what the hell is going on here?”

Jack grinned, and gave me a thumbs up. I bent down to my clodhoppers and started fingering the aglets – the tips of my shoelaces – until I found the bulgy one. I ripped it off and gave it a squeeze, popping out a thin black pill.

“Far out. You brought me the good shit. Is that Oxycontin? I guess there are real fans of my work out there in the world.”

“Actually, we despise you and everything you stand for,” said Veronica, “Thankfully, people have forgotten about you. This is coated arsenic. Time delayed. We are here to convince you to kill yourself.”

“Huh?”

“We’d like to be subtle about this,” said Jack, “But we don’t have much time. Please answer the following questions to the best of your knowledge or ability. Just say yes or no.”

“Guards! Help!”

Beer slapped a hand over his mouth. Mikeska took him in a half-nelson.

“Okay, just nod or shake,” said Jack, “Do you want to be executed by your own civil government publicly as a treasonous criminal?”

He shook his head.

“Did you kill eighteen senior citizens with a pipe bomb of your own creation for no apparent reason other than their unfortunate proximity to a war memorial?”

He nodded.

“Do you feel any remorse for what you did?”

Nod.

“Would you do it again, if given a second chance?”

Shake.

“Do you believe in God?”

Nod.

“Do you believe God is a merciful, benevolent agent interested in the actions of all of its infinite children?”

Nod.

“Do you see now how murder can change a person and rip him away from the bosom of divine mercy?”

Reluctant nod.

“Wouldn’t you agree that it is much easier to be the victim of a murder than to stew and feel yourself grow cold and hard as its perpetrator? “

Nod.

“Do you think the person who actually pulls the switch is the only person responsible for capital punishment?”

Shake.

“Would you agree that is instead the shared burden of everyone who allows it to happen? That the only way that the basic insanity of committing murder as punishment for committing murder can be maintained is by making no single person responsible? By pretending that NO ONE is to blame, and plugging up our ears to the shrill screams of our protesting conscience? That we all become a little less human each time we let someone die? That instead of ending suffering, we nurture it because we are addicted?”

Nod.

“And do you want to stain the soul of an entire province – many of whom are clueless innocents – with the irrevocable and eternal guilt for your murder? When you have a chance to take it in your own hands?”

He narrowed his eyes. He thought about it for a good thirty seconds. And then he nodded. Decisively.

“Well, that’s it, then. Let him go,” said Jack, with a sigh. “And here I was thinking he would jump at the chance to rob the world of its unjust bloodlust. He is instead another Socrates. A really shitty one.”

Beer and the Maffkos all lit new cigarettes. I pocketed the arsenic caplet.

“You know I went ahead and got my college degree? In political science,” said Ernie, “I don’t believe in suicide. It’s another murder to my name.”

“In this case, I think it can be justified. You are Cato the Elder, tearing out your entrails in the piazza rather than living in support of tyranny.”

“If I was going to kill myself, I would have done it by now. You people deserve to be like me. This way, everybody burns in hell together.”

“This way, we never get off this rock and into space where we belong,” said Veronica, “We are too busy thinking up new ways to torture each other. Well, what now? We take off quietly and call it a day?”

Before anyone could answer, a pair of guards busted in carrying shotguns and snuffling suspiciously. I immediately put my hands in the air and then lowered them when no one else did.

“I thought I heard a scream,” said one of the guards.

“Yeah, and why were you holding him down?” said the other.

“They was just hugging on me,” said Ernie, “They’s family.”

“I don’t want to kill my brudda,” said Mikeska.

“You hurry up and eat, Maffko. This isn’t supposed to be a vacation.”

“Shit Jim, you know you are enjoying this just as much as I am. I slept until eight o’ clock this morning. They even have air conditioning here. How many colored’s asses you feel like beating today, now that you are inside where it’s cool?”

The guard looked at all of us nervously. “I don’t beat no coloreds. This here’s the State Capital.”

“You just eat your food, and shut up so these nice people can hurry up out of here,” said Guard Number Two, “Your family’s got five minutes left of their half hour. We’ll be right outside the door.”

As soon as they were gone, Jack grabbed two trays and set them down on the card table.

“I guess it’s plan B,” he said, “Maybe this is something you can get behind.”

Veronica and I looked at each other. Plan B?

“Hey, you DID bring me my last supper,” said Ernie, “I knew I smelled something good under there.”

Jack removed the lids. Two giant roast turkeys, nestled on a bed of cherries.

“What the fuck is this?” said Ernie, “I hate white meat. I’m not trying to lose weight, here.”

“It isn’t meat,” said Jack, “Cut it open.”

Obligingly, Ernie slit into a bird with his steak knife and then pried its breast apart. It was just skin.

“These are stuffed with corn seed,” he said.

“Unpopped popcorn kernels, actually,” said Jack, “They are the good kind, too. Pre-roasted. Like grenades with the pins pulled out.”

That must have been the mysterious rattling.

“Eat up. The cherries will constipate you so you don’t shit any out.”

“I don’t get it,” said Ernie.

“Don’t be dense. You ride the lightning tomorrow. Ever make Jiffy Pop?” said Jack.

“Yeah…”

“That’s you. You are Jiffy Pop.”

“That’s horrible,” said Veronica.

Ernie cackled like mad, finally understanding. He began to shovel the kernels in with a spoon, knocking them back with cold beer from another tray.

“You can save your dessert for after the show,” said Mikeska, “That way you’ll have something to look forward to.”

“Sure will, buddy,” said Ernie, kindly. But Ernie's show was a single engagement with no encore. I realized how senseless and insane it all was. If justice was so simple and universal, how come even Mikeska couldn't understand its current application?

When Ernie finished stuffing himself, we cleaned everything up and took off.

“Well, we did something at least,” said Jack in the parking lot.

“The bastards will get their spectacle,” said Beer.

“I predict that there will be a sudden spike in movie concession sales,” I said.

“Let’s go home,” said Jack, “It’s time to move back to Salamander.”

We loaded everything in the car and then stood around for several minutes feeling generally dejected and depressed.

“It was real nice having you, though,” said Beer, "Who else knows so much about Nascar?"

“He was right, you know,” said Jack, “About killing himself. I think I am going to take up quiet contemplation for a month or two. And boxing.”

“I thought you hated violence,” I said.

“Right now, I feel like punching something, and I might as well wear gloves.”

“You can’t win them all,” said Veronica.

“I know that. I’m just tired of situations where everyone loses,” said Jack, “ I need a break. I need something tangible to fight.”

I knew exactly how he felt.