S. Bonavida Ponce - Smoking Dead

S. Bonavida Ponce

Smoking

Dead

The documentary about the Great Smoke

Translated by Santiago Machain

© 2016 Safe Creative

ISBN: 978-84-617-4370-4

Cover design

Anna "Artlekina" Smirnova

http://artlekina.deviantart.com

Beta Readers

Melisa Balaguer Muñoz

Genoveva Gutiérrez Ruiz

(a.k.a. genolu)

http://bit.ly/2aySiq6

Ignatiusbp

https://es.fiverr.com/ignatiusbp

Dedicated to my brother,

the best gift from my parents.

« And thank you very much Santiago Machain, tireless translator, for your expertise and patience in translating Smoking Dead »

“Greetings, I'm Peter Whales. We are in what many people call Zero Zone, the worst plague in the history of human race...”

At that moment, Peter looked at the microphone in his right hand when an annoying buzz interrupted his professional soliloquy.

Tzzzz...Tzzzz...Tzzzz....

“Peter, Peter. We cut the shot.”

“What? Corinne, I haven't had diarrhea for three days so you can come and give me some bullshit.”

“We cut the shot and that's it. Give me ten minutes," Corinne replied.

Peter and Corinne were in the middle of nowhere, exactly in a jungle area of swampy soil lost from the God’s hand, translated into colloquial language: a shitty place. A green field full of spiked grass up to their ankles. The tips of those plants were put in an annoying way by all the parts of the body. Once upon a time, according to the local archives preserved in AngKor, that place had been a tobacco plantation. But Peter didn't care, a strong uncontrollable diarrhea had been lodged in his lower abdomen for three days. Water, food, or perhaps both were acting against him. Because of strict international laws he could not take his own canned food either. Then, he had to eat the swill he was served in Thailand.

"Maybe I've eaten a spoiled dog.”

So, with diarrhea and belly pains it's no wonder Peter was in a very bad mood.

“Shit. Fuck Marlboroach. Who sent me to do a report on the Great Plague of Smokers?”

Corinne didn't answer. Peter continued to observe her, although not precisely in the eyes.

"She's lucky to have the biggest tits I've ever seen on a woman, otherwise I would have sent her home weeks ago.”

Unaware of Peter's thoughts, Corinne lowered the portable shoulder camera and moved a few meters away towards the Jeep. There she used some tools, adjusted some of the technical parameters of that junky, and continued to be entertained for a while. Meanwhile, Peter was still like a stick in the middle of that old sown field.

"Fuck Marlboroach. I'm in shit up to my neck, if it wasn't for the mortgage... This documentary is a dead end.”

The last words of his boss, Mr. Belvedere still resounded in his head. "It's your last proof, Peter. Screw it this time and you'll be Big Mother presenter again or worse.”

Peter chewed a big KaBoom gum that helped him in moments of tension. Chewing. Inflate. Explode. Chewing. Inflate. Explode. And so he repeated the operation in an endless loop.

“Can you remain still with that little noise? It makes me nervous; I can't concentrate.

"What the hell's wrong with the buddy. Here it's cold from the milk, I'm getting muddy in the middle of this former tobacco plantation, and she has the holy balls to tell me she's bothered by the sound of my gum.”

As a good Alpha male dominator of the species, Peter did what only a man can do, stop making noise with gum and obey.

"I do it because I want to.”

Corinne did not keep her promise to fix the camera in ten minutes. It took her more than thirty. And Peter's dissimulated anger was on the rise.

“What took you so long?” Peter whistled.

I had to clean up the gamma-wave polarizer to remove some of the interference from the residual strontium in the environment. That took me about two minutes. Then I had to touch up my nails, which took me another twenty-eight minutes.

In an attempt at frustration, Peter threw the gum on the floor.

“I wouldn't throw the gum on the floor, it's a strange element. You can look for problems with the WFSP.”

This last sentence modified Peter's face.

“And who's going to tell the federation of foreign particles? It's just you and me in this shitty valley.”

“I wouldn't overestimate the World Federation Strange Particles . But it’s up to you.”

“Fuck the particle federation.”

However, despite those words, Peter bent down and picked up the chewing gum from the ground. He took a plastic bag out of the right-side pocket of his jacket and put the viscose mass into the plastic bag.

“Come on, let's move on.”

Corinne started recording.

“Greetings, this is Peter Whales broadcasting for the PPC. We are in what many people call Zero Zone, the worst plague in human kind history. According to the opinion of many experts, the tobacco plantations in northern Thailand, like the one we are in were the outbreak of the worst epidemic that almost brought humanity to the brink of extinction....

"I hate chemistry. I don't know why my boss had the brilliant idea of including in my work plan the interview to this kind of old mummy extracted from the museum of national history. The scientific vision is important, or at least, that is Mr. Belvedere's opinion. Shit. If it weren't for these brainiacs who play Gods, maybe that would never have happened.”

The old professor, dressed in a white coat and sitting like an old cowboy on the wooden chair stared at the blackboard Peter had on his back.

“The Methyl Bromide or its scientific nomenclature, CH 3Br, so that you may understand it better, young man...”

"The young man doesn't understand shit.”

“...was widely used at the beginning of the 21st century. Curiously, my PhD thesis was based on it. A highly versatile and effective product. Effective in a wide range of temperatures and biocide action. The definitive fumigant. It served to control fungi, bacteria, viruses, mites, nematodes,” Peter silenced that list of names extracted from the underworld.

“Doctor, I don't care about the family tree of your family. Could you tell us about the Zombie Fungus?”

The old professor grunted badly.

“You're only interested in that shit. Let's see when the journalists mature. That was years ago. You always come to interview me for the same reason. After so much time, haven't more interesting news come out? By the way, young lady, wouldn't you like to get the phone number of a scientific eminence?”

Corinne recorded the whole interview from the side of the room. When she saw the old professor's attitude, she raised her fist to the height of her face and straightened her middle finger pointing it towards the ceiling in an unfriendly gesture.

“I like them to resist," whispered the professor. “That excites them.”

“Professor, I promise you by God, your mother and all the archangels that I will then pass you the telephone number of the camera operator, but please, can we start with the main topic?”

The professor grunted and smiled all at once, if that was possible. Peter thought that they would begin to enter into an infinite loop, in which the professor would insist on giving his telephone number to Corinne, she would raise her hand in a defiant gesture, and he would kindly insist again with a “Can we start with the main theme, please?”

Peter breathed a snort full of despair.

"Marlboroach takes me. Let this old mummy begin to release all his boring speech or I strangle him with my own hands. It also reminds me of my old college chemistry professor, Mr. Moriarty. When God created the human species, why did he allow chemists and biologists to exist? I know only two worse professions. Lawyers and computer scientists.”