Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

"Neek. Just listen, okay? 'Erythema,' it says. Do you know what dat means? I had to look it up in a dictionary. All it means is redness of the skin, like from chemical poisoning or sunburn. I would say you are going to have very red skin, Nick. Maybe you can get a part in a movie playing an Indian. Heh heh. Oh, I'm sorry, Neek. Dat was in very poor taste."

"My industry does forty-eight billion a year in revenues. I think we're looking at an attractive opportunity situation here. I think everyone in this room is looking at early retirement in Saint Barth's, or wherever."

"Now dis I can understand. 'Abdominal pain, somnolence'—dat's sleeping, isn't it? — 'skin rash, sweating. Back pain, constipation, dyspepsia, nausea, myalgia.' Here we go again with dese words. Ah, okay, dizziness, headache, insomnia.' I don't understand, they tell you sleepiness then they tell you insomnia. We'll just have to find out. You know, you could be making an incredible contribution to science. You could be written up in de New England Journal of Medicine. What else? 'Pharyngitis'? I think dat must mean when your pharynx is broken, don't you? 'Sinusitis and. dysmenorrhea.' I don't even want to know what dat means, it sounds so horrible. You can tell me about it later."

Burning. His skin was burning. "I would guess that you could start by asking for five million. And work your way up from there. I don't want to boast, but I'm an extremely important part of our overall media strategy, so—"

"But I don't want any money, Neek."

"Well, what do you want? I mean, I'm all ears, here." His heart. Whoa. Ba-boom, ba-boom.

"What does any of us want? A little financial security, de love of a good woman, not too big a mortgage, crisp bacon."

Nick's mouth was starting to go very dry and taste like it was wrapped in tinfoil. His head began to pound. His heart was going like a jackhammer. And something was brewing down there in his stomach that was going to come up. soon.

"Uuuh."

"By de way, did you see de story in Lancet? About dis incredible fact that in de next ten years 250 million people in the industrialized world are going to die from smoking? One in five, Neek. Isn't dat amazing? Dat's five times how many died in de last world war."

Boomboomboomboom. "Urrrrrrrg."

"Dat's the entire population of de United States."

"I'll quit. I'll. work for the. Lung. Association."

"Good, Neek. Boys, don't you think Nick is making excellent progress?"

"Urrrrrr."

"You don't sound so good, Neek."

"— rrrrr—" Bumbumbumbum. His heart was knocking on his rib cage, saying I want out.

"Look at de bright side, Neek. After dis, I bet you're never going to want to smoke anodder cigarette again."

"— roop."

“You see that?" a U.S. park policeman said to his partner as they sat in their cruiser on Constitution Avenue near the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

"Late for joggers," the other yawned.

"Better check it out." They got out and walked toward Constitution Gardens and shone their flashlights at the object of their curiosity. It was a male, Caucasian — though the skin had a strange, lifeless hue and texture to it — six feet, 170 pounds, brown hair, athletic build. He was stumbling at the edge of the lagoon. Doper, for sure.

"Sir. SIR. Stop and turn around, please."

"Did you see his face?"

"Yeah. Like a deer on speed. What's that all over his body?" "Bandages?"

"Anything about any escapees from Saint E's?" "Nothing. Son of a bitch is fast. Look at him go." "Coke?"

"Nah, that's angel dust."

They cornered him on the small island in Constitution Gardens, where the preamble to the Declaration of Independence is carved into granite beneath your feet, along with the signers' names.

"Sir?"

"Get away from me! I don't even like your movies! I hated Casablanca1."

"What's he talking about?"

"Easy does it, buddy. No one's going to hurt you."

"Get me the surgeon general! I have urgent information for the surgeon general]"

"Okay, pal, we'll go see the surgeon general." "No one must know but her!"

"That's right, buddy. What's that around your neck?" "It's a sign."

" 'Executed for crimes against hominy.' " " 'Humanity.' "

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, but for someone who's been executed, he's moving pretty fast."

"He looks like he's been executed." "Oh boy, stand back."

"That's okay, pal. Take a deep breath. I never saw anyone spew like that."

"He's on some dope. Better call the medics. Whup, stand back, there he goes again."

"What's the matter, pal, something you ate?"

"You know what they look like — those smokers' things, the patches."

"Joe Rinckhouse tried those things. He's still smoking." "I bet he didn't put on that many. Hey buddy, you okay?" "No, he's not okay. Look at him." "Think we oughta do CPR on him." "Be my guest." "Uh-uh. It's your turn."

"Let's wait for the medics. I don't like this. It could be some new sex thing."

"Good thinking."

"Coming through!" "What do we have?"

"John Doe, four plus agitated, vomiting, dry as a bone. BP two-forty over one-twenty. Vomiting, erythema. Pulse one-eighty and regular. Looks like PAT."

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me? SIR? Okay, let's get a Nipride drip going. Get up verapamil, ten milligrams IV push. Today, please."

"Coming."

"What are those things all over him?"

"Looks like nicotine patches, a lot of them."

"Maybe it's the new suicide of the nineties."

"Let's get them off him. Fast. There's enough here to kill a horse."

"Ouch, this poor guy is going to be sore."

"This guy is going to be dead. Sir? SIR? What is your name?"

"Uh-oh. V-fib!!"

"Okay, he's going to have to ride the lightning. Crank it up to max. Gimme the paddles. Ready? Stand back." Vvvvwvvwu mp. "Again. Clear." Vwvwvvvvump.

"I like it! I like it! Back on sinus rhythm. Start the lidocaine drip."

Nick awoke to the sound of bleeping machines and a headache that made him wish that he had not survived. His mouth tasted like it had been filled with hot tar and pigeon droppings. His hands, feet, and nose were cold as ice. He was conscious of wires leading to his chest and tubes leading in and out of every bodily orifice but one, thank God.

He'd had this very strange dream. Dr. Wheat had gone bonkers while Nick was on the table hooked up to the DC current machine. He increased the voltage enough to power the Washington Metrorail system, while cackling maniacally to Nick that this was his big opportunity of getting into The New England Journal of Medicine.

"Ohhh," he groaned, alerting a nurse, who scurried off for a doctor. People in white came and hovered. There were hushed conversations. A voice addressed him.

"Mr. Naylor?"

"Urrr."

He heard dimly the word morphine, followed by a warm sensation in his arm, followed by. visions of a voluptuous red-haired woman, with glasses, naked, on a horse.

Horse?

Suits entered the room.

"Mr. Naylor? I'm Special Agent Monmaney, FBI. This is Special

Agent Allman. We've been assigned to your case. Can you tell us what happened?"

Nick peered through the druggy haze at the cavalry. Monmaney was tall, rangy, with intense, pale, timber wolf eyes. Graying at the temples. Good, a G-man with experience. Allman was stocky, built like a fireplug. Excellent. He could be the one to beat Peter Lorre's face into rennet custard. He had a ruddy, almost jovial sort of face that made him look Eke everyone's favorite high school teacher. Nick would have preferred him to look leaner and meaner, like Monmaney, but that was all right, as long as they functioned like a team and their guns were oiled. He saw Peter Lorre, on his knees, begging them for mercy as they emptied their 9mms into his chest.