Thank You for Smoking

to the ankles.

Then his forehead and cheeks. Every square inch of him was covered. When he shifted in his chair, he felt like one adhesive mass, a Band-Aid mummy.

'Look, can we get a little dialogue going here?'

'Don't you remember, Neek, how I told you on de Larry King show dat we were going to dispatch you?'

Dispatch? Dis? Patch? Nick grasped, reluctantly, that this lunatic had just covered him head to toe in nicotine patches. Which meant that a massive, indeed, probably lethal amount of nicotine was at this moment being delivered, through his skin, into his bloodstream. Not that there was any scientific proof that nicotine was bad for you.

He made some calculations. Were there twenty-two milligrams in a patch? Something like that. And a cigarette contained about one milligram, so one patch was about one pack… felt as though they'd plastered him with about forty of them… which made… forty packs… four cartons? Even by industry standards, that was a serious day's smoking.

'Let me read you something,' Peter Lorre said. 'Dis comes with the patches, in de boxes. Under 'Adverse Reactions.' Dis is my favorite part. I don't care so much about the incidence of tumors in the cheek pouches of hamsters and forestomachs of F344 rats. I don't even know what an F344 rat is. Anyway, dere are so many adverse reactions here, I don't hardly know where to begin. Why don't I read only de big ones?'

Nick was starting to feel a little queasy. And his pulse seemed… well, he was nervous, for sure, but it was starting to beat pretty fast.

'Look, I think it's perfectly legitimate that non-smokers feel they're entitled to breathe smoke-free air. Our industry has been working hand in hand with citizens groups and the government to ensure that—'

'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.'

12

“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.'