A Very Small Matter, Part 5

    Notice: This story was been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking. If you don't like these
things stop right here, but you'll never know what you missed.


    This last is for Loring, who maintains the trough at which we all feed.


    "A Very Small Matter" Part 5 of 8


    Author's note: This story concludes (for the time being) the trilogy begun
in "Behind the Times" and continued in "A Letter from Paradise." As the
subject matter is more than a little strange, I recommend you peruse the
earlier stories (both available on Loring's page) before reading further. If
you find it all makes sense in the end, please e-mail me with the explanation.


    5. Welcome to My Nightmare

    It was a month before I was ready to return to the States. My preparations
were now completed; I couldn't think of another thing to do (I'm sure all my
friends back home will think of dozens, and let me know about them, too). I
summoned Niles to the foyer.

    "I'll be leaving for a while again, Niles. I don't know when I'll be back.
I want you, Esmerelda, and the others to carry on as usual. Your salaries are
taken care of."

    Niles turned his nose up at the mention of anything so plebeian as money.
"Very good, sir."

    I handed Niles the "homer" disk. "Place this under the rug in the middle
of the larger den. Check each day to make sure it is still in place."

    "As you wish, sir."

    "And Niles?"

    "Yes, sir?"

    "Do you know what TANSTAAFL means?"

    "'There Ain't No Such Thing as a Free Lunch,'" Niles intoned. "I read
about it once, sir. In a book."

    "Very good, Niles. Thank you. You may carry on."

    "With pleasure, sir. And sir?"

    "Yes, Niles?"

    "Do take care, sir."

    "I'll try. I'll try hard."

    This tearful farewell concluded, Niles departed. I checked myself over.
Gun, concealed in a shoulder holster. Permit to carry it. Three loaded clips.
$80,000 in cash and traveler's checks. Lighter, regular. Lighter, magic.
Smokes.

    I was ready for anything.

    I also had a suitcase packed with several changes of clothes which I would
hold in my left hand, but I had no idea if I could take it with me or not.

    I stuck a smoke in my mouth and removed the magic Zippo. "Here's looking
at you, kid." The familiar multicolored flame appeared.

    Click.

    When I traveled by lighting someone else's cigarette, the transition was
gradual. When lighting my own, it's instantaneous.

    It was suddenly late afternoon. I found myself standing on a gently
sloping, grassy hill (no, I wasn't back in Dealy Plaza). It was a park,
though, surrounded by a large, unfamiliar city. All the buildings I could see
looked new and quite modern, but there was something depressing about their
bland, rectilinear sameness, their almost identical glass-and-steel walls.

    I could see elevated roadways curving around and through the middle
stories of many buildings. Vehicles were moving on the roadways. The city
looked like no place I had ever seen before.

    It was also quiet, almost silent for such a sizable town. And the air!
Fresh doesn't begin to describe it. Somehow I knew there wasn't a single
man-made molecule in this atmosphere. There was a slight salt tang to the air,
though, as if the ocean were nearby.

    I found the prospect of all this pure air upsetting. Remembering Baldy's
last advice, I tossed my B&H at a bush. Fortunately, no one seemed to be
nearby to see.

    I moved down the hill quickly to a more shady, less exposed spot and
checked myself out.

    The suitcase was gone, left behind or lost enroute. It was not an
unfamiliar situation.. C'est la vie. My tie was gone, my collar closed and
raised in an almost clerical fashion. The cut of my suit was subtly altered.

    Checking to make sure I was really alone, I drew the gun and saw it had
also changed. The barrel opening was a tiny hole, too small for any bullet. I
popped the clip, and saw it now contained a myriad of tiny, nail-like darts.
The other clips were the same.

    I decided against conducting a test.

    I checked the money supply. The bills were smaller, thinner, and had a
metallic sheen, but otherwise looked much the same. The traveler's checks were
no longer American Express, but bore the name of the "Consolidated Bank of
North America, N. A.."

    My Ohio concealed-weapons permit had also made the transition, with
alterations. For one thing, it was now a State of Nevada permit. For another,
the "Reason for Issuance" block now read "protection from vigilantes." Uh oh.

    The previous "Reason" should have read "bribe," but didn't.

    I exited the park into the city proper. Its broad streets were crowded
with vehicles which cruised almost noiselessly at a uniform 35 MPH. Must be
electrics. It was eerie and dangerous as well. It was all to easy to be lulled
by the quiet and jaywalk at the wrong time.

    Not than any of the pedestrians were jaywalking. Or smoking. Or talking.
Or doing anything else interesting. The men were dressed primarily in suits
like mine, and the women were dressed primarily like the men. Very modest.
Very depressing. And no one seemed to be overweight...

    I spotted a prominent sign which read "City Ordinances prohibit the
lighting of fires, operation of combustion engines, or any other activity
which introduces foreign substances into the air within the city limits.
Excessive noise is also prohibited. Violation of these Ordinances is a first
degree misdemeanor punishable by a fine of up to $10,000 or up to one year in
prison, or both."

    Ouch! I needed a cigarette, badly. How the hell was I going to smoke? The
cigarettes I was carrying were probably a controlled substance here, and might
even get me arrested.

    I came across a odd-looking box, which was labeled "Up to the Second News!
Insert $1.00" There was a coin slot. I fished in a pocket and, sure enough,
came up with a dollar coin. Clinton's profile was stamped on it. I inserted
the coin.

    A long sheet of some coated paper emerged from the box, covered with tiny
print. The masthead read: "The New Angelica Times, 4:52 PM, May 12, 2021."

    Considering my surroundings, the date came as no great shock.

    The lead story was "Alliance of God and Mormon Church to Merge." That one
I read in full.

    "New Angelica, NV, 3:07 PM, Today: At a press conference this afternoon
held here at AOG World Headquarters, celebrity spokesperson Brooke Shields,
56, announced that the Alliance of God and the Church of Jesus Christ of the
Latter Day Saints (LDS Church) had reach final terms an a merger of their
operations.

    "'For tax purposes, and because the Alliance is not a religious
organization in the usual sense, LDS will be operated as a separate division,'
Ms. Shields said brightly. 'The new organization will be officially known as
"Alliance of God, LDS Church Division."'

    "In a simultaneous press conference held in Salt Lake City, LDS Church
elders hailed the merger. Their statement read, in part, 'The aims of the
Alliance and the LDS Church are in no way incompatible. We believe this merger
will afford us the opportunity to spread our message worldwide as never
before.'"

    I skimmed the paper for more news of interest. One piece described how
President Fowler had that day accepted the surrender of the New Zealand
Defense Forces. Casualties were reported as "light."

    Another piece caught my eye: "Alliance of God and Vatican Reach Accord."

    "In a joint communiqué issued today in Vatican City and New Angelica, The
AOG and the Roman Catholic Church announced a settlement of their previous
differences. Pope Peter II is expected to retract his 2015 Papal Bull
prohibiting Catholics from joining the AOG. The brief statement reads
"Membership in the Alliance of God in no way violates Catholic doctrinal
beliefs."

    The rest of the stories were of little interest to me. As I finished
reading, the paper turned to a fine ash in my hand, and the ash seemed to
evaporate into the air.

    Biodegradable, I guess.

    I was dying for a smoke and wondering what to do first. I had a theory
about where I could find Laurie, but I would need a lot of help to get there.
I spotted a cab approaching and flagged it down.

    I squeezed into the cramped compartment. The vehicle was small and looked
very light.

    "Where to, buddy?"

    I pulled a C-note and passed it up. "I'm new in town. How about you just
drive me around for a while, show me the sights?"

    The driver pocketed the bill. "Sure t'ing, Buddy." He flicked off the
meter.

    I suppose all cabbies start in New York.

    He ascended a ramp onto an elevated roadway. He chattily named several of
the buildings we passed. Some of the businesses, like Capitol Records, I
remembered as being in Los Angeles.

    We descended to ground level and came abreast of an unusual building.
"Coming up on your right, that's the AOG headquarters," the driver said.

    The building was low, only three stories high, but looked to occupy nine
city blocks. Atop the structure was a gargantuan sculpture of a pair of hands,
clasped as if in prayer. The hands towered a good 500 feet above the
building's roof. It was the absolute nadir of kitsch.

    "What goes on in there?" I asked casually.

    "Hell if I know, buddy. It ain't none of my business. But if you're gonna
be in town for a while, take my advice and don't cross those AOG guys, y'know,
the ones in white."

    "Why not?" I asked blandly.

    "Well, it don't usually make th' papers, but sometimes those guys play
rough!"

    Tell me about it. "Thanks for the tip," I said.

    The cab turned west and soon we were on a expressway. "Dis is the
Shoreline Drive," the driver said.

    Sure enough there was a shoreline here, extremely rocky and broken. The
green Pacific stretched away to the western horizon. In Nevada. I made a
shrewd guess as to where Los Angeles was now.

    "They're puttin' in the beaches up north right now. Might even open this
summer, they said."

    Something in the cab seemed to be aggravating my ever-mounting need for a
cigarette. Was there a slight odor...?

    I leaned forward slowly and sniffed at the cabby's shirt. Eureka! He
smelled slightly of smoke.

    I pulled out another hundred. "Say, friend," I began cautiously, "might
you know anyplace where someone could enjoy a quiet smoke?"

    "No, what the hell, tobacco is illeg..." then he saw the bill. It
disappeared. "Hey, you're all right, buddy, you know dat? Look, I'll tells you
what. I got a cousin, Tony, he runs a hotel, the No Quest-Inns Asked, if you
know what I mean. Just slip 'im a fifty and tell him you know me, Joe. He'll
take good care a'yez." He paused. "The fifty don't include the room, you
unnerstand..."

    "I understand perfectly. And thanks, Joe, you saved my life."

    Since the city was entirely new, there were no seedy buildings or
neighborhoods. However, the hotel Joe took me to was clearly for the
budget-minded. It was actually named the Quest Inn.

    In a lobby painfully bereft of furniture or decorations, I spotted a
fellow standing behind a bare desk. He greatly resembled my buddy Joe.

    "Hello...Tony, is it?" I addressed the man.

    "Yeah, whose wants t'know?"

    "Your cousin Joe sent me. I'd like a room. A Special Room. For an
indefinite stay." I slid $500 across the desk.

    "Special? Whaddaya mean..." He saw my offered loot. It vanished. "You say
Joe sentc'ha? Why didn't yas say so sooner? Look, there ain't no need to sneak
around! It's all legal-like, I gots a poimit!

    He showed me his yellowed permit. It allowed the hotel owner to operate 1
(one) smoking permitted room, so long as all ventilation and environmental
isolation codes were met.

    The permit had expired on December 31, 2011. I wondered if Tony could
read.

    "Here, thumb this pad," Tony indicated a white square on the desk. I did
so and a chime sounded. "It's room 318, just thumb the lock to get in."

    The pneumatic elevator wasn't working, so I took the stairs. I was running
by this time. On the third floor I came to an imposing metal door, surrounded
by rubber gasketing. Badly winded, I thumbed a white square on the door.
Several locks disengaged with loud clicks. The door opened. I entered, closed
the door, leaped on the bed with shoes still on, and found my pack of
cigarettes.

    The pack had shortened to king size and was all white. The only writing on
it seemed to be in Chinese. These cigarettes probably weren't "safe," but
right then I'd have smoked a stick of dynamite if it had any nicotine in it.

    Ah! Blessed relief! I wondered where and if I'd find more when these were
gone.

    Beginning to come down after my long fast, I looked the room over. It was
not much better than the lobby, but it had a bed, nightstand (with ashtray!),
one chair, and even a private bath. Unfortunately, there was no TV. That would
have been useful.

    On my third straight cigarette, I heard the door locks disengage. My hand
went to the gun. Shit, busted already? The door opened and a woman entered. A
young, attractive woman.

    "Oh, excuse me," she said. "I thought the room was empty. I'm sorry..."
She started to leave.

    Always the gentleman, I leaped to my feet. "No, you don't have to go! Did
you need to...use this room? Actually, I'd appreciate the company..."

    She was indeed here for the reason I'd hoped. She produced her own pack of
Chinese Kings, sat in my lone chair, and pulled it close to the nightstand.

    She was pretty, with a full head of curly brown hair and what appeared to
be a nice figure. About 22, I guessed. Unfortunately, she was dressed in the
same shapeless clothes as everyone else.

    I lit a cigarette for each of us. As she leaned to accept the light, the
flame nicely bought out the highlights in her hair. Not too shabby.

    Her smoking style was plain compared to what I had become used to, but she
really wanted this smoke. Her inhales were deep, her exhales long delayed,
finally emerging from mouth and nose with a soft whoosh! I was pleased to see
that she took in enough smoke that small nostril exhales accompanied her
breaths between puffs. Despite the legal strictures, the habit had her. She
needed nicotine.

    We made our introductions. Her name was Denise. "I work part time for
Tony," she said. "Doing the books, reading his mail to him. He doesn't pay
much, but he's good about letting me use this room. It's usually empty."

    I really wanted to pump Denise for information, but I didn't want to sound
like a nut who knew absolutely nothing about anything, either. Over the course
of five shared cigarettes, I was able to find out a few things.

    The Alliance of God had been around since at least the 1950s. They had no
official ties to the US or any other national government, but they were
wealthy, well-connected, and wielded an increasing amount of influence,
especially in churches. Their program, of course, was to deny all "pleasures
of the flesh" in the name of building "strength" and "character." They also
had alarmingly wide latitude in enforcing their own ideas once they were
passed into law. They were a sort of quasi-sanctioned vigilante group. In
other words, if the Alliance was after you, don't bother calling the cops.

    It was clear from this, at least, that I was not in the future of the
world of my birth. Count your blessings, guys.

    Nevada had become the first smoke-free state in 2011, when Alliance
headquarters moved here. The last state (Alaska) fell in 2020.

    Of course, smoking was not the only pleasure to bite the dust. The New
Puritanism was rampant, lent a lot of strength by the fact that AIDS had never
been tamed in this world. In fact, there were now several varieties of the
virus, many quite a bit nastier than the AIDS we know.

    In these parts, it was either take your dick in your hands or take your
life in your hands. The custom of hanging bloody sheets out the window after
the wedding night was making a comeback.

    Speaking of dicks, you might be wondering what was happening with me and
Denise, smoking up a storm in that hotel room. Just call me Father Grant. I
was becoming an old hand at this abstinence bit.

    There were some other things I really needed to know. "Denise, where can I
get cigarettes around here?"

    Denise looked thoughtful as she dragged on her eighth cigarette and
exhaled smoke. This girl was insatiable! And whatever ventilation this room
was supposed to have, it didn't have it now. The place was filled with
swirling smoke. It was a relief beyond words, but I was worried about what
might happen when I left the odiferous room. I had no change of clothes.

    "I'm not supposed to tell out-of towners about our T-room...but I guess
you're all right," she said through exhaled bursts. "It's just up the street,
number 2302. The password is 'Spotted Owl.' Mention my name."

    "Tea room?" I asked.

    "Yes, a tobacco room. There's a few around, but that's the only one I can
use."

    "Thanks, Denise, you're a sweetheart." I stood.

    "Oh, Grant..."

    "Yes?"

    "May I stay here while you're gone?"

    "Sure, kid," I said, and tossed my depleted pack of Chinese Kings on the
bed. "And keep the rest of these. You've been a big help and good company."

    As I left the hotel, I knew I had a problem. In the all-too-pure air my
smoke-reek was detectable at ten yards, at least. I ducked into a nearby drug
store and grabbed a few bottles of cheap men's cologne, breath spray (!), and
a spray can marked "Portable Ionizer." Fortunately, the proprietor seemed
disinterested in me or anything else except my money. I returned to the hotel
lobby and donned the "disguise."

    The cologne was very weak. I supposed it was the sort that did not
introduce "foreign substances into the air." The other items helped, but not
completely. I'd just have to chance it.

    With my nicotine urge for the moment satisfied, lesser needs were
surfacing. I was hungry. This hotel, needless to say, had nothing resembling
food, but I had seen a coffee shop next door. I made for this next.

    Friends, I'm disgusted to say that here even eating has been robbed of all
enjoyment. Oh, all the food was wholesome, "organic" (anyone ever eaten
inorganic food?), nutritious, and non-fattening. No wonder everyone here was
thin! The few meat dishes had been rendered almost fat-free and were virtually
inedible. Other items were tasteless for no apparent reason other than to
"deny the flesh" in yet another way. If I hadn't been starving, I doubt I
could have forced a bite of anything down.

    I couldn't wait to blow this pop stand. I needed to find Laurie quickly.

    Hunger quelled but esthetics repelled, I worked my way north to number
2302. It was, naturally, an unmarked door. I knocked.

    After a minute, an irritated voice sounded through the door. "Yeah, who's
there?"

    "Spotted Owl."

    "Just a minute."

    The door opened, and I entered the T-room.

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