A Very Small Matter, Part 6

    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 6 of 9


    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.


    6. Velvet Underground

    The dour-faced young fellow who had let me in looked me over critically.
"I don't know you. You got a reference?"

    "Denise," I answered.

    "Okay, follow me."

    I walked down a long corridor behind the door warden. To either side, I
heard the muted roar of powerful fans and my hair was tousled by the strong
breeze coming through slitted vents on both walls.

    At the end of the hall, a long stairway led upwards. With each step up, I
noted a slight but strengthening smell of tobacco smoke. It lent a spring to
my steps.

    At the top of the stairs was another closed door. My escort knocked on it
and an small opening appeared at eye level. He leaned to the opening and
whispered something, no doubt a second password not for the ears of guests.

    The door opened and I went in. The doorman stayed outside.

    The room was large and fairly crowded. The first thing I noticed was, of
course, the wonderful sight and smell of ambient smoke. The second was that
the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room were covered with thick red velvet.
It gave the place a nice, decadent atmosphere. Also, I realized, it was an
effective way to seal in and absorb smoke odors...

    As I walked deeper into the room, the inner door warden caught my arm.
"Hey, you forgot to contribute."

    I turned and saw a basket on the floor by the door, stuffed with 20 and 50
dollar bills. I dropped in two c-notes.

    "That'll cover it," he said. "Go nuts."

    I walked over to a table holding a few bottles, an ice bucket, and plastic
cups. The bottles were labeled "USFDA Pure Grain Alcohol," and were plastered
with every conceivable warning label. It seemed to be "help yourself," so I
poured a drink.

    My next stop was a small counter tended by a woman in her 30s. A cigarette
dangled from her mouth and she dragged continuously as she served her
customers, never once removing the smoke. Behind her was a rack-full of
cigarette packs, cigars, and pipe tobacco. None of the packs I could see bore
any English writing.

    "Name your poison," she spoke as I approached, cigarette jumping in her
mouth. "We got gook, chink, slope, jap, and a few ivans, but they cost extra."

    I winced at the racial slurs. I saw what looked like a 100mm mentholated
Japanese brand, and requested two packs.

    "One comes with the contribution, the second will be 20 bucks. We sell 'em
at cost." I paid and took my stash. She didn't seem the chatty type, but I was
curious about one thing.

    "How do you vent the smoke from here?" Right now, all the smoke was
staying inside except for what little escaped when someone arrived or left.

    "We don't," she replied, chuffing smoke. "Twice a day we evacuate and
compress it into tanks. A friendly hazardous waste hauler loses 'em for us.
The fans below eat the leaks pretty good. Don't worry, it's two hours 'till
the next suck job." She looked up with belated suspicion. "Why you wanna
know?"

    "Just curious." By this time I had lit up to confirm my "real smoker"
identity.

    Armed now with lit smoke and drink, it was time to mingle.

    There were about 50 smokers in the room, which could easily accommodate
twice that. No one looked under 21, and there were a few older folks who
certainly remembered better times for smokers. The median age looked to be
around 35, and the crowd was about 60/40 in favor of females, which didn't
upset me at all.

    Most stood, singly or in groups, partaking of their hated habit. A few sat
at a motley collection of tables. Some were sociable and relaxed, others were
loading nicotine as fast and with as few distractions as possible. Fascinated,
I watched one young woman who was going through a pack of 100s at the rate of
one every two minutes or less. She'd light one from the butt of the last, then
basically consume the whole thing in one continuous puff, venting her smoke in
a flood each time her lungs reached "full." I'd read about such things, but
never believed anyone could or would smoke like that.

    After she'd gone through half a pack in that manner, she raced out. Making
good use of limited time, I thought. She left a trail of smoke that cut the
room in half.

    I was walking across the thickly padded floor when I heard a lightly
southern-accented, feminine voice at my elbow. "You're new here, aren't you?"

    She was on the sunny side of thirty, and unlike the other women wore an
attractive dress. Her blonde hair fell gently to her shoulders and her face
was open and friendly. She was a southern belle who stood out from the dowdy
women all around.

    I saw she held an unlit Indonesian 100 in her hand. I proffered a light.
She drew in the flame gently but with determination, and inhaled deeply. She
smiled, gave me a smoky "Thanks," and exhaled a long, thin stream just past my
right ear. This woman had a sense of style!

    I confirmed that I was indeed new, introduced myself as "just Grant," and
learned her name was Linda Marie.

    We exchanged small talk for a few minutes, while she demonstrated her
smoking technique with obvious relish. Her draws were long and sensual, her
exhales pleasantly varied and always ample. I learned she had recently moved
here from South Carolina. Smoking, at least in one's own home, had been legal
there until 2019. When her father, a tobacco farmer, had finally been forced
into bankruptcy, she had set off to find a new career.

    "I work for the State of Nevada now," she said. "Substance Control and
Enforcement, a growing division." She laughed, exhaling, and flicked ashes
onto the velvet floor.

    "Don't they believe in ashtrays here?" I asked.

    "Oh, it won't hurt the velvet, it's treated," she replied. "And it's
replaced every month. Butts go over there." She indicated an open canister in
the corner labeled "Hazardous Waste."

    "You know, it's really a shame, all this," I said, indicating the entire
T-room. "That we have to hide like criminals."

    "Well, then, you should talk to the Conspirators, those two couples at
that table over there." She gave me an ironic smile to show me how seriously
she took these "Conspirators" and pursed her lips, blowing smoke. "They're
always discussing how to beat the AOGgers and bring back 'the good old days.'"

    "Oggers?" I asked, then figured it out.

    "Yes, and they always talk about how they'll join the REAL underground
some day. But it's useless, I know, I work in the field. People don't want
change. Most are happy the way things are..." She excused herself to ditch her
butt in the canister, and I walked over to the table of the mysterious
"Conspirators."

    The foursome was among the older patrons, as I expected, though one of the
women was still attractive. They were leaning far over their table, chain
smoking, and speaking in a, well, conspiratorial manner. I stood nearby and
tried to eavesdrop. I picked up some snatches like "ready to strike" and "that
won't work" and "but how do you get IN?" Then one of the men noticed my
listening.

    "You! I don't know you. Get away from here!"

    "I'm..." I began.

    "I've never seen you here before! Go away, before..."

    I steeled myself to take a big chance. Grabbing a vacant chair, I pulled
it over to the table and sat down. Before anyone could object, I began talking
fast, in my best "tough guy" tone.

    "Look, if I was an AOGger, you'd all be busted by now and down in HQ
singing your little hearts out. I AM new here, but I've been sent to help.
I've just been having a little difficulty finding my contact. I've brought
money." I produced one of my wads. Four sets of eyes went wide. "There's a lot
more where that came from. And, I'm ready for trouble." I let them glimpse my
concealed weapon.

    "That little nail gun won't penetrate AOGger body armor," said the man who
had challenged me, but he seemed impressed anyway. These four were obviously
parlor revolutionaries.

    I pressed on. "If you have any idea where I can contact the local leaders,
I need to know it, and now!"

    The younger woman was leaning in even further. She furiously puffed on her
cigarette as if trying to send me smoke signals. "I know where they are!" she
said.

    "Shut up, Adrienne!" said the man who seemed to lead this little cell. "We
don't know anything about..."

    "Shut up yourself, Mark! Since when do narks carry that kind of cash!"
Adrienne's words shot bursts of smoke like bullets at Mark. "And no AOGger
would have that piddling little nail gun..."

    I didn't like all this badmouthing of my gun. Now I wished I had started
with armor-piercing bullets!

    "All right, all right!" Mark said. "Adrienne does know where they are." He
told me the location. Nothing like tight lips to keep a nest of
revolutionaries alive. "Now, I assume that the funds you have are for general
distribution...?" Good old greed triumphs again.

    I peeled off a thousand for Mark. "The rest is for the leadership. But
thank you..."

    "Can I come? Please?" Adrienne's eyes were shining with excitement. Like
Laurie's in Paris, I thought. Still puffing furiously, she blew smoke at me as
though to forge an unbreakable link between us.

    "Adrienne...!" Mark was alarmed.

    "Too dangerous," I said, to Mark's evident relief. "When we're ready,
you'll be sent for."

    "There's still the matter of the password," said Mark. " We don't know it,
and you can't get in without it. Adrienne tried, and was nearly burned where
she stood."

    Oops. "Don't worry, I've got that covered." I wished I felt like I
sounded. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

    As I was about to exit to the street, the outer door warden stopped me.
"Hold it," he said, "unless you'd like to dance with the AOGgers tonight." He
produced something that looked like a long hair brush and ran it all over me,
keeping it about an inch from contact. The device crackled, and I could feel
my hairs rising.

    "OK, you're clean. Good night."

    Walking back to the hotel, I noted that all smoke odors were gone from my
body and clothes.

    Denise had left, sparing me from further temptation. I went to bed.

    Tomorrow, I hoped, I would join the underground.

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