“First, “ Carl says , panting, “ you havn’t been shot my
something like this before. 12 different isomers of cyanide coat these little
guys, if you breathe, these will stop it, completely illegal, but provided to
us, for just this situation. Second, that is called a filter , your not
supposed to smoke it past the gold stripe.” His tone is both angry and fearful
as he nods his head toward the cigarette.
I look down and see the cigarette burning and melting a bit,
still putting off that stench. And suddenly I feel silly, I feel more than
silly, I feel dangerous. But not in the way I enjoyed a few weeks ago. I feel
like a rabid dog, desperately trying to prove he is still a good pet. I drop the doc, and sit down.