Following an arduous day at the office where he kept books, Phil sat onhis living room sofa, reading the comics in the daily paper and eating from a large bowl of Cheetos, which he washed down with a cup of Earl Grey tea. From his stereo emanated the music of J.S. Bach, interpolated with a hip-hop rhythm. He had made the tape himself, by using two records and adjusting the tempo as required. Though he did not understand why, it was the only music to which he could stand listening lately.

When his teacup released the last drop, he farted and lit a cigarette. He watched the tight, blue smoke, streaming from the end of the cigarette as it mingled with gases that had warmed in his intestines before blowing out his ass. This amused him for several seconds. He visualized the face of some clod, someone who had lately pissed himoff, and simultaneously inhaled his own fart gases. The two sensations, the odor and the face, became indistinct.  This might have amused him longer had the doorbell not been struck. Who the Hell is that? Woken from his reverie, he stood and walked to the door, through the peephole of which he examined his visitors. Strangers. Phil opened the door.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” said the strange man. “My name is Frank Miller, and this is my nice-looking wife Opris. We are the Millers. We are looking for Mr. Philip Pebbleson. Might you know where he is?”

“I’m Philip Pebbleson.”

“It’s great to meet you Mr. Pebbleson,” said the woman. As if they had rehearsed the speech, she waited for Phil to say that it was nice to meet them. When enough time had passed to conclude that Philip would not respond, Opris looked to her husband. “Mr. Pebbleson, my wife and I are on a mission. I call it a mission because that’s exactly what—“

“Nice to meet you,” said Phil.

“Nice to meet you too, Philip. As I was saying we are on a mission. It is a mission we are not likely to accomplish in my lifetime. You see, Phil, living in America, it is very easy to forget the squalor in which people live in other parts of the world. Do you know that twenty-three percent of—“

“Would you like to come in? Sorry to interrupt.”

Opris and Frank looked at one another and smiled. “We’d love to,” said Opris.

Phil hung their coats and showed them to the sofa. Philip sat in the chair opposite them. For a moment, deep furrows appeared on Opris’s brow as if disturbed by an invisible force. “You were saying something,” said Phil, “about conditions elsewhere in our world. Bloody rotten are they?”

“Yes, Mr. Pebbleson,” said Opris. “All over the world, children are starving. Their parents try to provide for them, through farm and trade, but there are just not enough resources to survive.”

“I understand that, and I think it’s terrible,” said Phil.

“Yes it is,” said Frank. “But it is so easy for us to forget about them. It’s so easy to ignore their existence, and the existence of everything they feel.”

Phil stood up. “A spot of tea for you?” he asked.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” said Opris.

“In that case, you will have to excuse me, while I freshen my cup.” Phil left the room through a swinging wooden door.

Opris leaned towards Frank and whispered in his ear: “Do you think he’s interested?”

“He’s the best prospect we’ve had today.”

Phil returned through the same door. “It seems that my pot of tea has grown cold and I shall have to warm it. Now where were we?”

Frank spoke: “We were discussing the tragic lives that are so abundant on our planet. But there is hope, Phil.”

“I always think so. What have you got?”

“What seems like such a small donation to you and me can make a great difference in developing countries. For a one-time donation of one thousand dollars, you can make a great increase in the resources available to each person in a small village.”

“Where did you get my name? I’m sorry. I am simply curious.”

Their momentum was diverted, but they were quick to regard the question with courtesy. “Actually,” said Frank, “We found you through a consumer indexing firm.”

“My name was on a list?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you liked my profile?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“I’m sorry,” said Phil, “I don’t even know why I asked.”

“It’s okay.”

“So if I understand you correctly Mr. and Mrs. Miller. You would like me to donate one thousand dollars to save the world?”

“Yes.”

“And my thousand dollars is going to provide resources? You’re going to buy food and clothing and such things and give it to a poor family?”

“No,” said Opris. “I’m sorry we were so unclear. The thousand dollars is going to provide ammunition.”

“Then you’re not using the money to feed children?” asked Phil.

“No,” replied Opris. “We’re going to use the money to shoot children.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, Mr. Pebbleson,” said Frank. “It’s the only proven method of assuring that there is enough food and shelter for everyone to have a decent existence.”

“Excuse me,” said Phil. “I do believe I hear my teapot boiling.” Phil stood and left the room again.

“What the hell is that music he’s playing?” asked Frank.

“Who cares? What do you think he’s making of this?”

“You saw his consumer profile: Guns and Guts Magazine, mail-order handcuffs, Disney movies. I think he’s gonna go for it.”

Phil returned, carrying a tray upon which rode three cups of tea. He set one cup in front of each of his guests and himself.

“We didn’t ask for tea, Mr. Pebbleson,” said Opris.

Phil hit himself on the forehead. “How bloody stupid can I be? An apology is in order.”

“Never mind,” said Frank. “I’ve changed my mind anyway. I’ll drink mine, thank you.”

“I’ll drink mine too,” said Opris.“As I recall, you were telling me that the hastened death of children has significant social-economic benefits. Will you elaborate?”

“With pleasure” said Frank. “You, see Philip . . . can I call you Philip?”

“No, frankly.”

“My apologies. You see, Mr. Pebbleson, we all tend to think of death as ugly. We fight it and revile it because it is our instinct. Moreover, death is so often associated with pain and suffering.”

“Go on,” said Phil. “I’ve never heard anything quite like this.”

“But when you look at death from a more objective viewpoint, you’ll see that a reduction in suffering is inevitable. Our organization assures you, the donor, that the children, and adults—we kill adults too Mr. Pebbleson—the people we kill are killed humanely and their bodies are disposed of quite sanitarily.”

“But why should I give money?”

“Mr. Pebbleson—“ Frank set down his teacup and stood. “You have a rare opportunity today to make a difficult moral decision. Your decision will prove to yourself that you have more courage and more honor and more . . . valor . . . than ninety-nine percent of the human race. It will show that you have the intelligence to see through the surface of things, that you can distinguish a symbolic gesture from a heroic deed.”

“How was your tea?” asked Phillip.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

“Good. Thank you,” said Opris.

Said Phillip: “If you’ll excuse me one more time—I’m sure you have become excruciatingly bored with my interruptions by now—but I must rinse your teacups before the substance in your tea hardens. Mother would be turning in her grave if I had to toss her cherished teacups into the trash. When I return, we will discuss the terms of our transaction.” Phil left the room again.

“He’s gonna do it,” whispered Frank. “Finally, we’ve ended our dry spell.”

“What do you suppose he meant by the substance in our tea?”

“I didn’t hear him say anything like that.”

“Maybe I imagined it,” said Opris.

Phil returned to the living room carrying a syringe filled with a dark brown liquid. “What’s in there?” asked Frank.

“The antidote.”

“Antidote?” asked Frank.

“Let me explain,” said Phil. “Have seat.” Phil set the syringe on a bookshelf, farted loudly, and lit a cigarette. “Mr. and Mrs. Miller, though you think your views on death and social welfare are enlightened—and I do concede they are clever—and, even though you have implied that any other opinion on the subject must be stupid—I must say that I am repulsed—beyond repulsed—I am shocked and flabbergasted—by your views and your operation.”

“I am sorry to have wasted your time, sir,” said Opris standing up.

“Sit down,” said Phil. “Don’t leave yet. Friends, I find your views atrocious. In your neat equation, you have left out an important variable: fear. It is not right to kill someone without giving them a chance to fight back. They need a chance to feel terror, as a matter of propriety. Fear is the most heightened emotion a human can experience, and you would send an innocent child out of this world without fear’s consolation.”

“Can we go?” asked Frank.

“In the end we all go,” said Phil as he ran the needle of the syringe across his tongue. “You have taught me your views on death and now I teach you mine. You have consumed a rare poison, the name of which I will not disclose. All you must know is that the death it imposes is far from pleasant, and that the antidote is in this syringe. When the poison takes effect I will be able to observe your fear quite easily .. . and so will you, ha ha. Are you with me so far?”

“My throat feels dry,” said Opris. “Can I have some water?”

“No . . . Now, I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t give you a chance to survive. To get the antidote, you must do everything I tell you to do. If you try to take the antidote away from me, I will empty it onto the floor. To demonstrate how emotive fear can be, Mr. Miller will commence the proceedings by pushing this fork into his eye . . . “

Brain Candy E-Zine has no rights to this story.  The rights belong to the author.

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