CHRISTOPHER LARGEN

JJUUNNKK

WARNING!

The following narrative may be considered illegalcontraband. Officials may investigate your libraryand bookstore records without your knowledge orconsent, if they suspect you’ve been reading thisbook. Possession of these pages may constituteprobable cause for police to search your personand property. You may be subjected to blood andurine tests, property seizures, invasive body cav-ity inspections, wiretapping, and involuntarydetainment for indefinite periods of time, withoutaccess to counsel.

Readers should exercise EXTREME caution whentraveling across state and national borders whilein possession of this material.

The publisher and author bear no responsibility,stated or implied, for any and all legal difficultiesarising from the manufacture, distribution, orconsumption of this work. The words in this bookare not intended to incite or advocate immoral,unhealthy, or illegal behavior.

Please do not operate heavy machinery whileunder the influence of this prose.

Moe Goodman flinched as the studio-sani-tized theme music blared behind him,and the houselights dimmed.

A pre-recorded choir chanted, “Praise Him,praise Him, praise His holy name!”

Two spotlights searched the stage, bouncingand swirling before they landed on the host.

Farah immediately broke into character, bow-ing her head and clasping her hands in publicprayer. The music faded and she lifted her head toface the studio audience. “Praise God, and wel-come to Faith Vibe,” she said, “where religion andpolitics intersect, and we take on the importantissues facing our divine nation! I’m Farah C.Forbes, and our distinguished guests this eveningare Reverend Moe Goodman, a Denton-based min-ister and junk food addiction counselor, andPastor Rick Smith, a liberal theologian at NewLife Church in Dallas. Welcome to the show, gen-tlemen. Hallelujah!”

The applause light flashed, and the studioaudience complied with a rousing thunderclapovation. Moe thought it might have startled Jesushimself. He tried not to roll his eyes as he smiled,and mustered his social graces to nod feignedthanks to the assembled mob.

excerpt

Farah continued, on cue: “Tonight we’re hereto discuss the controversy surrounding the classicbook Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As someof you may be aware, angry parents have bandedtogether, organizing grassroots boycotts of localstores that carry copies of this book or of themovies it spawned. They claim the plot promotesyouth delinquency, and they’re calling for a for-mal municipal ordinance banning the materialfrom city limits.”

Farah swiveled toward Moe like a well-lubedcannon. “Reverend, you’ve been a stalwart soldierin the war on junk, and your efforts have broughtaccolades from across the state. Where do youstand on this book?”

Moe grinned. “I try not to stand on it at all.”The audience responded with obligatory

chuckles.“But seriously,” Moe said as he held up his

hand, “I read it several times when I was young.And I’ll admit, I enjoyed the story, the characters.Even the movies weren’t bad. But that deceptivecharm is exactly what makes them so dangerous.”

“Really?” Farah asked eagerly. “Absolutely. Behind its thin veil of childish

innocence, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory con-tains subversive messages, subliminal ideas thatsubtly undermine the hard work of our ministersand police officers.”

“How so, Reverend?”“Think about it. On the one hand, we advise

kids to stay away from candy and other junk. Wego so far as to threaten them with arrest. Thenthey plop down and read Charlie, a story with veryyoung children indulging in junk abuse frombeginning to end. A kid goes swimming in choco-late. Addicted children lick sugarcoated wallpa-per. A soda drink makes Charlie so euphoric, heflies way up in the air.”

Farah clicked her tongue and shook her head.

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“Well, I can understand why parents are con-cerned.”

Pastor Smith leaned forward in his chair andbegan to shake his foot hyperactively. “Now holdon a sec, Reverend. With all due respect . . . youdon’t honestly believe the author of this workintended to hurt young people, do you?”

Moe thought a moment. “No, of course he did-n’t intend it. But he was negligent. He didn’tthink about these kids.”

“Sure, I’ve heard this all before. It’s the slip-pery-slope argument your type likes to use. Theproblem is, you’re taking this out of context. Youaren’t telling the viewers that candy and cakewere legal when Charlie was released.”

“So were burgers and snack chips, for thatmatter, and a lot of other garbage. But justbecause the law says something’s right or wrong,doesn’t make it so. Times have changed. If wewant children to avoid the perils of junk food, weneed to be sending consistent messages. We haveto model the behavior we want them to exhibit.Otherwise these kids will think we’re hypocrites.”

Pastor Smith snickered. “Well, I’ve got newsfor you. Despite the Reverend Goodman’s arro-gant attempt to play God, Charlie and theChocolate Factory is actually a sublime Christianallegory.”

Farah leaned forward and smiled. “Oh? Do tell.”“It’s simple . . . the Chocolate Factory repre-

sents the Kingdom of God, with Wonka asSupreme Being. In order to enter the kingdom,the Bible says, you must become like a child. So,Wonka has to find a kid to inherit his factory.”

Moe chuckled. “Oh, please. Spare us the mud-dled metaphors, Pastor.”

“Wait, there’s more . . . The children who findgolden tickets embody the deadly sins. AugustusGloop, of course, is Gluttony. He gets sucked intoa chocolate-filled pipe, a victim of his vice. Violet

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Beauregard is Pride. She’s always showing off hergum-chewing skills, so she blows up like a blue-berry—blows up with pride. Veruca Salt is Greed—she wants it now, and gets a one-way ticket toRotten Eggsville. Mike TV is Sloth. He just wantsto sit in front of the tube. So he becomes minis-cule—he atrophies down to a speck of his formerself. And Charlie is Envy. In abject poverty, hedesires the comfort and security that more afflu-ent families possess.” Pastor Smith folded hishands in his lap and smirked.

Moe opened his eyes wide. “But that’s only fivechildren. You’re missing two sins. You can’t for-get Lust and Anger.”

“That’s a technicality.”“What? It ruins your whole theory. If you’re

going to make the comparison, at least have a lit-tle integrity.”

“Excuse me?”Moe thrust his fingers in the air to count. “You

need seven. You only have five.”“No, the allegory’s perfect. Can I please finish

my point? Now, Wonka runs his own Garden ofEden in the bowels of the factory. Remember theroom where you can eat everything? TheEverlasting Gobstopper is the one forbidden fruitin Eden. Of course, the gobstopper represents theapple of the Tree of Knowledge.”

Moe threw up his hands and rolled his eyes.“Of course.”

“Charlie almost bites that bitter fruit, but atthe last minute gives the gobstopper back toWonka instead. Charlie’s genuine repentance isrewarded by Wonka, who bestows upon him thecoveted keys to the kingdom.”

Moe pointed at the pastor. “Aha! You over-looked the man who tries to convince the childrento steal the gobstopper from Wonka, I forget hisname . . .”

“You mean Slugworth.”

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“Yes, him. Just how does he fit into yourwacky Wonka cosmology?”

“Easy, Reverend. Slugworth is the devil.”“How can you say that? In the story,

Slugworth works for God—uh, I mean Wonka.”“But just as Slugworth is revealed to be

Wonka’s valued employee, the devil actuallyworks for God.” Pastor Smith triumphantlypounded his fist on the arm of his chair.“Slugworth’s role is to test the spiritual fortitudeof the potential heirs.”

Moe slapped his knees. “That’s blasphemy!We’re talking religion and politics here, Pastor.Not creative writing.”

Pastor Smith sneered. “Your veiled insultsdon’t affect me.” He shook his finger at Moe.“Sticks and stones, Reverend! And he even has hischosen people, the Oompa-Loompas, whom hetook under his benevolent wing to protect themfrom persecution by Hornswagglers andVermicious Knids.”

Moe grabbed the arm of his chair. “That’spatently offensive, Pastor, and you know it!”

“But it’s true. The Oompas speak inproverbs, they have a distinct culture andunique appearance. They even helped Wonkamaintain his temple, the factory. Doesn’t thatsound Jewish to you?”

Before he could catch himself, Moe rose,shouting, “I’ve had it up to here with this blas-phemy, you’ve gone too far! Were you high onsugar when you cooked up this rubbish? You’regiving me one serious case of indigestion!”

Now Pastor Smith stood, yelling, “God’s for-giving nature is manifested and revealedthrough the character of Wonka! Don’t you see?Every kid who abuses food gets destroyed, a nat-ural consequence of sin. But Charlie inheritsWonka’s kingdom precisely because he canresist the urge to eat the gobstopper. The film is

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anti-junk! It would be tragic and senseless tokeep children from getting the Christian mes-sage of this sanctified tale.”

Moe pointed his finger at Pastor Smith.“That’s manipulative, and you know it! Sure,Charlie returns the gobstopper, but he winds upwith the factory itself! This young boy goes fromexperimental use to full-scale production and dis-tribution in the bat of an eye!”

Pastor Smith shrugged and turned to thestunned host, who looked up from her chair withfear. “Well Farah, I guess he just made my pointfor me. Everybody in this world sees things in theirown way.” He looked at Moe and sneered. “Godmade individuals, not automatons. That’s why cen-sorship doesn’t work. And besides, the laws outlawjunk food—not books and films about it.”

“The law isn’t always just, Pastor. Maybe weneed a new law.”

“That’s what your type always says, a newlaw. Isn’t it enough that Charlie has a parentaladvisory sticker? What more do you want? Youfanatics already made PBS remove CookieMonster from the Sesame Street lineup. Youshould’ve been happy with him being on a low-carb diet, but no! You just couldn’t stand havingthe furry blue guy around anymore, could you? Ifparents don’t want their children reading a book,they shouldn’t buy it for them. Same goes for themovies. But don’t tell my family what to do,Reverend . . . Goody Two-Shoes!”

The Faith Vibe producers should have seen itcoming, but they were too late to prevent Moefrom lunging at Pastor Smith and shoving himdown on the stage.

The audience responded with horrified gaspsand random shouts.

Moe leapt through the air to pounce on theprone pastor.

The pastor rolled to the side.

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Moe landed on his hands and bad knees, winc-ing and groaning.

Pastor Smith jumped on top of Moe, wrappedhis hands around his neck, and throttled him,banging his head into the floor.

Moe tried to catch his breath while dodgingdrops of spittle from the pastor’s trembling,twisted lips.

Pastor Smith screamed maniacally.Moe’s head jerked up and down, and he swore

to God his first time on television would be hislast.

A flustered studio technician signaled for secu-rity, and accidentally bumped the applause buttonin the process. The audience roared in submis-sion, while several people in the front rows threwtheir hands in the air and began to speak in vigor-ous tongues.

Farah signaled the main cameraman to zoomin for a close-up of Moe and Pastor Smith brawl-ing. She lifted her producer’s headset and whis-pered: “It’s a wrap. This may have been just theratings boost we needed!”

Farah pranced into the spotlight with orgas-mic delight and shouted, “All things worktogether for the good of those who love Jesus! Itlooks like we’re gonna have to wrap up earlytoday, folks. Please support our ministry andbecome a Christian soldier by purchasing yourvery own G.I. Jesus action doll from the 1-800number at the bottom of your screen. Your friendswill marvel as they admire our Lord’s camouflageparka and cast-iron M-16! Be sure to tune in toFaith Vibe next week, same time, when we’ll dis-cuss the horrors of fetal-tissue research. I’mFarah C. Forbes, and as always, remember—if youdie before me, be sure and tell God I say hello!”

These words were the last Moe heard beforebeing knocked unconscious by Pastor Smith’shardcover pocket version of the New Testament.

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FORT WORTH RESIDENTS PROTEST HALFWAY HOUSE by Kelly Snell, Associated Press writer

The CowtownTattler, 1/13

FORT WORTH, TX—City residentsare circulating a petition that opposes ahome in the area being used as a halfwayhouse for people who have been con-victed of food-related crimes.

Cathy Betters, the principal at EasternHills Elementary School, is supporting apetition that already had 80 signatures onit Thursday afternoon. She said there areseveral parents circulating similar peti-tions in shopping malls, at Lion’s Clubs,and at Tupperware parties.

Said Betters, “When I heard about theplans for the halfway house, I was reallyconcerned about having those fat peoplewithin a block of the school. I mean . . .we’re trying to teach our children to stayaway from toxic foods! What kind ofmessage does it send when our kids areforced to look at all this lard?”

Ted Walkins, who is leasing the dis-puted property, told the city commissionthat the halfway house is intended forpeople who have recently graduatedfrom a food-abuse or residential treat-ment program.

“I don’t see it as a threat to the com-munity at all,” said Walkins. “We haven’tcaused any problems. We’re trying tocreate a clean, structured environmentfor people working on becoming produc-tive members of the community. Manyof these offenders were already evictedfrom their apartments after they werearrested. They need somewhere safe togo. If they aren’t given any options,they’ll have no place to turn but thestreet, which would increase the likeli-hood they’ll make unhealthy and illegaldietary choices for themselves. Believe itor not, junk food addicts are people, too,just like you and me. Mrs. Betters cancloak her rhetoric in moral platitudes allshe wants, but the truth is, she’s actinglike a bigot, plain and simple!”

However, Betters is committed toher cause, and she won’t back downfrom criminals and food-abusers. “Myconcern is that in our neighborhood we

have to keep our doors locked as it is,”said Betters. “We already have strange-looking people wandering around, andwe don’t need to add to that problem.They’re all bad, but the caffeineaddicts are the worst. They’ll rob peo-ple at gunpoint to get cash for coffee.We don’t want food-related crime inour neighborhood!”

Betters said that young schoolchildrenregularly walk on the very street wherethe home is located. She believes safety isa legitimate concern. Betters alsoreported that the neighborhood has expe-rienced a recovery, with consumers buy-ing older houses and restoring them. “Wewant our neighborhood to be a nice placefor decent families to live, not a haven forbloated abusers. If we let these kinds ofpeople move into our neighborhood, theproperty values will drop. That’s not fairto the thousands of respectable residentswho pay enormous property taxes, mowtheir lawns regularly, and obey the lawsof our land. Not to mention that most ofus are parents, and the law requires thatwe take adequate steps to protect our chil-dren! We’re not saying these recoveringjunk food junkies don’t have any rights.We just want to ensure our wishes aretaken into account by the zoning board.”

Betters claims, however, that she hasno personal animosity toward junk foodabusers. “I’m not prejudiced. Some of mybest friends are friends with friends offriends of people who are fat, um . . .challenged by gravity, I mean! I wish wedidn’t even need the petition, to be hon-est. This whole issue could be resolved ifthese abusers would just find anotherneighborhood to live in, one that’s morefitting for those types.”

Billy Sweet lounged on a lakeside bench nextto Smitty. A gentle wind tempered the blis-tering sun as birds soared and dipped into

the water for a quick meal. Billy and Smittyseemed oblivious to the monolithic wooden ginger-bread man that loomed behind them, five storiestall, painted to look as if it was garnished withsticky frosting.

Billy elbowed Smitty. “Hey dude, you thinkyou could knock it off? The bench is vibrating. Ifeel like I’m in a milkshake blender.”

Smitty stopped bouncing his leg. “Sorry. I gotthe jitters.”

Billy stretched his arms toward the sun.“Must’ve been that chocolate pudding you scarfeddown earlier. I got no pity for you . . . Ever been toLake Grapevine before, Smit?”

Smitty shook his head. “Not since I wasyoung, and I don’t remember a thing, I was stonedoutta my head. But I’m glad I came. It’s gonna beone hell of a party!”

Billy moaned. “I told you, Smitty. Stop calling itthat. This is legit! It’s the first BurningGingerbread Man festival we’ve ever had in Texas.”

Smitty waved across the swarming crowd tothe broad stage, where a punk-rock band decked

out in leather space-alien costumes lunged andgyrated. The lead singer stood on high stilts,grunting and gurgling his way through a metallicmanifesto titled “Eat Shit and Die.”

Smitty chuckled and said, “You hear thismusic? It’s a party alright.”

A few seconds passed before a muscular, baldman approached the bench. He had hoop earringsin both ears and a Tasmanian Devil tattoo on hiscalf. The bald man looked away into the crowd,then pointed several times toward Smitty.

Billy thought this was strange. He was aboutto comment on it, when a male uniformed policeofficer approached Smitty and hovered over him.

The officer asked, “What’re you doing?”Smitty looked at Billy, then at the officer.

“What do you mean? I’m just sitting here.”The officer rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. You know

we saw you bouncing your leg. Are you on sugar?”“Not me. I shake all the time anyway. Nervous

habit, that’s all. The doctors think I’m hyper.”“You got anything on you I should know

about? Guns? Knives? Bombs? Corn chips?”“No sir.”“Then I suppose you won’t mind emptying

your pockets so I can verify that.”Smitty raised his hands defensively. “Whoa!

Wait a minute! I wasn’t doing anything.”Billy stood up from the bench and looked the

officer in the eye. “He has rights, you know. I’vegot friends who are attorneys, Officer . . .”

“Sergeant. Sergeant Belcher.”“Whatever . . . The law states you can’t search

him without probable cause or a warrant, ’causehe sure as hell ain’t gonna give consent.”

Belcher glared at Billy. “I don’t need his con-sent. He was engaged in suspicious behavior. Abouncing leg’s probable enough cause for me.”

Smitty crossed his arms. “I’m not moving.”Belcher pointed at Smitty. “All right, let me

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put it this way. If you don’t empty your pockets,I’m gonna haul you to jail.”

Smitty chuckled nervously. “Well it soundslike you want to take me in anyway.”

Belcher nodded. “Yeah, that’s about right.”Smitty rocked back and forth, sweating and

shaking. He glanced over at a large metal trash-can standing right next to the bench. “Give me aminute to think about it?”

Belcher stepped forward and reached for hiscuffs. “Sure. You can think about it while I takeyou to jail.”

Smitty quickly stood up, thrust his hand intothe pocket of his jeans, and yanked out three pep-permint nips. He chucked the nips in the trashcanbefore the officer could snatch them from hisgrasp.

Belcher leapt behind Smitty and placed him ina chokehold.

Smitty sputtered as he tried to pull the officer’sarm away from his neck and restore his airflow.

Belcher threw Smitty to the pavement andpounced on top of him.

Smitty screamed and pounded the concretewith his fist. “Oh God! I think you’ve broken myleg!”

The tattooed bald man knelt down in front ofSmitty, holding a small plastic device. Billythought it might be a digital camera.

The bald man pressed a button. The devicemade a hissing noise, spraying Mace in Smitty’sface.

A young girl froze in place near the assault,gazing at Smitty with frightened eyes as hisshrieks filled the air.

Smitty could hardly breathe. He gagged on theMace, and his nose started running. The uni-formed cop cuffed him so tight he thought hiswrist bone might crack.

Random citizens in the crowd started shout-

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ing: “HELP! SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBU-LANCE!”

Billy approached the bald, tattooed man,tapped him on the shoulder, and pleaded, “Hey,what’re you doing? Who are you? Leave himalone!”

The bald man responded like a sumo wrestleron raw sugar. He spun around and yelled, “I’m acop!”

Billy stepped toward him. “Well, I don’t see abadge.”

The bald man frantically tore at his own shirt,whipped out a badge, and spat at Billy as hescreamed, “Don’t touch me! I’m a cop!”

Billy looked down at Smitty, whose grimacingface was inflamed, wrinkled, and covered withtears and mucus.

Smitty cried out, “I want my mommy!” Billy felt like he wanted to sob and vomit at the

same time.A young guy standing right behind Billy

barked, “Move out of the way!”Billy snapped back, “I’m not moving. He’s my

friend!” Then he turned and noticed the guy wasclutching a video camera. Billy pulled awayquickly, mumbling, “Oops, sorry!” At themoment, this cameraman was probably Smitty’sbest friend in the world.

Billy squatted down to ask Smitty the obvious:“You okay?”

“No, I’m not,” Smitty reported. “My eyes areburning and I’ve got snot running out of mynose.”

Billy stood up, yanked off his T-shirt, andleaned over Smitty.

Belcher thrust his arm forward and shouted,“Don’t touch his eyes!”

“I just wanna get the snot off his lip, man.” Billy wiped Smitty’s face as the officer lunged

for him and missed.

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Belcher shouted, “That can make it worse, ifyou rub it around. Leave, now!”

Billy started to walk away when he heardSmitty scream again.

As a junk food manufacturer, Billy hadlearned to keep a level head in desperate situa-tions, but now he felt he could not remain quiet.He believed his silence would be a passive accept-ance of barbarism. He wanted these officers toknow that feral behavior by public servants wasnot acceptable. He made his choice in one breath.

Billy’s lips trembled as he turned, looked rightat the bald undercover officer, and shouted, “This isAmerica? He’s not an animal! He’s a human being!”

The bald man tilted his head, shrugged, andsaid, “Why do you think we’ve activated medicalresponse?”

Billy said, “I know why. ’Cause you justsprayed chemicals on an unarmed, nonviolent cit-izen. Doesn’t look too good on the evening news—or in a court of law. Know what I mean?”

The bald cop sneered and turned away.Several agitated patrons moved toward the

area where Smitty lay. The crowd was swellingunder the scorching sun.

Billy noticed the punk band had stopped playing. He heard random shouts fill the humid air. “Go after the bad guys! Go catch a terrorist!”“Nobody invited the cops here! They should go

home!”“This was a peaceful event!”“We just went from candy to pepper spray? I

feel safer already!” Billy turned and pushed through the crowd

and made his way toward the stage. He looked upto see Fat Teddy poised, lurching, grasping amicrophone, yelling with all his might. Billythought he looked like Santa Claus with hisrolling belly, flowing silver beard, mad-scientisthair, and rainbow-colored suspenders.

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Fat Teddy shook his finger and spat in the air.The acoustics were terrible where Billy was stand-ing, and Teddy was shouting so fast Billy couldonly make out the words “pepper spray” and “lib-erties.” Billy didn’t mind. He knew he was wit-nessing a legend in action, an outspoken advocateof food-policy reform.

Fat Teddy’s voice echoed across the pavilion,and this time Billy could hear the words clearly.“YOU CAN’T LET PEOPLE TREAT YOU THISWAY! IT’S TIME TO TAKE A STAND FOR YOURRIGHTS! SO BITE ’EM IF YOU GOT ’EM!!!”

Billy turned to see Teddy onstage, stuffing agiant sausage in his mouth. Grease dribbled downhis beard.

The audience went wild. A full squad of officers suited in riot gear

marched toward the stage. Billy heard a voice behind him scream,

“WE’RE NOT GONNA LET THEM SHUT USDOWN YET!” He turned to see the Rain-Blowmime lurching toward the wooden gingerbreadman with a torch in his hand, while his tribesmensquirted gasoline on the huge slab of wood.“WE’VE GOT GINGERBREAD TO BURN!”

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Justin Bailey pulled up outside a small brickstore crisscrossed all over with red and whitecandy-cane stripes of paint. He looked up at a

sign above the shop, which read FEED YOUR HEAD. He knew he was in the right place. The time

had come for action.Bailey tilted his head down, toward the tiny

transmitter microphone duct-taped under hisshirt. He spoke softly and slowly. “Okay. All clear.I’m going in. Copy?”

Sergeant Belcher’s distorted electrified voiceon the car radio replied, “Copy that, I’m two carsup. Got your back. Good luck in there. Over andout.”

Bailey swept his fingers between his lips andgums to ensure the cotton inserts were still inplace. During the past week he’d spent hours infront of his bathroom mirror, rehearsing. At first,it was difficult for him not to slur while using theinserts, but he discovered an easy trick. He sim-ply soaked the cotton pads in water before stuff-ing them in, so they stayed moist, allowing him tospeak normally, even with a bloated face. Nobodywould suspect he ran the Cops Against Cookiestriathlon last summer.

A small child wearing a massive green gorillacostume ran smack into Bailey’s phony gut as hestood by his unmarked car. The gorilla reeledbackwards and almost toppled onto the concrete,but Bailey reached out to steady the fuzzy beast.

“Whoa! Careful! Where you goin’ in such ahurry, monkey man?”

“Sorry, mister. I can’t see nothing with thismask.”

The kid ran off down the street, leaving Baileyto sigh, readjust his foam padding once more, andwaddle up to the store, past a young, long-hairedguy in a tie-dyed T-shirt, who sat cross-legged onthe sidewalk, playing a fluttering tune on a flutemade from a section of hollowed-out sugarcane.

Bailey glanced at the large handwritten signtaped on the glass front door of the shop, whichstated: “Absolutely, positively nobody under 18admitted (don’t even think about asking).”

He surveyed the store as he shuffled throughthe door. An antique, carnival-style cottoncandy–maker stood in the center of the floor, nextto a rack of junk-oriented T-shirts. There wasquite an assortment of clothes, some advertisingSnickers, White Castle, and Frito-Lay productslong ago outlawed, others adorned with protestslogans like STUFF YOUR FACE and FAT PEO-PLE ARE BEAUTIFUL.

A lanky clerk wearing a Ronald McDonald cos-tume stood behind a glass display counter. Headjusted the dial on a digital radio that blaredBow Wow Wow’s bongo-fueled rendition of “IWant Candy.” The clerk stared into a mirrorbehind the counter, popping a zit. Then headjusted his wig and turned toward Bailey, hisonly customer.

“Welcome to Feed Your Head. Something inparticular I can help you with this evening? We’vegot a discount on crouton cones.”

“Crouton cones?”

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“Here. See?” The clerk pointed at what plainlyappeared to Bailey to be a stack of wafer ice-creamcones, like you could find in grocery stores duringpre-prohibition days.

“Yeah. So what’re they used for?”The clerk clown chuckled. “Well, mainly peo-

ple serve cabbage salad in them. They say it givesa salad that extra crunch and a touch of class,when they have company. If you’re in the market,I’ll sell you five cones for twenty dollars.Interested?”

“Uh, no. I’d like to check out one of those fon-due forks, though.”

The clerk shook his head and stared at Bailey.His face became serious, and he spoke in a mono-tone voice. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know whatyou mean.”

“Umm, aren’t those fondue forks, hanging onthe wall? Right back there.”

The clerk shifted his weight and tapped hisfingers on the counter, as if he were hesitant. “Ohno. They’re elongated broccoli utensils.”

“Huh?”“Elongated broccoli utensils. Fondue forks are

for illegal substances, like chocolate and cheese.Therefore, it would be against the law for me tosell them in this store. Elongated broccoli uten-sils, on the other hand—”

“That’s ridiculous. A bunch of nonsense, youask me!”

The clerk crossed his arms. “Maybe. But if youinsist on breaking the law by soliciting contra-band, I’ll be required by said law to ask you toleave the premises.” The clerk glared at Bailey,then grinned slyly.

Bailey knew this bust would require more thancovert semantics. The clerk was too much onguard, too educated about the laws. “All right, Iget it. So could I see one of those . . . elongatedbroccoli utensils?”

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“Sure, no problem.”The clerk reached behind him and dismounted

a beautifully polished wood-and-steel fondue forkfrom the wall, then cautiously handed it to hiscustomer.

Bailey rotated the fork in his hand andscanned the glass display cabinet. He wasn’tfooled by the legal-loophole lingo. He knew whatthese products were really used for.

“Okay, I think I’ll go with the broccoli exten-der tonight.” Bailey handed the fondue fork to theclerk.

“The elongated broccoli utensil,” the clerk cor-rected. “Okay, that’ll be $35.72 with tax.”

He wrapped the fork in tissue paper and rangup the charge on the register while Baileyadmired the cotton-candy machine. The red-and-yellow swirling clown design mesmerized him. Heremembered the old portable machines they usedto set up at the zoo. He pressed against the side ofthe glass and peered through at the steel well,where sugar fibers had once been spun into sweet,magical cotton balls.

And that’s when Bailey noticed it. Tucked intothe crease of the shiny well was a solitary, tinywisp of pink cotton.

Bailey knew it wasn’t much evidence, but itwas enough. He had his man.

He turned, faced the clerk, and spoke the pre-determined code words: “You had a lot of trick-or-treaters tonight?”

The clerk frowned and scratched his red wig.“What are you talking about?”

Bailey took a long breath, trying to stall. “Youknow, kids and stuff.”

“Didn’t you read the sign?” The clerk pointedtoward the door. “There’s no minors allowed inhere.”

“Yeah . . . but adults can . . . . trick-or-treat,too,” Bailey stammered.

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“Then no, we haven’t had any trick-or-treatersthis evening. That’s $35.72.”

Bailey knew something was wrong. Belcher should have been here by now. He felt his heartbeat accelerate under the foam

padding. He couldn’t think of anything to say. The only

phrase that came to his mind was the designatedcue words, so he stepped forward and said, “Trickor treat.”

The clerk stared at Bailey like he was insane.“You trying to be funny or something?”

Bailey swallowed.The clerk licked his makeup-smeared lips, and

said, “All right, man. I don’t have anything foryou. All I got’s this elongated broccoli utensil.” Hepointed the fondue fork at Bailey and smiled.“And if you don’t want me to stick it up your ass,I suggest you either pay for it or get the fuck outof my store.”

A horrible thought came to Bailey. He remem-bered his collision with the gorilla and shuddered.

The transmitter microphone dropped fromunder his shirt and landed on the cement floorwith a loud clink.

The clerk rose on his oversized clown boots,leaned over the counter, and spotted the transmit-ter. He tilted his head up and pointed his nose atBailey, squinting deep into his eyes for a momentof discerning clarity. Then he turned and scram-bled through a small doorway to the back store-room.

“Shit!” Bailey spun around and bolted throughthe front door of the store. He waddled to thebackup car and repeatedly smacked the driver-side window with the palm of his hand. “TRICKOR TREAT, TRICK OR TREAT!”

This frightened Sergeant Belcher, who almostspilled a nutrition shake all over his immaculateuniform. Belcher set down the can, threw open

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JUNK

the car door and dashed into the street, yankinghis gun from its waist-holster.

The young man playing the flute spottedBelcher lumbering toward him with his gundrawn. He leapt up from the sidewalk andsprinted down the street, glancing over his shoul-der with frightened eyes, yelling, “Man, y’all aretripping!”

Bailey squatted down in the street andremoved a pistol from his ankle strap. Then hewaddled, trying to hold the stuffing under hisshirt, until he reached Belcher, who crouched atthe front door of Feed Your Head, clasping hisgun with both hands.

Belcher looked at Bailey and whispered, “Whatyou got, something good? A sugarcane grow-op?”

Bailey shook his head. “It’s cotton candy.We’re looking for Ronald McDonald. He’s got anelongated— goddamn it, a fondue fork. And he’son to us.”

CHRISTOPHER LARGEN

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