Smoking Dead. S. Bonavida Ponce

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      “Rick, why did you say this was a truce before?”

      “I repeat. They're out there. They're waiting for us. They're just giving us a break. Humanity never learns from its mistakes. In every region, country, habitat, there is a place; a place of nightmare enveloped in a thick fog that is not such. The NON-Zone.”

      A masculine voice interrupted them.

      “Excuse me, it's time for medication. You must leave. Rick must rest.”

      Corinne and Peter slowly left the room. The boy dressed in a white robe kindly accompanied them to the exit.

      “Is he always like this?” Peter asked intrigued.

      “Oh, no. There are worse days. Some days he thinks he's Superman or even God.”

      “How could our great world hero look so bad?”

      “The last great battle in Dallas. A fight to the death against Patrick Swuaize.”

      “Wow...”

      “Yes, Patrick, the King of smokers was superior in everything. Style, movement, strength, performance... He was the only smoker capable of dancing, singing and putting a cigarette butt in his mouth all at the same time.”

      “How could he...?”

      “Beat him? He only had one chance. He grabbed his old Texan hat, and throwing it towards Patrick's face, he managed to create a little distraction. If Patrick fell, the rest of the smokers would be history, the gregarious instinct of the smokers encouraged them to choose a leader, so if Patrick fell, the smokers wouldn't know where to go. Smokers have always needed icons to continue to exist. And Patrick was the greatest of them. Our great hero knew it, so he played his last card. Humanity's last chance. With his perfected Karate technique, he made one last flying kick less than a meter away from Patrick's face. And he did it. The body of the famous smoker fell to the ground, but the smoke intake had been excessive. Anyone else would have died, or even worse. But not him. Not our great hero. However, his mind, filled with all that crap, simply broke. Since then he is in neuropsychiatric treatment, away from all those he saved in life.”

      “Oh,” said Corinne in distress. “Poor man.”

      “Yes, that's right. Mr. Norris sacrificed his life and sanity for us.”

      Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police

      A giant building stretched out before Peter and Corinne, the rectangular shape resembled an old warehouse and a gigantic fence surrounded the entire perimeter. A very large stone arch welcomed them and in the apse of the arch it could be read some sculpted letters: Defending the law.

      An Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Policeman waited for them under the arch of the entrance.

      “Welcome Corinne and Peter. This is Fort Dufferin. My name is John Alexander and I will guide you through the main building of the world's most important headquarters. Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters. The world's oldest safeguards.”

      The speaker wore the typical officer costume, a red jacket with a black belt, sky-blue puffy trousers, and flawless black boots. In addition, the man wore an elegant brown hat that elegantly highlighted the whole.

      Corinne painted her nails carelessly, while Peter recalled his childhood youthful dream of being an ex-cop on horseback. A broken dream at an early age by his inability to open easily legs, a prerequisite for horseback riding. For this reason, as a young man, he was considered unfit for ex-police service. Peter still remembered the words of his teacher Paquita Johns from pre-school: “Peter, you are no good to be a member of the Ex Canadian Mounted Police, but quiet, you can always devote yourself to some easier job for your skills, as a journalist for example.”

      John abruptly pulled him out of his daydreams.

      “Please don't record anything in the whole room, but you can take notes. We will begin our tour shortly.”

      It was normal for Corinne to be absent in this situation. Everyone knew the strong celibacy of the famous police force. An Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Policeman vowed not to engage in any sexual activity while serving on the corps. Add to that the fact that he couldn't record anything with his camera at all, and the only distraction for the camera operator was to paint her nails. A couple of former mounted policemen passed in front of them and greeted John Alexander.

      “Hello Mountie.”

      “See you later Mounties,” John Alexander politely replied to the former mounted policeman couple who had just crossed his path.

      “Excuse me,” interrupted Corinne boringly, “what does Mountie mean?”

      The former policeman smiled with a correction typical of the ancients.

      “Mounties is what we call each other. The origin of the word was lost some time ago because of the Great Smoke, that cruel war against smokers that took place more than fifty years ago. Unfortunately, the smokers burned all the books and only the oral tradition remained.

      “What about computers?” Corinne said, not without a certain reluctance.

      “The computers of that time had great deficiencies. Since there were no humans to maintain their archaic data systems, they soon became volatile. In addition, they had different operating systems that were incompatible with each other. The few devices that survived the Holocaust showed unconnected, ambiguous or even contradictory data.”

      “Didn't they have the SOS system?”

      “No, citizen Corinne, at that time they didn't own our beloved SOS. Humanity was not as united as it is now and they only thought of their own.”

      “Sorry,” Peter interrupted, “and, who gave them the necessary information about what a Mountie was?”

      “With regard to your question,” the former policeman smiled, “the clowns gave us the answer, for they possess an astonishing collective memory, not in vain were from antiquity great travelers and great guardians of oral transmission. The word Mountie comes from an ancient group of clowns called Monthy Pailton. After the Great Smoke, and thanks to our heroic acts, the clowns decided to nickname us the Mounties, in honor of this group of ancient clowns. All members of the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police take this nickname very seriously. And after this subsection, if you will please follow me.”

      John Alexander guided them through the first floor of the main headquarters. Very stripped-down offices governed the decor. The second floor, with large wooden beams, had a pre-smoking style. The Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police led them to a large room with many seats, in the middle of which was a gigantic round table with letters carved in an ancient language.

      “It is English. I studied it,” said Corinne as she gladly patted her hands as she came out of her silence.

      “This Corinne is a strange woman. Who learns English which is a dead language? She is ridiculous, being able to learn the Newspeak”.

      “It says something like. T... H... E…R... F... O... R... C... E... What does it mean? Don't I know that word? Is it some kind of hair shampoo?

      “What I thought. You have no СКАЧАТЬ