Legalize Plot
by Lars Paul Linden
illustration by Harry Hickle
Meanwhile, surfers paddled, Halloween was cancelled, and scientists added 4 days to February, giving it 32 days.
Molly Monica stood at the edge of the stage waiting to be introduced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said, “The Captain Flew In 50 Cases Across The Border Club presents a smoke-filled evening of entertainment. Let’s reach into the open crate of obsolete format collectors’ contraband and have a little fun tonight. Fun. Because when we wake up, the laws will be just as shaky. But before we start, this jerk wants to make a public apology. May I introduce to you, out on bail, in his first planet-side appearance since the explosions, you don’t need me to tell you his name… ah, hell, Molly, the microphone is yours to spit on.”
Scattered clapping.
Molly Monica zipped up his black leather jacket and walked onto the stage. He positioned himself behind the microphone and adjusted its height. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I blew up the Moon,” he said. “I promise not to do it again.”
Those opposing the legislation for the legalization of plot had predicted that something just like this was going to happen. Because of an unexplained mix-up at the Lunar Forest Postal Depot, an unmarked box of unread first edition koans written by The Boy Who Could Not Stop Pissing ended up being delivered to Molly Monica. Molly had expected the box to contain an instructional book on how to defuse a ticking time bomb. The first explosion was rather small. But there was a chain reaction – an unlikely but persistent chain reaction – and the Moon was blown to bits. Injuries totaled 445. No one died because the evacuation team worked flawlessly and had gotten a close shave that morning from that new computerized razor that everyone is talking about. The moon blowing up made the evening edition headlines and Molly Monica was the butt of jokes by the the late-night hosts of all 345 networks.
Scattered boos.
Molly started walking from the stage but ended up running. The riot had a sense of humor: quick, destructive, and drunk. Molly escaped backstage only to run into one of the bands on the bill that night. They were pretty upset. They had just sunk a couple hundred dollars into band T-shirts which happened to have a skeleton rocketing a bad-ass rocket ship toward a moon that didn’t exist anymore. The band cornered Molly backstage with scowls and fists in punching mode. They searched Molly’s pockets and found nothing. They ripped open the lining of his black leather jacket and out fell the book written by The Boy Who Could Not Stop Pissing.
“I dare you to read it,” Molly said.
“Why is that?” they said.
“It is written by The Boy Who Could Not Stop Pissing.”
“So what about him?” they asked.
“The Boy Who Could Not Stop Pissing traded part of his anatomy for a millionth of a gram of zen and with it he wrote this book using only zen master koans and the advertising copy of the leading brand of disposable diapers.”
The band thought that one over.
Finally one of them said, “We wasted money on shirts because of you.”
Molly said, “Sell them to rich people who have nothing else to spend their money on.”
The band thought that one over.
Finally someone in the band said, “So we shouldn’t smash your face in?”
Just then an out of breath Lunar Forest Postal Depot delivery man ran backstage yelling, “Mr. Monica! Mr. Monica! Here’s your package, Mr. Monica. Sorry about the mix-up, Mr. Monica.”
“Saved by the clear, bell-like high,” Molly Monica said.
