The smell of cigarette smoke always made him nauseous. It was actually a psychosomatic response, connected to a memory so painful that it manifested physical symptoms. For for him, like with everything else, his body and mind always took it 45 degrees past the range of normal, leaving his relatives befuddled and slightly alarmed.
He can pinpoint the exact date he became allergic to cigarette smoke: January 12, 1998. The day his mother died of lung cancer. His reaction to the news of her death had been visceral and gut wrenching, as was expected, but he seemed to be cryogenically secured in the anger phase of those oft quoted stages of grief.
At first, the blame was placed squarely on the shoulders of God. If God was so omniscient, didn’t he know that mothers should not die before their sons, who are only 14 and still need them very much? If God was so omnipotent, why did He let her die?
Time passed. The anger diverted from the heavens and made its way up Main Street, a right turn on Fern Ave, a left turn into Cloud Hills Cemetery where his mother was laid to rest. She knew that smoking was bad for her. Her choice to keep doing it in spite of the dangers was clearly a commentary on her feelings about being his mother and her will to live, right? Wasn’t smoking considered a slow suicide? Then he went completely over the cliff and applied his special brand of reasoning: then why draw out the process? If you want to kill yourself, why not get it over with? Less fanfare and suffering, he reasoned.
Science and math had always come easy to him. Without much effort, he won several science awards and received a chemistry scholarship to a prestigious university. His family breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe his obsession with smoking could do some good in the world.
He decided on a double major, biochemistry and mechanical engineering. The knowledge he relentlessly devoured courtesy of the rigorous bachelors, masters and doctorate programs only served to weaponize his quiet rage.
The idea, like most, came quite by accident. He’d been doodling in his notebook in the wee hours of the morning, his usual anecdote to the insomnia that had steadily plagued the hours he should’ve been sleeping. He was known in professional circles as intense and hard working, a reputation that was of use in the scientific community. His wee hour doodles were never related to his paid profession, but rather singularly focused.
For all his talents and high minded ideals, the full implications of his plans didn’t dawn on him until he heard the first news reports of 5 deaths in Alabama. Then there were the teenagers in Pittsburgh, at an unchaperoned party. The images of their young faces flashed across his television screen. He hadn’t been looking for such stories this quickly, but apparently the turnaround on product distribution in the tobacco industry was faster than he’d imagined.
He was putting the final touches on his manifesto when more reports came in from the states of Florida, New York and New Jersey. There were some collateral deaths from those not smoking, but standing precariously close to the offenders. The cases in which people were consuming alcohol multiplied the effect, something he considered and dismissed.
Getting into the tobacco plants was easy enough. The weapon, a liquid version of gun powder (his own special concoction) could be concealed without a great deal of effort and any one with access to the right computer and printer could make an ID badge.
His face carried the wounds of his past in such a way that it made people want to help him, like a child lost in the supermarket, but he didn’t need any help. He’d already hijacked the proper codes and security information from each company’s mainframe. The execution was flawless. At each site, he slipped in and out unnoticed. His ability to blend in served him well.
Only a month later, every state had been affected. No one knew who was responsible, so the collective assumed it must be al-Qaeda.
Then the manifesto appeared.
It was sent in an unmarked envelope to all of the major news outlets. A single typed sheet of paper, most of which could be boiled down to four short words:
You smoke, you die.
In a glass-half-full kind of way, it also included statistically sound projections of the savings that the government would gain if every American who smoked would stop. Cigarette sales had dropped by 98%. Convenience stores were the hardest hit, not only because of the decrease in consumer demand, but also due to emergency legislation that outlawed the sale of tobacco products within a hundred yards of a gas station or any establishment selling alcohol.
All around him, people were talking about the domestic terrorist or the “Smoking Gun” as he was labeled in the press. The story dominated nearly every broadcast. Even mention was made of it on Bass Masters. Psychologists and psychiatrist from all over the country pontificated ad nauseam and ad infinitum about the personality profile of the type of person who would do this. Connections to Timothy McVeigh and Ted Kaczynski were made wholesale. One so-called expert had the temerity to suggest that the behavior was directly attributable to the fact that he likely wasn’t breast-fed or was potty trained at gun point.
The bottom line was he was a sociopath they said who needed to be found and caught. The death toll by this time, hovered around 250,000. It was genocide, they said. Innocent people were being incinerated in broad daylight.
That last comment made him choke on his soup. Their innocence was simply laughable. For all of the warnings - that were on the product packaging no less - they just weren’t getting it.
“It’s a choice!” He yelled at the glowing screen.
Just like his manifesto explained: “In other situations, when foolishly ignoring blatant warnings costs someone their life, we attribute it to Darwinism. This is no different.”
He quieted himself down and remembered it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. The general populace was sufficiently afraid of the now immediate and tragic effects of smoking. If there was anyone left in the country still smoking, they were relegated to the sewers and far reaching places since no one would dare get close to someone that would still light up.
His mission had been accomplished inside of 60 days. Smoking in the United States was no more. He felt very powerful, but at the same time devastatingly alone. He couldn’t share his success with anyone. He was an awkward and secretive partner, unable to connect. The one person who understood him without reservation or judgement had been dead for the last 15 years.
He earnestly thought about going public. The authorities had absolutely no idea who was behind this. The tobacco companies, in a joint effort, offered a $20 million reward for the capture of the person(s) responsible. He’d become a walking, breathing lottery ticket.
If he went public, he’d surely be put to death. His actions caused the deaths of hundred of thousands of men, women and children. He envisioned comparisons to Hitler, who apparently thought he was doing the right thing. Actually, that wasn’t so bad. The bottom line was he was a threat and once the threat had been exposed and eradicated people would resume their bad habits. It was human nature. That would mean all of his hard work was in vain. The scientist in him considered that an unacceptable result.
There was a knock at the door. It sounded faint at first, but became steadily louder. It felt odd because he rarely had visitors. He’d moved thousands of miles away from his family and the last Jehovah’s Witness that dared proselytize on his doorstep a year ago left the encounter questioning his own faith and the existence of God.
He panicked. The voice on the other side was familiar and calling his name. He felt a jerking sensation that began at his wrists and radiated upward. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to calm himself down.
He opened his eyes.
Inches away was the most angelic face, round and soft with smiling eyes. The face spoke.
“Jim, are you going to sleep the whole day away? We have to be at the Wilson’s party in two hours. The kids are getting ready now.”
Kids?
The force of his memory surging through his brain left him with a slight headache.
He wasn’t a mad scientist.
He was Jim Burroughs. Married to Sarah. Father of four.
He was psychiatrist, with specialty in grief management. He had a knack for dealing with the extreme cases.
“OK, Honey. I’m getting up.”
With that, she was satisfied. She kissed him on the cheek and went back upstairs.
He stood up and reached for his shirt pocket, pulling out a pack of menthols.
One quick one before the festivities, he thought.
Just as he was about to head outside, he stopped. The dream still fresh in his mind, gave him pause. He fast forwarded to imagined crime scene photos, his entire face decimated by the blast. At the speed of light, he was transported to his own funeral, a closed casket his wife and children standing at the edge of his grave, sobbing uncontrollably. Most vividly, he saw the face of his 14 year old son, Seth, his features hard as stone.
It was enough.
