Like a domesticated, but powerful, robot-god, Jellybean Highfive made himself at home. He lived here after all. Whose business was it if he just sat there at the dinner-table in his three-piece suit holding a gun in one hand and a glass of near-beer in the other, with lighted candles and soon-to-be lit cigarillos? Whose? The ATF? Whose?
He sniffed the near-beer, nearly baptizing his nose-tip in hyphenated-draught from a can. (Earlier he had poured this one can’s entire contents into a see-through glass.) He sat there, a satisfied look on his face, basking in the glow of the candles and humming patriotic songs from his native land (America, U.S. of). He looked satisfied and smelled patriotic because this was the land of his dreams. Suddenly, immediately everything quickly changed.
He woke up on the couch with a long string of unmasticated Big League Chew hanging from his sagging, drooling gob, a gob of the same in his hair, and the distinct, dank smell of masculinity-in-isolation filling his nostrils.
‘Where am I?’ he thought. Then, ‘Oh, yeah. America.’
Then aloud he said it, because he remembered about freedom of speech. “U.S. of America, baby.”
Then he took the unchewed string of purple into his mouth and, savoring it as he believed the founders would want, he chewed and chewed. He chewed the chews of liberty.
The author of this story, S.D. Smith, pictured here moments after completing all fifteen minutes of work on it.