Happy Mutant Baby Pills Read Online Free PDF Page A

standing there in the kitchen, in this acro-lunch-meat-Grandma dope jones, when suddenly the Lunch Boss, this fat ex–Wall Street guy named Sid, tells me I have to mix the “Clear”—this nutrition drink the government has started giving to prisoners, to help meet their nutritional needs. It’s really Kool-Aid, except they can’t put color in, because then it will look like pruno (that’s jailhouse hooch, made from fermented fruit, for you innocents). I don’t quite understand it myself, but colored Kool-Aid is banned at all federal institutions. What we do serve, instead, is this Clear shit—colorless Kool-Aid with protein and calcium powder. Except the protein and calcium powder they put in isn’t really protein and calcium powder. They added a pinch of Haldol. Not a lot, of course. To taste. Just enough to keep things “low level,” in the words of Sid. (Haldol, for you non-antipsychotic meds takers, is the granddaddy of “chemical chains,” soul-numbing drugs favored by institutions whose job is to keep actual psychotics from hurling themselves off walls or listening to the voice of Elvis tell them to strangle orderlies. Side effects: blank facial expression, discoloration of eyes, compulsive movement of jaw and mouth, wormlike tongue-darting, a brown tint aka “shit-eye” coating the vision, erections that last for hours , etc. Pretty much heaven on earth. And no, I didn’t write these. Some other side-effects pro had the privilege.)
    We mix in just enough Haldol to keep things “low level.” That’s what the Lunch Boss said. I was mulling on that when I felt a hand on my shoulder—nothing like Grandma’s beef slab—and turned to see the man I would later come to know as Pastor Bobb. For a minute, he let me take in his steel blue eyes, chiseled beak, and white crew cut. The only problem was his skin, which looked like it had been buried for a year and dug up. But somehow the muddied complexion only complemented the impact of his stare. It was either acne scars or battery acid that healed up smooth.
    â€œSon,” he said, without so much as a hello. “Are you of the Jewish persuasion?”
    â€œNot me, my daddy, sir.”
    â€œWhy, that’s a good thing. Now tell me, son, how are you, in general?”
    â€œIn general, great,” I said, raising my voice over the sudden din of an industrial mixer. “I’m in a federal prison making lunch.”
    Pastor Bobb chuckled as if he’d practiced chuckling.
    â€œWell, I hear you know a thing or two about writing?”
    â€œNo disrespect, pastor, but what if I do?”
    â€œIf you do,” he chuckled again, “then it is that much more tragic that you are standing here with pig meat in your drawers.”
    â€œHow did you know?”
    â€œSon, I was down while you were still boosting Slurpees from the 7-Eleven.”
    Before I could respond—assuming I could—Pastor Bobb extended his hand.
    â€œMy name’s Pastor Bobb. And if you don’t mind me asking for a sample, I think I’d like you to come work for me.”
    â€œYou want some chipped ham?” I was a little disoriented by the whole exchange.
    â€œNo, boy, I want me some writin’. Write me a little bit on Jesus. Imagine you’re a young buck trying to impress a girl with how much you love the Lord. Run with it!”
    He clapped me on the shoulder, then leaned in close and spoke in a low voice.
    â€œYou do this right, you won’t have to be peddlin’ no ham to convicts.”
    Then he winked, the way people wink on TV shows. Pastor Bobb was one of those people who always acted like he was on TV. And not just because he had his own show. I have a theory that people in America learn how to behave by watching TV. You just pick the character you want and do what they do. Pastor Bobb seemed to have learned from Sheriff Andy on The Andy Griffith Show .