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by Chaz
Bufe Representative
H.L. “Buzz” Ephus, D-Death Valley, sipped on his beer, settled into
his armchair, and fixed his gaze on the talking head of President
Quayle. Quayle held up a large bag of “ice,” pointed to it, and
droned on about his “War on Drugs” without even cracking a smile.
Ephus whistled appreciatively. He took another
sip, turned down the TV, and began to think of ways to turn drug
hysteria to personal political advantage. Quayle had staked out
the popular ground on the issue of illegal drugs, and there wasn't
much to be done about it short of advocating “Islamic” penalties.
Ephus chuckled as he imagined ripping the lungs out of marijuana
smokers and the nasal passages from coke snorters, but he soon abandoned
the thought. Those penalties were so vicious that even those connoisseurs
of inflicted pain, his constituents, wouldn't approve of them. That left the
legal drugs. Ephus knew that alcohol killed well over 100,000
people a year, including tens of thousands of drunk driving and
murder victims. But a majority of non-drug-using adult Americans
used alcohol on a regular basis, and Ephus was enough of a realist
to know that any attempt to inflict severe legal pain on them would
be doomed to failure. That left tobacco.
It was more addictive than heroin. Every year it killed over 300,000
of its users, causing almost 100 times as many deaths as all illegal
drugs combined. And it even killed 5,000 nonsmokers annually via
second-hand smoke. Best of all, its use had plummeted in recent
years; polls had shown that only 27% of the adult population still
used the vile stuff, and that many of them were minorities in the
lowest economic brackets, in other words, nonvoters. Tobacco was
the only choice. But with over a quarter of the population still
addicted to it, it would be impossible to enact the sort of draconian
penalties for tobacco use which had proven so popular when applied
to users of less common drugs. Ephus knew he had a problem, but
one which properly solved could lead to big political rewards. The following
week he announced his plan from the steps of the capitol in Sacramento.
It had three parts: First, that an additional $1 per pack tax be
added to the levee on cigarettes; Second, that the legislature mandate
that every ten millionth cigarette sold in California be impregnated
with cyanide; Third, that the cigarette tax/poisoning program be
combined with the existing state lottery and that the result be
promoted as “The Hot One.” Under the proposal,
the next of kin of “winners” would become instant winners themselves;
they would collect $10,000 on the spot merely by hauling the cadaver
and the unsmoked portion of The Hot One to the nearest lottery outlet.
As a bonus, they would be eligible to participate in a drawing to
appear on The Big Spin. The proposal
caused an uproar. Nonsmokers generally approved of it, but many
felt that it didn't go far enough. A particularly vehement anti-smoking
group, Nonsmokers Against Smoking Tobacco o7 3 In Everyday Situations
(NASTIES), publicly urged that the poison used be botulin toxin.
They argued that hour upon hour of retching, agonizing pain, and
hallucinations followed by death would be a fair payback for the
misery, discomfort, and disease caused by second-hand smoke. Ephus acknowledged
the merits of their suggestion, but argued that it would make his
proposal unworkable. Botulin toxin would require several hours to
take effect, by which time The Hot One would have been discarded.
He argued that this would destroy the integrity of the system, as
the heirs of any clown who picked the wrong can of vichyssoise could
haul their dear departed to the nearest lottery outlet and claim
$10,000 rightfully belonging to smokers. The anti-smokers
remained unconvinced until Ephus played his trump card: “Look, if
cyanide is used, the next time you're in a restaurant and some idiot
pulls out a pack of cigarettes, you'll know there's a chance that
the jerk will be face down in the lettuce and thousand island within
seconds. If botulin is used, that won't happen.“ That they bought; and the botulin suggestion
was immediately withdrawn. Smokers were
initially edgy about Ephus' proposal, but they warmed to the idea
after he explained, “You know, the average smoker smokes about a
pack a day. That works out to 7,300 cigarettes a year. At that rate
you'd have to smoke for 1400 years before
hitting The Hot One! Hell, your chances of getting eaten by hogs
are higher than that!!” After Ephus
explained the minimal risk to smokers, popular opposition to The
Hot One melted away. Male smokers quickly realized that a little
additional danger would enhance their already macho image, and Ephus'
bill was promptly enacted into law. Within a week
Ephus announced his candidacy for governor, lotto fever hit the
smoking public, and the day that the first Hot Ones went on sale
there were lines at cigarette counters all over the state. Two days later
the first winner, Heber Benson, dropped dead in a Chinese restaurant
in Fresno. The other customers were ecstatic, and Benson's wife,
a fundamentalist christian, shrieked that the “rapture” had come
when she hauled Heberto the nearest liquor store and received her
$10,000. The Lottery Commission lifted her even higher with another
$10,000 for permission to use Heber's name and image in The Hot
One's promotional campaign. Both campaigns
were spectularly effective. Ephus won the governor's race in a landslide,
and today, a year after the first winner bit the dust, you can still
see ol' Heber scampering around in lottery commercials humming When
You're Hot, You're Hot. Lottery earnings
and disbursements to schools have doubled--the schools now receive
two dollars per child per year—and even the surgeon
general's warning on cigarette packs has a kinder and gentler tone:
“Warning: If you purchased this pack of cigarettes, you
may already be a winner.”
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