DILEMMA

                                                                          A timeless story by Tony K.
 

I watch the lit cigarette in Scorpio’s hand dance above a two pound can of gunpowder as he assembles a homemade rocket. The lid of the can rests nearby.  He connects a tail fin, hot glue gun centimeters away from bits of magnesium nitrate scattered on his desk.  The stench of burning glue nauseates me.

Scorpio drunkenly  sets the tool down and proclaims that he, "Might go back and  finish college this year."

I smirk.  He makes more money at his lame factory job in one year than I make in two, and I finished college a long time ago.  Yeah, a degree, the answer to life’s little miseries.

Sensing my derision, he switches subjects and explains the intricacies of using an ordinary primer cap to detonate his rocket’s explosive warhead.  A nail in the nose of the rocket hits a solid object, gets pushed back, and strikes the primer which sets off the payload.

I barely listen as I brush flammable powder from my fingers and load another bowl of pot.

Smoke rolls from the pipe.  I suck it down and lean back to contemplate a mummified pile of dog crap on the carpet.  It’s been there since my last visited, two months ago.  One of many obstacles to slip on while carrying the rocket’s volatile payload.

Scorpio meekly reaches out.  I hand him the pipe.  He takes a drag and sets the bowl full of burning embers down next to a coil of fuse cord.  Suddenly he lurches up, spills his beer, and staggers to the back door, missile and launch tube in hand.  Standing in the doorway, he hefts the launcher and aims for the back fence, only fifteen feet away.  There is no warhead on the rocket just the nail primer/detonator.  The rocket’s exhaust port faces into the apartment.

I take a drink of beer and watch Scorpio fumble with the firing button.  Smoke fills the room as the rocket shoots out of the launcher, and slams into the fence.  The detonator goes off, sending the bottom half of the rocket back to bounce off Scorpio’s forehead.  He drops the launcher, stumbles back and lightly touches his face.

Bleeding and giggling he returns to his desk and lights another cigarette.

I wish we had more gunpowder.