Popcorn 9: Page 11

ear, he hung up and entered the code again. He did this several times until the groggy Ron answered.
    "Mmmm?"
    "Ron?" George heard the quavering in his own voice and struggled to steady himself.
    "Mmm. Mmmm?"
    "It's George. I fucked up."
    "What time is it?"
    "It doesn't matter."
    "Like hell it doesn't. Call back after 10."
    "Don't hang up! You've got to come." Panic quickly considered what might convince Ron to help George. "If it hadn't been for your product …," he accused into the receiver.
    The blame brought the yawn to an abrupt, and an unusually early, end. "Whoa," Ron cau-tioned in a voice that made George imagine him suddenly sitting up. "My product? You never complained about it before."


    "Well, this batch must be laced with some-thing because I went a little crazy and I have this situation and I need your help."
    Steady breathing was all Ron offered as he considered George's manipulations.
    "You have to come over, Ron."
    "Give me half an hour or so."
    "Hurry. And bring a sheet."
    "A sheet? I don't have a spare sheet."
    "What about a tarp?"
    "Jesus, George, what -"
    "Okay, okay, forget it. Just get over here."
    Hanging up, Ron turned to find his companion awake and rummaging through the pipes and matchbooks and lighters and papers that layered the surface of the bedside table. "Want to go for a ride?" he asked.

John Fall, of Oakland, California, has finished two novels.