M.E. Proctor worked as a communication professional and freelance journalist. After forays into SF, she’s currently working on a series of contemporary detective novels.
One Second
Venom
There isn’t much to do for entertainment on moon base Alecto. Yes, I know. You’re going to say that I’m an ungrateful jerk, that with free access to all the OBS ever invented complaining about the lack of entertainment is like complaining about the booze at a party with an open bar. The point is Out of Body Simulation is what I do for a living, every single damn day. To say that it doesn’t give me a kick anymore is a huge understatement. When I disconnect from work I don’t feel like plugging myself back in, even if it’s to pretend going down Niagara Falls in a barrel. The operative word is Pretend. As our team shrink, Doctor Ling, is fond to say, “Humans are wired to do things.” What he means is that you cannot happily fool your brain all the time or for a very long time. That’s why Roger, our boss, has taken up quilting. It was a little surprising, frankly, but who am I to decree that some hobbies are better than others? We’re not making fun of Roger, we understand what drives him. Besides Roger is built like a tank and you don’t cross a tank. Anyway, I didn’t learn crochet or needlepoint, I learned fire breathing.
Why? You ask. Isn’t it dangerous? Yes, it is, especially if you don’t know what you’re doing, like spitting whisky on a flame, that kind of thing. Idiots have set themselves on fire that way. The alcohol in their blood contributed as much as the alcohol that hit the flame. I have completely given up drinking. Fire breathing is a very healthy pastime. I recommend it.
Anyway, I was entertaining my colleagues in the rec room one evening last week when a guy I’d never seen before heckled me. He didn’t call me a charlatan, not exactly, but he dismissed my accomplishments and he was extremely rude. My kind of fire was nothing according to him; it was an illusion, a cheap trick. I wasn’t really breathing fire–of course I wasn’t, I never pretended to be the Son of the Dragon or such nonsense. Moreover, he said, I didn’t know what a real burn felt like. I offered to show him my blisters. I had painful ones on my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I had been experimenting with fire eating lately, feeling I had to beef up my act to keep myself and my audience interested. That slowed down my critic but not for long. The guy was persistent. His argument was that I could never stand real burning pain because the worst burn was not from flames but from food. I thought my colleagues would laugh him out of the room but Doctor Ling, of all people, came to his rescue. Our resident scientist, it turned out, had personal and painful knowledge of very hot peppers. A variety from his village in the Himalayas had a lethal reputation, its colorful name–roughly translated from dialect–was One Second Venom. Doctor Ling had not tried it; he had tasted a tiny sliver of Ten Seconds Venom, and that had been more than enough to put him out of commission for a week.
I’m sure you guessed what happened next. I couldn’t refuse the challenge.
This morning the Earth shuttle delivered a crate to Doctor Ling. It contained a dozen peppers. Two would have sufficed. The ominous vegetables are displayed in a refrigerated glass case in the rec room. They are red and ugly, covered with warts, and perfect stand-ins for the toads in the witch’s brew. All the employees of the base have paid their respects and contacted their bookies. I am considered the favorite, by a pepper seed.
The rec room is too small to hold everybody and the techs have hauled in the recording equipment used once a year for the official State of Alecto address. Rumor has it that interest in our little contest has gone galactic. I feel like a boxer about to enter the ring. I have an entourage of supporters and groupies. Roger gave me a cape he designed for the occasion. It features a plump pepper on a background of flames with the caption Fire Inside. It is inspirational. I’m moved. The entire medical team is on standby, oxygen masks and defibrillators at the ready. They might need hoses and fire extinguishers too. My opponent is a little green and sweating profusely. I know I don’t look much better, even if the odds favor me.
We take our seats at the table set on the podium and Micaela, the cute engineer from Surface Ops, brings the poisonous plants and several gallons of milk. Two large metal buckets are under the table for emergency relief. The audience falls silent. Doctor Ling, the referee, makes the official introductions. I shake hands with Gustav, my opponent, and there we go.
I bite only once and swallow immediately. The sensation is pure horror. Fire inside, indeed. My entire face goes numb and a long red-hot iron spear slashes my throat and everything below down to my knees. Gustav was right. This is worse than a rocket fuel mouthwash with a side of nitro. Give me my blisters anytime. I love my blessed blisters! I am vaguely aware of a nurse prying my mouth open to pour a tidal wave of milk down my throat. After that everything goes dark because my head is in the bucket.
#
Doctor Ling says I will be fine because I got rid of everything. He credits this miracle to my training as a fire breather. I apparently have a remarkable gag reflex. Gustav, poor slob, is not so lucky. He’s in the hospital wing, on an IV drip. The prognosis is bleak. Specialists in internal medicine are monitoring Gustav’s plumbing. He’s already famous—the only man who ever swallowed a whole One Second Venom. Me? I’ve taken up origami.