"Lessig, Hugh - Purple Politics" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

I strengthen my headlock.

"I'm thinking aloud here, Web. You're sick and you need something real bad..."

Web shakes his head, wants me to shut up.

"Now stay with me on this. You're strung out on something, and you've got a nasty look when it comes to this purple flower. Is this a drug? Can it be made into a drug? Is that it?'

Web is shushing me.

"And someone wants Congress to declare it a noxious weed, which encourages people to ... clean it up. Collect it. Oh, this is good. Maybe a company could start doing this as a public service. Real estate developers could do this! They have a legitimate interest in land-clearing activities. Web, you legislative rapscallion!"

Web breaks out of my headlock, but he doesn't run away. He moves down the block, out of the foot traffic, and leans against the side of an office building. He is breathing heavily, although he's only walked about 12 feet. He pulls the flower out of his pocket.

"Monica gave you this?"

"Right before she died."

He shakes his head. "Good Christ on a stick. She was smart and stupid at the same time. She had figured out how to turn the Purple Looseleaf into a drug. A poor man's hallucinogen. You can cure these leaves, combine then with some cheap chemicals and smoke them, Mr. Barnes. It's a stronger high than marijuana, it holds you a little longer."

"And it lets you down a lot harder."

Web smiles. "Monica, she figured this out when she worked for the drug lobby. Then she switched to the environmental lobby and convinced a group of lawmakers to put in the house resolution you're talking about. It's genius, really. The stuff grows all over certain parts of the South. Clogs up sidewalks and such. If we could get a Congressional mandate to clean it up, no one would suspect why we want to clean it up. "

"It's not law yet," I say.

"It will be, Mr. Barnes. Here. For your file."

Web smiles and hands me one of his business cards. I take it without thinking -- without realizing until too late that I never told him my name, nor did I tell the secretary.

I stick the card in my pocket, and the tips of my fingers begin to burn. Web smiles with sad beagle eyes.

"You just took a nasty little hallucinogen, Mr. Barnes. Artificial stuff. Very new. It's absorbed through the skin like PCP. You'll need to walk with me to my car before you.... Oh, I guess not."

* * *

A long time passes.

Or maybe a few minutes.

I wake up to gray walls and hard light, and I peel back wet sheets.

Some kind of nightmare jarred me awake. I have forgotten it, but I am still scared. I try to swing my legs onto the floor and a wave of nausea overcomes me. I lean over the bed and vomit. Strangely enough, a clean bucket is there to catch it. Then I remember. I have been waking up many times, throwing up many times. Dry heaves now. Web sits in the corner with the same White Trash clothes.

I ask where I am.

"The last place you'll ever be," he says.

A 9mm Glock rests on his lap. I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the bed.