Tough Day for the Army Read Free

bullshit, a bridge he could not cross, even for Chelsea Stubbins. This Joseph Smith character reminded Nelson of one of his and Jürgen’s buddies from back home, Stinkfinger, who did not care for the pot but loved the mushrooms, and when he was peaking could be very convincing about seeing shit like his past lives or the true color of Nelson’s aura, or the twin that Bobby Longkiss had eaten in the womb, living inside Bobby’s body. Once or twice Stinkfinger gave Nelson the shivers with that shit, but afterwards, with a clearer head, Nelson looked at the guy who got his nickname because he claimed he was the first in school to get to third base and walked around telling everyone to sniff his finger. It was Jürgen who called him out, declaring that Stinkfinger (who had been Daniel up to that moment) had just rubbed his finger around the inside of a tuna can, and Nelson went and retrieved just-about-to-become-Stinkfinger’s brown lunch bag out of the trash and brandished the evidence above his head for all to see, and that was that. Stinkfinger was then, and forever, full of shit.
    Like this Joseph Smith with his visions, a direct pipeline from God, messages coming direct, like through one of those pneumatic tubes at the bank drive-thru, one of which just happened to be a thumbs-up on plural marriage, because how awesome that God wants you to bang multiple broads who are also totally subservient in the sack and otherwise? Now, Nelson had grown up in Vermont, where there were plenty of liberals, his father being one of the few exceptions. Nelson had been conditioned not to mind if a chick didn’t shave her legs, or even her pits, and as far back as middle school, he’d learned about the patriarchal hegemony, the cultural reign of the phallocracy, and could sniff out white male privilege when he saw it.
    It bothered him to think that Chelsea Stubbins bought into this horseshit, but Nelson figured it was rooted in the cloistered life— born, raised, surrounded by Mormons. We are who we are with, he figured. He was an exception, he was sure, nothing like his father, the close-minded, reactionary, abusive asshole, but for the most part environment rules, nurture over nature. Once Nelson was able to remove Chelsea Stubbins from the atmosphere of Provo, which was indeed his plan, the Mormonism would fade, like a tan starved of sun.
    The other thing Nelson did in preparation for the party was bake. Chocolate brownies with walnuts. Peanut butter cookies with deep fudge swirls and brickle. Rice Krispie treats. All laced with hash. Lots and lots of hash. Nelson had spent the better part of his most recent Survey Circle, Inc., paycheck on hash, which can be acquired anywhere, including Provo, Utah. Jürgen sat in the living room rooting against BYU basketball, occasionally asking if Nelson was sure he wanted to do that.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I?”
    â€œBecause these kids don’t do drugs like we do drugs. They don’t do drugs at all.”
    â€œThat’s the point.”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    Nelson removed the latest batch from the oven and began flipping the cookies to the counter for cooling. “It’s time for them to snap out of it, to have their minds altered, to realize that things are not always as they seem.”
    â€œThat’s probably illegal,” Jürgen replied.
    â€œIf truth is a crime, then lock me up,” Nelson said.
    There’d been a plan, but then things stopped going according to it. The first thing that went wrong was the number of people who showed up. The Survey Circle, Inc., work crew came in bunches and drank Nelson and Jürgen’s uncaffeinated soda and ate their salty snacks and even danced in the middle of the small living room to Jürgen’s iPod mix of house music. Eventually the salty snacks ran out, and someone went looking through the cupboards and found Nelson’s stash of psychotropic baked goods and