The Lord of Opium

“You . . . you . . .,” said Happy Man, having difficulty forming the words. “You child! Where is Mr. Alacrán?”

“I am the new Lord of Opium,” said Matt. “Mr. Alacrán is busy. What do you want?”

It took a moment for the African dealer to process this information. “You’re a clone,” he finally said. “Clones can’t run businesses.”

“I am El Patrón,” said Matt, smarting from the insult.

Happy Man pushed away from the screen. Behind him was a room in chaos full of old food containers and weapons, and beyond was a wide window showing a city. Matt could see skyscrapers chopped in two as though a giant machete had sliced through them. A line of limousines, not unlike Hitler’s old car, was making its way through rubble. “What’s going on?” asked Matt.

Hikwa looked to where the boy was pointing. “Oh, that. We’re still pacifying the city. A few of the Farm Patrolmen are holding out.” A flash followed by screams showed a building being blown up. Fires raged in the distance.

“You’re destroying your own city,” said Matt, appalled.

Happy Man giggled. “We don’t need it. We’ve got more.” He reached for the bottle of aguardente and took a swig. “Anyway, this place was a ruin when we got it. It used to be called Ciudad Juarez, and the crotters who ran this place were trying to rebuild. Fat chance. Glass Eye showed them what’s what. We”—he hiccuped—“put all their women and children into an empty swimming pool and used them for target practice.”

Matt had seen enough. No way was he going to open the border for a shipment to Dabengwa. He reached for the off button.

“Hey! You can’t go! We need our opium!” cried Happy Man Hikwa, but by that time the holoport had closed.

Matt sat, shaken by what he’d seen. He knew things were bad in the old Dope Confederacy, but this mindless destruction was worse than anything he’d imagined. He accessed addresses in Nuevo Laredo and Matamoros. In each one a window showed a scene of devastation. What kind of country was Glass Eye building? He and his men acted like a swarm of locusts Matt had seen on an old TV show. Eat one field, move on to the next. You needed infinite fields to keep an army like that going.

Matt found a few portals in rural areas where marijuana and tobacco were grown. The crops had withered, and the bodies of eejits filled dry canals.

He was too exhausted to look anymore. Even though the holoport had adjusted to his slightly different handprint, the scanner still made him nauseated. He went to El Patrón’s apartment and lay down. The windows opened onto green lawns, and the odors of flowers and cut grass drifted in. The sound of eejits using scissors to trim the lawns soothed him. El Patrón’s empire was evil, all right, but it was still alive.

Soon, Matt promised himself, he would rip out the opium and plant different crops. Cattle would be turned onto healthy fields of grass. When the eejits were free, he would offer them jobs as normal farmers, or they’d go back to whatever lives they’d had before. It would be their choice. Far fewer were dying now that Matt had added meat and vegetables to their diet.

His days were packed with work—learning to ride Real Horses, flying a hovercraft, and even driving Hitler’s old car with Daft Donald at his side. The seat was pushed forward so he could reach the pedals, and he enjoyed the cheers from the gardeners and Farm Patrol. “¡Viva El Patrón!” they shouted, as though the old man had been reborn. Sometimes Matt had the creepy feeling that El Patrón was actually sitting in the backseat, admiring his kingdom from the dark halls of the dead. This is the most excitement I’ve had in years, the old man said, grinning with delight. Matt shivered. He knew the backseat was empty, but he didn’t turn around to look.

Best of all was planning the party. It would be the greatest celebration ever seen in Opium. Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito were coming on the next train, and their eyes would drop out when they saw what Matt had arranged. They would have a circus, a professional soccer game, a rodeo, guitarists from Portugal, and food undreamed of by boys who had lived in a plankton factory. Ton-Ton had eaten ice cream only a few times in his life, and Fidelito had only seen pictures of it. So many wonderful experiences lay in store for Matt’s compadres. He had only to stretch out his hand, and whatever he wanted was his.