All Due Respect Issue #2 by Owen Laukkanen, David Siddall, CS DeWildt, Eric Beetner, Joseph Rubas, Liam Sweeny, Scott Adlerberg

I drop two Mentos in and the Mexicans are, for a moment, wide-eyed at the eruption. Then it ends and we’re out of science class.
    The third man, a short, lean, muscular hombre dressed in a three-piece Brooks Brothers suit and a black felt fedora, speaks for the first time.
    “How does this,” he points, “chemical reaction pertain to our friend here?”
    He’s calm. Maybe I got a shot here.
    “I make him drink the two-liter, or as much as he can hold without throwing it up, and they’re his Mentos—he likes the shit—and we wait a minute or two for the eruption.”
    “So he vomits?”
    “He’ll be blowing it outta’ both ends.”
    The man strokes his chin, forearm resting on a chair back.
    “Can your friend handle it? He looks ill.”
    “It’s the blockage. This might be the only thing that’ll help him.”
    I grab one of the other two-liters of Diet Coke and sit Ned up. He looks weary, defeated. Pretty much like he should look. He’s clutching his side.
    “Ned, I know you’re not thirsty, but you’re going to drink this whole thing.”
    Ned looks up at me, eyes puffy. “What if I can’t? They’ll kill me.”
    “No, they won’t. But I will, you have my word.” I shove the bottle in his mouth. “Now drink.”
    Ned struggles, but I get him to drink almost three-quarters of the bottle. He tries to puke it up a few times. I handle it. I’ve had to poison people before. It doesn’t work if you let ’em puke it up.
    “I’m not guaranteeing you’ll get all of your product in one piece,” I warned them, “but the alternative would get you far less.”
    I give Ned two Mentos. “Chew them up in your mouth, Ned. Then one gulp, swallow it all.”
    I back up. “Y’all may want to back up.” Ned’s face goes bleach white and he contorts in a God-awful way. The Mexicans back up, their eyes wide like Ned is about to go thermonuclear. In a way, he is.

    A blast of foam shoots out of his mouth like super-rabies and the back of his pants bulge out and turn dark. He collapses on the floor, gagging and convulsing. I know two things are happening: He’s choking on baggies, and one of them broke inside. Ned is dead, just waiting for the clock’s hand to strike the second. I hop down and pry his mouth open and stick my fingers in as far as I can until I feel slimy plastic. I pull at it slowly, break Ned’s jaw open with a wrench on the floor. Like I said, he’s dead anyway. The coke is gonna’ kill him. Treating him like he’s salvageable is gonna kill me.
    I start pulling up the string of baggies. After the first one, the rest come easy. Shit, there’s a ton of ’em. Hopefully a kilo.
    “How much was in him, a kilo?” I ask over the bar as the Mexicans look on.
    “Why you need to know?” the kid says.
    I had a pile of baggies in my hand. “So I know how much is still in him.”
    “One kilo, yes,” the professional says. I pull the last baggie I can out—the one that burst. I tip my hand up and lower it quick, letting the full weight of the baggies hit my palm.
    “There’s probably still a quarter in him. Let me turn him over.” I undo Ned’s buttons and yank his corduroys down. Then I spin him, pull down his shitty boxers, and pretend the stench doesn’t make me want to have an eruption of my own. I grab the surrender apron and give Ned an ass-wipe. A string knot is embedded in his corn-hole and I pull it. All told, four more baggies from the back-door. I take them over to the sink and set all of them in a pan of water. I think twice and squirt some dish-soap in there.
    Then I grab a cigarette from my pocket, light it with a wooden matchstick from the bar, my own votive candle. Can’t figure if it’s for my immortal soul or my very mortal skin.
    “Do you know who I am?” the professional says.
    “A reasonable man, I hope.”
    He dusts off a seat before he sits down.
    “I don’t take a piss for one kilo, Mr. Blake.”
    Mr. Blake? What?
    “Come, sit,” he says. I’m not one to