scrolling across it. In the middle distance, Charleston airports' cracked and
vitrified runways are coming into view. Missile batteries off to one side cycle
their launcher-erectors impotently, magazines long since fired dry at the robot-piloted
godless commie-fag euroweasel aid flights.
"We gotta bail out before we land, otherwise we'd have to go through customs,"
she says brightly. "That would be bad -- South Carolina never ended prohibition."
"What?" Huw shakes his head again. "Prohibition of what? What
are you talking about?" His hands are shaking, he realises. "I need
a drink."
"Prohibition of grass DIPSHIT," Bonnie says. She pauses for a moment,
prodding at her eyes with a mister, but they are so swollen that she can't get
its applicator into contact with bare mucous membrane. She roots around some
more, then whacks some kind of transdermal plaster on her arm. "Sorry,
gotta ARSE FUCK come down now. Your stash, darling? It's illegal here. If the
customs crows catch you with it, they'll stick
