The night was as cold as a mother’s love, the wind less unsettling. Simon’s Cigar Shop resides on the corner of Jack and Fullers in the southwest corner of downtown. An upper class establishment, the store walls are trimmed with walnut; the hardwood floors are alternating patterns of mahogany and birch. The cases in the front room contain customized lighters, wood handle umbrellas, and tobacco from the Dominican Republic, Brazil, and, yes, even Cuba if you know where to look. The three men who entered the shop at that very second knew exactly where to look. They also knew that the store was closed.

First was Xander Gibbons, the owner of Gibbon Furniture; then Augustus Klein, the judge; followed by Sebastian Turin who owned WVBM and the Pittsford Times; Alex Shore, the building contractor showed up 2 minutes late. When everyone had arrived, judge Klein walked behind the counter and grabbed four Cubans.

“It’s a damned shame that the Kennedy’s took this national treasure away from the public,” Judge Klein said as he handed the cigars out to everyone. The group herded to the smoking room in the back of the cigar shop, shut the door, and closed the blinds. It was a worthy area for the coming discussion. The lighting was several settings above romantic restaurant, but much less than office standard. The rug was Persian, and therefore not an insult to humanity. The chairs were leather, and judging by the smooth yet gripping texture probably Kangaroo.

“Alright Sebastian,” Mr. Gibbons started, “tell us about the nature of our problem.”

“A man by the name of Justin Smith sent a letter to the editor about the new hospital.” Mr. Turin began. There was a brief silence.

“And the situation can not be managed by ignoring the letter or discrediting this, uh, Mr. Smith?” asked judge Klein.

“Unfortunately he claims to have acquired a copy of the surveyor’s notes” Mr. Turin continued. “the unedited version.”

“You mean the one that says we’d be building the 150 million dollar hospital on sand, and that it may sink into the ground.” Mr. Shore stated flatly.

“I’m afraid so.” answered Mr. Turin.

“Gus, what kind of trouble can we expect if Sebastian lets this letter go to print?” Mr. Gibbons asked.

“The house of delegates would rescind the contract, and may withhold government funding for a few years, if they decide to reaccept the contract at all. This would be a material breach of the terms of the agreement, so the ball’s in the legislature’s court.” judge Klein surmised.

“Who do we know in the legislature?” asked Mr. Gibbons. “It doesn’t matter, because we don’t know everyone, and the majority whip’s a goddamn democrat.” Mr. Shore responded.

“Well, I’ll be damned if Gibbon Furniture loses $10M in sales this year.” Mr. Gibbons averred.

“So Gus, Sebastian, what are we going to do about this situation?” asked Mr. Shore. They puffed on their cigars for a minute or two.

“I’ll get dirt on him, and then threaten to go to print with it.” attested Mr. Turin.

“If it comes to a head, I’ll have drugs planted in his car and have him arrested.” Judge Klein said.

“How can we be sure that the charges will stick?” asked Mr. Gibbons.

“I’ll have my clerks schedule me for the trial. I’ve got the other district judge by the balls ever since I caught him smoking pot and cheating on his wife.” Judge Klein rebutted.

“I’m glad that we could straighten that out quickly.” Mr. Gibbons yawned.

“Well, that’s why we’re on the board of trustees.” Mr. Shore proclaimed.

They all got up to leave, but felt oddly dizzy.

“Man those Cubans have a kick.” Judge Klein protested, as they all fell down, asleep.

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“I was worried about how I would deal with your cars,” the mystery man announced. The four men independently assessed their situation and realized that they were in a car. “I guess I’m lucky that you all chose to walk to your meeting spot; don’t worry, I didn’t break anything, I just spiked your cigars and gave you a paralytic after you were peacefully asleep.” The four men were mildly comforted, and noticed another man in the passenger seat; this one they recognized, it was Simon, the cigar shop owner.

“Where are my manners; I’m a terrible host. Allow me to introduce myself,” the mystery man continued, “I’m Justin Smith, and here’s my second cousin, Simon, I believe you’ve already met him.” If vegetables could scream this would have been the time.

“Perhaps you should have done your research before borrowing a key.” Simon says.

If Mr. Turin had done his research before setting up the meeting he would have learned the following things. Simon and Justin Smith had a very small family on account of a genetic predisposition to cancer and a special discount on imported cigars. As a result the cousins were very close. Justin Smith was a red blooded American, the type that barbeques spare ribs on his front lawn, washes them down with PBR, and gives only one warning shot before executing trespassers on sight. Justin’s 30 acre plot is secluded and borders a smelly marsh. Justin was a civil engineer by profession, and this is how he came into possession of the surveyor’s unedited notes. The car then turned into his quarter of a mile long driveway.

“It just so happens that I just started construction on a magnificent tennis court.” Justin said as he stopped the car. Mr. Shore began sweating bullets and would have pissed his pants at this point if it weren’t for the paralytic. “Justin is a genius when it comes to construction,” Simon gloated. They pulled the men from the car one at a time. Xander Gibbons came first, then Judge Klein, then Sebastian Turin. Alex Shore was a little heavy set and took an extra 2 minutes. They were all laid on one side, to allow for ultimate viewing pleasure.

Justin Smith was truly an engineering marvel. It ends up that decomposing matter usually breaks up concrete, if not because of compromised load bearing, then because of the buildup of methane and carbon dioxide from rot. To fix this problem, Justin got creative. A mesh of cross bars and steal rods were installed to serve as the backbone for reinforced concrete. Each steal rod had holes poked in it, and was partially hollow on the inside. A pipe at the bottom crossbar ran through the ground and into the smelly, adjacent marsh. Buildup and masking of gases was that easy to fix.

“This won’t hurt a bit.” Simon said as he sprinkled quicklime over the four men, one at a time. “At least not in the remaining time frame of your life.” They dragged the men to the four corners of the court, slid the last 20 steal rods through crossbars over the men, and began shoveling concrete in one scoop at a time. It was early morning when they had finally finished covering the creepily open eyes, and adequately leveled the top layer. Justin stepped back, and thought that some words should be said over the final resting place of these brave men.

“The balls in my court now. The truth is I just can’t stand pieces of shit like you living in my town.” Simon and Justin proceeded to the house for a cool glass of lemonade.