November 5, 1994
Austin, Texas
Now in a certain book written by a certain anti-establishment hippie, one may find a recipe for some serious homemade smoke bombs (among other invaluable informations). The recipe is simple, four parts [OMIT] and six parts sugar. The dry ingredients are mixed together and carmelized in a saucepan, then the semi-solid goo is decanted to whatever container you want to see destroyed by fire. The mixture burns quite hotly, and the combustion reaction is water-resistant.
One fine fall morning, my brother "Ben" and i skipped college and decided to install a makeshift rope swing at my apartment complex on east Riverside. Most of the residents were ignoring our experiments, but the other kids who should have been in school were very excited for the adventure. We tired of the rope swing fairly quickly, and i mentioned the smoke bomb recipe.
An hour later, we had large quantities of both ingredients, and began cooking. The first batch was ready for trial, and we went back down to the creekbed where the rope swing was, and hey--someone already stole the rope swing! Wonder where they are going to put it...
The first batch was a success, two large muffin smokers erupted into a football-field-sized cloud of dense white smoke. Excitedly we returned to the lab [apartment] to make some more. Emboldened by the initial success, we readied a huge batch, probably close to a pound of dry ingredients.
Now the trickiest part of making these is Patience. I apparently have none. When melting the sugar to homogenize the mixture, too much heat may cause the stuff to ignite! Make sure to use low-med heat-- [At this point the journal becomes unreadable due to a combination of soot, CO2 foam, beer, and what appeared to be refried beans. The remaining narrative was loosely recreated based on Frank's oration.]
So we are cooking up a huge batch in a teflon fry pan on the stove in my girlfriend's apartment on East Riverside. She is at work at the movie theater, where i also work, and so "Ben" and i had a free day pass to mayhem (hence the smoke bombs). I get a little impatient with the melting process and turn up the heat to med-high. Continuous stirring, it's melting nicely. This shade of brown looks too dark, kind of like--Oops, Ignition!
Within 15 seconds the entire one-bedroom apartment is completely full of white smoke. I grab the flaming frying pan and toss it into the sink, and turn on the water full blast. No change, still burning. I grab the wet, scalding pan and run towards the (back) sliding patio door. Droplets of flaming plasma are erupting from the pan and burning my arms and hands, so i chuck the pan out the back door, but someone closed the screen door and the pan lands face down on the carpet.
"Ben" is laughing quite tauntingly, i will get him later. My next sprint was for the fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. I get the pan put out, but a gargantuan column of white smoke is still streaming from the patio door. "Ben" seems to have made it outside, so i run back in and set up a box fan to blow out the remaining smoke.
Smoke relocated, we survey the damage. Half-melted frying pan, giant puddle of (now solid) plasma goo sitting in a hole in the carpet the size of the kitchen sink, and a blackened patch of the underlying concrete slab. Uh-oh. Looks like we put burned pock marks all over my favourite barcalounger and my girlfriend's Klimt posters, as well.
A quick trip to the dollar store produced cleaning supplies and a small throw rug. Within ten minutes, we had the entire place scrubbed down and basically back to original condition unless one were to look under the new rug or examine the posters too carefully (or take a big whiff of the burned sugar smell). What's that sound in the background? Sirens...
After a very quick debate and a couple of punches, "Ben" and i decide the best course of action is to fess up. We walk down the parking lot where the two fire trucks were pulling in, and told them the Truth. As luck would have it, smoke bombs are legal within the city limits, and we detailed the recipe and showed them where we set them off in the creek (no need to share the apartment fire unless asked, don't push your luck). We even got to ride on the back of the fire truck for a few blocks. Nice.
Spirits soaring, we began the long walk of shame to the movie theater to inform my girlfriend of the recent redecoration of the apartment. "Ben" vanished somewhere along the way, that bastard. Me and the girlfriend broke up about 4 months later.
Don't make smoke bombs Inside,
Francois (Frank) Dillinger
[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California. He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.
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