Chapter 2

A year passed. I worked at home and on the weekends at first. Later, I took a leave of absence from the lab. As I began to get closer, I worked longer and longer hours. Eventually, I had to move my private lab to another building and hire a couple of chemists to work for me.

In the end, it paid off. The secret was that an organic neuro-toxin is transported across the blood-brain barrier. Once in the brain, it bonds across the volitional motor-management neural networks. When key sequences of auditory stimulus fire, the neuro-toxin goes to work. When active, it actually burns-out, or burns-in certain brain engram patterns. Said more simply, your brain becomes incapable of responding in any other way.

What the natives used on us was at essentially organic levels of strength. I thought of that strength level as a 'one'. When purified and synthesized, I measured the results of my work at a level of '14,350'. I realized that I could dope certain substances at below a trace level. The formula, which I numbered at the ninth in the series, would be essentially undetectable in drink or food. It would be delivered across the blood brain barrier in seconds, and be fully at work in under one minute.

What I had here was an extremely dangerous thing.

I used the formulation on dogs to start. It worked, and I was able to train them on command, and with cascading commands, to perform extremely complicated tasks. All it required was the formula and repetitive behaviors.

I am somewhat ashamed to say that my next use was less ethical. I used it on the chemists I'd hired, first to make sure that they had spoken to no-one about the work, and second to make sure that they never would. Then I paid them well, closed up the lab, and destroyed all my notes and work that didn't fit on a CD-ROM. I encrypted the CD-ROM with weapons grade encryption I got from Canada. The password alone was 128 characters long.

There were a lot of ways that I could have handled what I did next. However, I'm a simple man, and I believe in simple and direct actions.

I looked through my notes and found Sam's email address. I sent her a message. She'd moved on, starting her own small M&A firm. The secretary was happy to give me a new email address for her. I sent another message. Here's what I wrote:

"Sam:

You once told me that the next time I came up against

the real world, I should play smart. So, here I am playing

smart. I've discovered something that we could make a lot

of money on, and I need someone with your brains to make

it work.

Bill"

It worked. She wrote me back and gave me her phone number in Manhattan. We made a date to meet over dinner. She'd fly down here on a Friday and listen to my pitch. She warned me not to waste her time.

Most of a week later, it's Friday, mid-summer, and I'm sitting in a restaurant called 'Antonia's'. Its a Greek place, and I sit waiting on Sam. True to form, she showed up fifteen minutes late, probably just to needle me. She walked through the door, and most every head in the place turned to look at her. She was that stunning. She walked over to the table I was sitting at and sat down.

"Okay Billy. I'm here. This better be good. You better not have wasted my time."

"No, its no waste. I've discovered something. Something important. I want to get it loose from what's left of Fielding and make some real money with it. I decided to come to you."

She looked at me closely. "Tell me what it is, first."

"It's a chemo-transmitter that penetrates the blood-brain barrier. It carries drugs to the brain. In seconds. It'll revolutionize medicine."

It took her a few seconds to get it. Then her face took on this feral looking smile. "Thats a big market, Billy from the Block."

I took a deep breath. "Yes, Sam. Yes it is."

We ate dinner and talked about forming a corporate shell. We talked about how she'd buy the exploitation rights to my work out from under the new owners. She talked about how to shelter the company, where to incorporate, she talked and talked.

I nodded a lot.

When we were done, I said. "Lets have a drink at my house. I'll show you my notes."

She smiled that not-up-to-the-eyes smile. "Sure, Billy."

She followed me to my house in her rented BMW. When I got home, I unlocked the door and walked in. I pressed play on the CD player and some old 80s new wave stuff filled the house. She walked in behind me.

I led her over to the kitchen island and took down two glasses from the overhead rack. I carefully set down the first glass for her. I opened a nice bottle of Merlot and poured out two glasses.

"Here's to lots and lots of money." I said.

She smiled and drank along with me.

I savored the moment.

She waited a moment for me, then looked irritated. "This isn't a date, Billy. Where are your notes?"

Thirty seconds? Forty?

"Never call me Billy ever again."

She laughed. "Lets get things straight, Bill. I'll call you Bill all I want." She paused and frowned. "Look, Bill from the Block, you came to me, we both know where the power lies, don't we?"

I passed her the CD.

"Are these the notes, Bill?" She frowned harder.

"Tell me the truth about Alan."

She looked at me, slightly surprised. "No, Bill. I don't think you and I have anything to say to each other about Alan's death. I'm certainly not going to tell you anything you don't already know about how I staged that scene with the hookers. It's none of your business that I took him out with Chet and Ramona and got him drunk and then left him with Chet to get the pictures made. Hell, he never even had sex with them."

Her eyes opened wide. She looked around, seemingly embarrassed. She turned to leave.

"You like my company. You don't want to leave."

"No, Bill. I don't really like your company, I actually very much like being around you. Do you mind if I stay a while?" She smiled at me, still a calculating smile ... but it had cracks in it.

"Never to go to the police about me or my business without asking me. Never talk about me or my business to your friends or acquaintances unless you ask me and I agree first."

"Fuck you, Bill. We'll see about that."

"From now on, you'll be polite to me, and deferential. Be deferential to me."

She struggled a moment.

"What in the world is wrong with me, William?" She looked at me with the look of a coyote whose leg is caught in a trap.

"Oh, another thing. Never speak poorly about me to another again in your life. Obey me and my instructions to you."

Her face was a neutral, almost blank slate. "Oh of course, William. Do you mind if I call you William?"

"Yes, I do. You may only refer to me as Mr. Tawse, or Sir..." I hesitated a second. "Or Master."

She slapped me across the face. It hurt.

"Never strike me again."

"Never try to hurt me again."

"Never allow another person to hurt me." I thought a moment. "Do not conspire against me or my business."

"Always tell me the truth."

"Never keep a secret from me."

A sweat broke out on her forehead. "Yes, Mr. Tawse. Please, Mr. Tawse, for the love of God, Mr. Tawse. Please tell me what's happening to me. Did you drug me?"

"Yes, Samantha. Yes, you're under the influence of a drug. It won't last much longer. However, it's influence will apparently last forever. Your brain is being re-wired."

"Oh God. Pardon me, Oh God Mr. Tawse."

I took out my notes and reviewed what I'd written for myself. It looked like I'd left a couple of instructions out of my list so far.

"Do not try to harm yourself, ever."

"Regard yourself as my property."

"Be pleasing to me."

"Obey my instructions."

"Well," I said, rising from the chair, "I think that about covers everything. It'll take some time for that to settle in, and I don't want to fuck you up too badly for right now."

She looked at me. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"I'm going to bed." I said. "You sleep on the couch."

She nodded politely and smiled. I was concerned for a second that her face might shatter.

I went upstairs and went to bed. The house was quiet. I went to sleep.

In the morning, I awoke to the smell of food and the sound of a vacuum running. Coming down the stairs, I saw Samantha, wearing one of my bathrobes over one of my shirts, vacuuming the living room, and that there was a breakfast set out on my table.

I went over and sat down. The eggs were undercooked and the bacon was too dark. The coffee was too strong. She'd made it all in my kitchen. I smiled to myself.

Meanwhile, the world's angriest vacuumist was busy in my living room. She didn't seem to be very good at it. However, she was doing it.

She looked at me and turned off the vacuum. "Good morning Mr. Tawse. I. Hope. You. Slept ... Well." She grimaced between words, fighting herself.

I just smiled at her.

She burst into hot tears and turned her back on me.

"I tried to leave and I couldn't. I'm trying to keep this a secret from you. I'm embarrassed. I feel humiliated. I made you breakfast. I was trying to make you happy, and that makes me ill somewhere inside. I want to kill myself, but I know I wont. I want to kill you, really badly, and I'm hoping this wears off so I can."

She paused. "I really don't want you to know how weak and helpless I feel right now."

Fresh tears came.

I could see a blush begin to spread down her hairline. "Oh, one other thing. This is all turning me on some, and that horrifies me. I just thought you'd want to know that."

"Thanks" I said.

"Are you a lesbian, Samantha?" I sipped the coffee as I looked at her.

"Yes, Mr. Tawse." She forced a smile as she looked at me. "I've always found men to be disgusting, and ignorant of a woman's sexual needs. Men are forceful, when tenderness is needed, and then weak when dominance is needed. Just the thought of being with a man makes me slightly ill."