Chapter 1: The Deal

How much of a good thing can a person stand?

What the hell was I thinking?

As I stood alone in this foul-smelling alley, I called my own sanity into question again. As the stench from the nearby river drifted in with the breeze to mingle with the unmistakable urine odor that greeted me, I had a fleeting thought of my dead body being found in this alley, face down in a rancid puddle, pants down around my ankles.

But I shook my head to literally shake the image away and took a deep breath. The stench made me regret it immediately.

“Get a grip, asshole,” I said aloud.

“Talking to yourself?” came a voice from the shadows. As I turned my head towards the sound, the reason for my ill-advised presence here emerged before me.

“Mr. Smith?” I asked, stupidly. My companion’s body language clearly stated, “Who else, asshole? Get a grip.”

“Have you got it?” I asked, equally dense.

“Have you?” he replied. At least, the voice was clearly that of an educated man, not an opportunistic vagrant. A slight, maybe even scrawny figure, this man of mystery wore an oversized hooded sweatshirt, hood pulled tight around his face. I would not be seeing Mr. Smith’s visage this night.

But considering I had my coat collar high and a Giants ball cap pulled low, I was being just as mysterious and hard to identify as Mr. Smith. Meeting an eBay contact sucks, I thought, maybe ever worse than Internet dating.

“You’re right. I’m being stupid. Let’s start over,” I said. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith.”

I extended my hand. Smith paused, but then accepted it. His grip was on the weak side, I noticed.

“I brought what we discussed,” I said. It was a pound of the finest California-raised bud I’d ever seen, totally free of seeds. To trade it rather than smoke it went against every fiber of my being. Mr. Smith sensed my dilemma.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be more than worth it,” he said, reaching deep in his warmup pouch. I tensed, but he brought out a package shaped somewhat like mine.

“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” he admitted.

“How do I know it is what you say it is?” I asked nervously. “It sounds impossible.”

“Look, we’re both showing some trust just by showing up here,” Smith said reasonably. For a moment, his voice sounded familiar, and almost reassuring. I nodded and handed over the bundle -- my entire stash. He accepted it and handed me his. The trade took place without incident and Mr. Smith went happily on his way. And I went mine.

It was times like this I was grateful to have a private entrance to my (mostly) normal room. I’d agreed to the rules – no hard drugs, no loud music late, no cooking -- and my room became my private pot den and hangout for my stoner friends. But it would be awhile before I fired up my bong again after this crazy deal.

For months, I had been searching blogs, message boards and Web sites that were red-flagged by every anti-virus program created for this wonder drug – or supplement, or amino acid, or whatever – since I’d read a rumor of its creation. My knack with computers helped, since that was my sole source of bud money, but in the end, Mr. Smith (or whatever the fuck his name is) contacted me.

I had been obsessed with this thought more than anything that had ever mattered in my lousy, smoked-filled life. Through the haze in my brain, the sight of seeing my mother deep throat my dad one night in our living room cut right through and launched my sexual imagination into overdrive. Instead of a cute, loving baby sister, I saw a hot, sweet 16-year-old. Instead of a troubled older sister, I saw an exciting energetic cheerleader she was when she was in high school and I was in mortal combat with puberty.

Even the blossoming sexual traits my airheaded twin sisters displayed became vividly apparent to me. But none of the women in the house compared to the arousal I felt whenever I saw my mom stride through the house in her little shorts or tight jeans. One night, she’d dressed to the nines to join my dad at a business dinner, and I nearly came in my pants seeing her walk in very high heels.

All of the ideas, the wild fantasies, had been fighting the THC in my brain for control. As of tonight, sex won.

“Drugs nothing,” I said in a private joke.

I cleared a spot on my desk for my precious package by sweeping some dusty shit onto the floor. I used my pocket knife to slice open the string that bound it and the tape that sealed the brown wrapper. Inside was a Styrofoam box in two sections. Holding my breath (I realized), I lifted the top half of the box. Inisde were 10 sealed vials and a folded-up piece of paper.

Unfolding it, I realized that Smith was thoughtful enough to give me a printout that provided some guidance. This was virgin territory, so to speak. I broke out my ill-fitting glasses, which promptly slid down my nose. I pushed them back and settled down to read.

My friend: (it began):

This package contains all of your dreams. It is an Aladdin’s lamp of modern chemistry. Each vial contains a synthetic version of the same chemical compound found in the human braine.close (The misspelling alarmed me, to be sure) italicsThe dosage is sufficient to alter one person’s brain chemsitry for a one-hour period, beginning exactly 15 minutes after ingesting it. During that one-hour window, that person will become a human template. Any command or suggestion should be triggered by speaking the person’s name, allowing recognition, and it will become a permanent part of that person’s personality. Since will-power is not involved, there is no limit to these commands. They will not fade or be forgotten. They are irreversable. USE THEM WISELY.

“Smith”

Grabbing a notebook, I began scribbling down random thoughts that had filled my head in recent weeks. Charity begins at home and dinner was only a couple of hours away.

Right on schedule, the Wright family was gathered around the rectangular table. Mitchell Wright sat at the head of the table; my mom, Joanna, was not yet seated at the opposite end; I was sittling alongside my year-younger sister, Marie, a dark-haired cheerleader; while 12-year-old twins Brittany and Brianna sat across from us. Kelly, my oldest sister at age 19, was not here, as usual.

Joanna sat and announced, as if it were a major event, “Michael offered to serve the drinks tonight.” I smiled and went into the kitchen where, out of sight, each member of my family got a entire vial of the magic liquid in their beverage of choice.

“Thank you, hon,” my mom said as she received her usual, a glass of red wine. But she dutifully waited for everyone else to be served.

“Everybody gets their favorite tonight,” I said as I went around the table. One after another, they drank: black coffee for my dad; Diet-Coke for Marie; cherry Kool-Ade for the twins. I had a Coke Zero in the can and another glass of wine awaited Kelly if and when she arrived. Thankfully, she was only 10 minutes late; dinner was eagerly being consumed and the compound had not yet kicked in. True to form, she stormed in smoking a cigarette and sporting two more piercings than she had yesterday -- one in her lower lip and another in her eyebrow. My once-beautiful sister was now a major punk in dress, attitude (complete with black makeup and purple hair) and it was just a matter of time before she conquered her fear of needles long enough to start getting tattooed. More than anyone at the table, I was happy to see her drink.

The twins, as usual, nearly ruined everything.

“Tastes funny,” Brittany said, making a face at her glass.

“Yeah. What’ja do to this?” Brianna chimed in.

“Sorry. I think I might have put in the wrong kind of sweetener,” I said apologetically. “It’s really no different once you start eating. Mom?”

“That’s right. Eat something girls, and it’ll all taste fine,” she said, already into her second glass of bubbly. The twins frowned identical frowns, but drank their Kool-Ade, proverbially and literally, sealing their fate as well.

“You smell like smoke,” Marie said across the table to her older sister, who she once idolized. The twins nodded in agreement.