Short Story - The Cash Cow's Catch-22 part 2

can see this as a whole on my web site or over at my area at fictionpress.com

The Cash Cow's Catch-22 part 2

About a year into that project, I found out what where my research was leading. It seems I was the creator of the latest designer street drug called Pushme. Using the demon blood and a few altercations (like being sent through a handy dandy purification system perfected by yours truly and also a chemical mix again provided by me), I had perfected an awesome thing.

But there were drawbacks. Pesky details that did not taint my genius discovery only worried certain business professionals. It was not a very cost effective drug, allergies develop often and of course the demon blood has to be taken directly because it exists in superposition; no one yet as been able to pinpoint the exact makeup of the molecules that create Frenicali blood. The cat is both alive and dead.

Of course I had decided I wished to work on other things. I was bored and really had moved on. The only thing I wished to take with me from this part of my life was an assistant, a Frenicali. She'd caught my eye during testing and I found talking with her to be easier than anyone I had ever encountered.

I'd found something more important than science.

That was when things changed. The current supply of Frenicalis were not producing enough of the drug to meet demand. And we found that as the Frenicalis mixed in our society they were changing and thus their blood was changing. Universal constants, observer's paradox. I called it Schrödinger's revenge.

It became apparent Pushme had to be artificially synthed or the supply would eventually run out. As it was all of the last viable Frenicali were mysteriously rounded up and placed in farms so they could produce this wonderful drug that let humans be something a little more than they could ever dream of for at least a few moments of time.

She was going to get our lunch. She never came back.

I sold my services and soul so they would not kill her.

Do not try to justify what I did. I knew very well what the drug was and I quickly was able to play things out in my mind. I have an intimate knowledge of both human and demon physiology.

Actually my knowledge of demon anatomy has grown by leaps and bounds these last six years, both on a chemical and, well, also a more physically level. It only took about six months into my service before I stopped caring that we were watched as we touched each other and talked. As my knowledge of demon anatomy was increased through firsthand experience.

She easily draws my worries away leaving just the two of us and no other cares. She is the charmer, I am the snake. Her voice is the mesmerizing melody that calls me from my cold, scientific, deadened zone I occupy when working to release me for the dance of intimacy that we share.

But no trying to give me an out. I know what Pushme does to humans and what the overall effects will be as the drug continues to be pumped into people's veins and lives. I knew probably better than anyone on Earth at that time and still better than anyone now. I am the world's leading specialist on Pushme.

I have calculated everything from death rates and the change in economics as people used the drug to different scenarios of medical and even political reactions to Pushme. And I smirk now as so far I have not been wrong, about anything. All my predications continue to be fulfilled. I am a cutting edge scientist after all.

I did those things so they would not put her in a farm. Instead I produce lots of wonderful things for them to sell and use as well as continuing the research on Pushme. In return, I am allowed time with her and the knowledge she is alive.

So every two weeks when the next high paying customer comes to suck on my love, I am called to a room and sit in a straight backed chair in the corner forgotten as the transaction occurs. It was the only stipulation I ever really made. The only thing I demanded. She would never be used unless I was watching.

When the greedy, slobbering, pandering asses come to milk the cash drug cow, I go and I sit. I never move. Sometimes I think I have willed myself not to blink or breath during the session.

I sit and watch. It reminds me, gives me motivation. Like Ponce de Leon drinking from the Fountain of Youth, I become young again, frisky, driven. This act of rape is my rejuvenation; it is the slap in my face answering the why.

Why the most talented biochemist on the planet Earth slaves 20 hours a day to unleash a steady supply of a material that will end up decimating most who succumb to the siren's deadly call. To manage the marketing feat of mass producing a substance that will bring satisfaction at a rate and price they can afford as they follow the lure of being just a little better than the average Joe.

So, I sit and observe as they take her life fluid.

The life fluid that carries a chemical that when ingested or intermingled with our blood produces a reaction greater than steroids or any other known drug. It enhances the human body to heights that existed only in fairytales. Of course the down side is many develop allergies and can only use the drug for so long before it stops having an affect.

Others develop an addiction to the lifestyle that the false strength and endurance provides. These saps become slaves to a never-ending treadmill that once they are on they have no desire to leave. Then in some, a physical need develops.

Many who develop the physical addiction will carry on to the next phase; a chemical change in their blood. Once this happens they become walking time bombs. If they cut themselves or injure themselves, their blood no longer congeals. Transfusions are like adding poison so even if they stop the bleeding, blood can not be replaced if too much has been loss.

I find it amusing since Pushme came onto the scene 6 years ago the rise in death from paper cuts has increased 300%.

I laugh so hard when I see that one day hemorrhaging will be the leading killer, not heart attacks, cancer, Grendal's plague. Nope it is the deadly paper cut. All because someone wanted to hit 900 home runs this season. They deserve my loathing.

And that is why users will never have my pity. Let them see the fucking tainted factories where Pushme begins its journey. They make chicken and pig farms look cleaner than a holy sanctuary.

Japella my love. I will find the key, I will break the fucking catch-22 cycle.

Cure cancer? Stop Grendal's plague? Synthesize a master antibiotic? No, all I care about is synthing Pushme so I may unhook the leeches from your body. Then we can go to that little café you long for. I will sip Italian ice sodas from a straw with you yet.

Have faith in me darling, my faith in you is the only thing I have left. I pray I can return the same gift to you.