Tony and I will be collaborating on this novella, with Tony taking the narrative lead and me writing scenes he assigns me. -JL
Generation Turned a Chemical Tribe
“You’ll start to feel it in about 10 days, maybe 2 weeks. I wouldn’t sell you this shit if I hadn’t already tried it myself. It’s good to go.”
Vlad had always come through before. Patrick had been using him as a source for 2 years now. He preferred buying online, sending the money orders to Odessa, but the porch bandits took every second package, and at least with Vlad he didn’t have to wait 2 weeks to get his supply.
Patrick had always been a little bit leery of the Slavic ogre. Dude had the craziest brow line he’d ever seen. Some Russians just have that look, he thought to himself, as he watched Vlad get into his BMW and drive away from Patrick’s house.
Patrick was 52, short and muscular, full head of dark hair, and looked 35. He practiced everyday in front of the mirror, trying to look menacing, but had never been in an actual fight, and was not very convincing. Buying his “vitamins” was the only criminal thing he’d ever done. He lived alone, and spent all his time either working his job or working out at the gym.
Right now, he was itching to get inside and pin himself. This shit right here was legendary.
Neanderbol!
He had to try it.
The juice was grunting to him from the package between his still too delicate hands.
Produced in limited quantities in the Soviet Union back in the 70’s, there were stories told of an ampule here and an ampule there turning up, fetching upward of $5000 for 200ml. Lately though, the dark web was humming with rumors of an American who had unlocked the secret of synthesizing it.
They called him Dr. Caveman.
Two Weeks On
Patrick was benching 330, had the lowest body fat he’d ever had, and felt better than any other time in his life. The only side effects he encountered were a few freckles, which he was told would happen, and sore bones.
His girl hands were now roughneck paws.
His aggression level was up, which he viewed as a good thing, and he had ceased cooking his nightly steak.
He got erections you could hammer a nail in with every time he smelled a woman—he could smell women.
Four Weeks On
Patrick got arrested for the first time.
He paced behind the bars.
Patrick was at home with the achievement of his mirror-sought goal.
He tasted the fear-filled air with the back of his tongue every time he inhaled through his nose.
They were bringing him a skinny…
Jameel
“If you wanna keep running your mouth, we’ll put you in the cage with THAT,” the booking officer calmly told Jameel, pointing to the steel cage next to the finger printing station.
THAT, inside the steel cage, was the scariest white dude this side of Appalachia. Fully naked, big-ass muscles, and foaming at the mouth, the vanilla gorilla was thrashing and raging about, grunting and screaming, not even words, just wild animal sounds.
Jameel swallowed hard and thereafter became a practitioner of the fine art of silence.
“Thought so,” The booking officer said. “He’s been in there 12 hours and still shows no signs of letting up. What a fuckin’ fruit loop. If anything, he’s gettin’ madder. He’s already injured the nurse who tried to sedate him. None of the other jail staff want anything to do with him. He’s all mine, unless your smart ass wants to keep him company?”
Jameel smiled with the sweetness of Grandma Maybell, then shook his head ever so gently to the beat of wary negativity.
Doctor Caveman
John Becker was the head of Hölenmensch Pharmaceutical’s vaϲϲine division. The other big wigs would all have heart attacks if they knew what he’d been up to. What he’d been up to was making history. Erasing history, in the long run, is what he hoped for.
The last batch of Neanderbol was good. Better than the Russians ever made. But this new batch was next level. Besides the selective neandrogenic receptor modulators, and the archaic-testo-plasma, “Doctor Caveman” was able to branch together the long chain peptides that created rCMGH. Recombinant Cromagnon growth hormone. His gym rat test subjects all responded favorably, often after just a one-time administration of the drug.
Gym rats, Cromags, Vanilla Gorillas, Cavemen, Neanderbolers, every man on the juice, revered Dr. Becker as a savior.
The world at large was clueless.
Some would later call him a terrorist.
But Dr. Becker held a purely epidemiological perspective. Devil, savior, knuckle-dragger god, Becker saw his work more as inoculating the next generation against something far worse than diphtheria, tetanus, pertussis, measles, mumps, or rubella. He was vaϲϲinating them against a potentially terminal, planetary condition: Modernity.
Organa: The Malfunction of Tray Sorenson
RetroGenesis: And Morning Came: The Thanatos Trajectory
I like where this is goin'!