Payback (standard:science fiction, 2511 words)
Author: Saxon Violence	Added: Dec 03 2012	Views/Reads: 4890/2307	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Connor is a mad scientist bent on revenge, but the form that his vengence takes will surprise you.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


But now the virus was perfected. It would do exactly what Connor had
designed it to do—no more, no less—Certainly no less. It had been very 
tedious mapping out exactly how to build his virus without access to 
human-like primates, or even very many lab animals at all. He had used 
a few mice, rats and guinea pigs along the way... 

But if he came up with a promising drug at work, they might order tests
on several thousand rats at one time. He certainly couldn't afford to 
house and feed so many rats—even in his over-sized basement. And he was 
no Willard. 

He'd developed beyond state of the art imaging and simulating software.
The Software alone would win him a Nobel Prize and make him a 
multi-billionaire, but he cared nothing for such things. He was driven 
by a single idea. 

Now that he had his virus, he had to be extra careful...be a damned
shame to get caught now. 

First of all, he put a quantity of the virus into a roll of Wet-Wipes.
Atlanta had quite a few Bar-Be-Que Restaurants. He visited one a day 
and made a point of appearing mildly Germ Phobic. He wiped down his 
seat and his table with the doctored Wet-Wipes. He wiped his tray and 
his plates. He used the payphone and carefully wiped down the receiver, 
the keys and the coin return slot. 

He wiped the doorknob on the restroom door, the flush lever on the
toilet, and the handles on the sink. He used a small aerosol bottle and 
sprayed the air and into the air ventilation system when he found 
himself the restroom's sole occupant. 

Of course all his money was liberally saturated with virus. 

When he had a dozen Bar-Be-Que places thoroughly contaminated, he
branched out. He went to McDonalds and Wendy's and Colonel-Fried 
Chicken. He went to Chinese restaurants and Steak Houses. 

Next on his list were bus stations. Then he went to the airport. Atlanta
had the World's largest airport. He used payphones, sat in the seats 
and used the facilities. 

And just in case anyone was watching him too closely, he bought several
tickets. He flew to St Louis to see the Arch. He flew to Chicago and 
visited several Museums. Then he flew to New York. 

In all the big cities, he went to the bank and got two stacks of
ten-dollar bills. He went down the heavily trafficked streets in broad 
daylight, when being mugged was a minor concern and he gave a 
ten-dollar bill to every panhandler that he encountered. 

He made a point to use the Taxis often, and he always paid in
contaminated money. 

Finally, he spent three weeks in Tokyo and another two in Paris. 

For the final phase of his plan, he manufactured about eleven pounds of
Pure Chrystal Meth—crushed into a very fine powder. The powder was 
ninety-nine percent pure Methamphetamine and about one percent pure 
virus. 

Injecting, ingesting or snorting the drug was a sure way to infection.
Smokers might kill the virus with their fire but more than likely; 
they'd infect themselves handling the drug. He divided the eleven plus 
pounds evenly into one hundred and sixty overweight “ounce” bags. He 
dropped three brand new unused syringes into each baggie. 

He contacted an acquaintance that he'd been cultivating for some time.
Brad was a down-and-out addict. He was a loser and a biker wanna-bee, 
but he couldn't quit doing drugs long enough to afford a bike. 

Connor had been over-paying Brad to do yard-work and miscellaneous
chores around his homestead for some time. He'd also talked with Brad 
and shared an occasional beer with him. He even gave him a modest 
handout occasionally. 

He'd impressed upon Brad that he had excellent security; beaucoup
security cameras and that he'd be very vengeful if Brad ever tried to 
steal from him, or ever told any of his junkie friends that he was an 
easy touch—he wasn't. 

But as he told Brad, everyone needed at least one friend, and Brad was
his friend, his best friend—his only friend. 

“Brad,” Connor began, “Why do dope-dealers get caught?” 

“Lot of reasons,” Brad said. 

“Mainly because to be a dealer, you need customers,” Connor told him.
“For instance, I'm an excellent chemist. I could manufacture Methedrine 
without buying any red-flag chemicals. I could filter my wastes and my 
air enough that there would be no telltale odors. In fact if I were 
cooking up a batch in my basement right now, would you have any reason 
to suspect?” 

“No,” Brad said. 

“Well I'm not, “ Connor said. “But come into the Garage, I want to show
you something.” 

There was a Brand New, Top-of-the-Line Black Victory Motorcycle. 

“Can you ride that?” Connor asked. 

“I reckon!” Brad said. 

“Well its yours. Here are the keys, and the title and the current
registration. Sign here...” 

“I don't know what to say...” Brad began. 

“I'm not through yet. I know that you're always broke so here's
$500—that should more than cover the title transfer. Can you go 
straight to the License Bureau and get that transferred, and come back 
here—without stopping off someplace to get high? That's important. I 
have something else for you.” 

“What's all this about?” Brad asked. 

He was totally bewildered. 

“Isn't today your birthday? And didn't you tell me that you hadn't
gotten a birthday present since you were a kid?” Connor said. 

********************************* ********************************** 

Brad made it back in good time. 

“If someone made a bunch of drugs as a one-time thing and then cleaned
up quite thoroughly afterwards, there would be minimal risk of getting 
caught, “ Connor said. 

“I can see that, “Brad agreed. 

“Well here is ten pounds of purest Crystal Meth, divided up into
one-ounce bags. This stuff is ninety-nine percent pure. I want you to 
try a tiny hit before you leave, because I want you absolutely 
convinced of its purity. I don't want you, or any of your customers to 
OD.” 

The tiny dab of powder that Connor put into the vial was ninety-nine
percent pure, but the water he used was not. It has several custom 
additives. Including the latest mind-enhancing and alertness enhancers 
that a multi-billion dollar Pharmaceutical Company was working on—under 
Connor's leadership. 

Connor didn't mean any serious harm to come to Brad—though it was an
acceptable risk in his mind—and he sure didn't want the whole batch of 
virus-bearing drugs to end up in an evidence locker somewhere. 

*************************** ************************************* 

Three weeks later, Brad come by to say hello. He told Connor that
shortly after leaving, he'd gotten very paranoid. He'd stashed four of 
the ounce bags and sold the rest of the drug to a medium level drug 
dealer. He'd sold it at a giant discount and had still gotten eight 
thousand dollars cash. He'd also been wise enough to promise much more 
where that came from—to keep down the dealer's temptation to rip him 
off. 

Neither Brad nor Connor knew that the Dealer had stomped the living
daylights out of the pure Meth and had pedaled it to folks who'd went 
all up and down the East Coast selling and using it. 

But Connor was satisfied that his virus was well distributed. It could
survive on a dry surface for years. Sneezing, kissing, sex or any 
exchange of bodily fluids could spread it. It could be ingested or 
injected. About a week after it was contacted, it caused frequent 
sneezing for a couple weeks, but since there were no other symptoms, it 
was largely ignored. 

Then it infiltrated the target tissue, altered the necessary genes and
settled in for the long haul—the infected person remaining infectious 
the rest of his days—though the Virus no longer prompted him to sneeze. 


All Connor had to do, was to wait. It would be awhile—but he should have
many good years left. He decided to concentrate on getting in some 
quality Hunting and Fishing time in while he waited. 

*****************************************
********************************** 

Twenty years later, Connor was back in his hometown. He went to the
local bar and sat down at the bar. The bartender must have weighed 
close to five-hundred pounds. 

“Give me a beer and a shot of Scotch,” Connor told the bartender. 

The man was sitting on a stool, and he grunted and wheezed as he got to
his feet to get Connor his order. 

“You very seldom see a man your age, who is still lean,” The Bartender
said. “You're very lucky, you know.” 

“Luck had very little to do with it, “Connor said. “It's a matter of
exercise, diet and will-power.” 

“Horse Spritz!” The bartender ejaculated. “Haven't you heard the news?
It's a retrovirus. It attacks the fat cells, and radically disposes the 
whole system towards morbid obesity. Over ninety-eight percent of the 
population of Earth is infected.” 

“So you'd get fat, even if you kept your food intake to a bare minimum?”


“Not exactly, but the virus turns the appetite to full-throttle
twenty-four seven, when you don't keep the fat cells satisfied and 
gradually growing. Not even Heroin or pure Amphetamine takes away the 
full-time obsession with food. 

“I had bariatric surgery ten years ago. I got down for a while—but the
intestinal track re-routed itself. The altered body is very good at 
regenerating anything to do with food absorption. 

“I really fought the weight for awhile. Then the Doctor told me that I
could accept gaining thirty-five or forty pounds a year, or I could 
die. At a certain stage, the fat cells have first shot at all the 
essential nutrients. If there isn't enough to go around, the vital 
organs starve to death—even while the fat cells multiply. 

“Say, why don't you know any of this?” The bartender completed his
impromptu lecture. 

“O, I know it all very well—It's just so joyous a thing to hear it all
laid out one more time. You don't remember me, do you—you fat piece of 
Spritz!?! 

“I'm Conner, Michael Doyle's father. Do you remember how you used to
taunt him? 

“ ‘Fatty-Fatty; Two-by-Four—Can't get through the Bathroom Door!' 

“He was just a bit chubby. He was still a boy—but you boys rode him
about his weight until he hung himself. 

“How does it feel, now that the shoe's on the other foot—Fattie?” 

********************************************** *************************


Connor hadn't been all that sure that mankind would survive almost
universal morbid obesity—not that he'd cared—but they'd adapted. As 
many jobs as possible, were automated. Jobs that required agility, 
strength and endurance were almost exclusively the province of those 
still young—and thin enough to do them. 

War was impractical—anyone over thirty was almost certainly too fat to
be a combat NCO, or Field Officer... 

Besides, the young and trim were too valuable a resource to cast away
lightly. 

Connor had altered his own DNA—first of all, to make himself immune to
the Virus, but secondly—just to make some drastic improvements. 

He'd allowed his face and hair to age—for the moment—but his body should
be around for a long, long time. It was a good thing that he'd infected 
one other with the immortality retrovirus, he reflected. 

Everyone needs at least one friend. 


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