The Ant - Chapter 2 (899 hits)
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Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-01-15 23:53:54 EST
(Chapter 1 http://www.ubersite.com/m/56777)
CHAPTER 2 - It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time
On a lazy Saturday morning near the end of a hot and humid August, Rob Collison had been relaxing on the boat he called home on Pier 39's D dock. The following advertisement in the Bulletin Board section on the back page of the Bay Area Guardian caught his eye:
< WANTED: Adults 20-40 yrs with Type I diabetes for trial of new gene therapy treatment. Program involves 14 day isolation period at our San Francisco facility while members of sample group are given new drug or placebo. Some minor reactions to drug treatment can be expected. Generous compensation for your time. Food & Drug Administration has approved human testing after three years of studies on laboratory animals in which the most recent applications of Pi\c95A show a 100% success rate. Call the Pfaltzer Institute at (415) 398-0333 8am-6pm before Aug. 25 for dates and times of orientation sessions. >
Rob showed the ad to his wife Megan and asked what she thought of it. She said she didn't like the sound of it, and asked Rob why he wanted to be a lab rat. "I want you here with me," she said, "not dead after being pumped full of some experimental drug."
Rob wrote down the number anyway, sure that he'd never pursue it.
On August 24th, he called the number from a pay phone. The voice on the other end said they could not give any details over the phone, but if he'd like to come down to the Institute for an orientation session they could schedule an appointment. Rob agreed to go.
Two days later, after making an excuse to Megan and calling his boss to say he was taking a sick day, Rob left the boat and took a bus down to the Pfaltzer Institute on Arguello Street, a few blocks from California.
The Institute was housed in a new five-story building on a small landscaped lot. There were a security guard and a receptionist just inside the front door. He filled out a line on a sign-in sheet, clipped a pass marked VISITOR to his shirt, and followed a young guy down the hall.
"We've got a good group today," the guy said. He was wearing a dark blazer. A name tag identified him as Mr. Parkhurst. "This is the last orientation. After this, we choose who we want out of the volunteers. It's just a short video presentation, followed by a Q & A session with Doctor Pfaltzer himself. His assistant, Doctor Schroedecker, will be there as well. And we'll be serving light refreshments. This way."
Rob was led into a small auditorium. There were twenty or so people filling a third of the plush seats in the room. At the front of the room a screen had been lowered before a small stage.
"Just in time," Parkhurst whispered, as the lights began to dim. He guided Rob to a seat and went away.
"Good evening," a jovial, Germanic voice said, issuing from speakers in the walls. "Welcome to the Pfaltzer Institute. I am the gentleman for whom the Institute is named. We shall enjoy a short presentation explaining why you are here, then my colleague and I shall answer all your questions. Now we begin."
Light flickered on the screen, and Rob suddenly had an absurd craving for popcorn. A little pinkish cartoon blob began dancing across the screen to the accompaniment of hideous plinking music.
"Say hello to your pancreas!" an obscenely eager voice said.
The blob danced around a bit more, then it contracted in the middle, and Rob nearly laughed. It looked like it was taking a shit.
"A healthy pancreas produces insulin!" the voice said, as little black dots like rabbit turds spilled out of the pinkish blob. "And we all know how vital insulin is, don't we? Of course we do!"
Rob suddenly wished he could slug the announcer, who he was willing to bet did not have diabetes. It was like happily announcing to a room full of amputees, "We all know how important legs and arms are, don't we?"
The pink blob shuddered and slowed down. The rabbit turds were cut off, and the blob turned gray.
"Uh-oh!" the announcer said, still sounding eager, and positively thrilled to be the bearer of bad news. "Sometimes the plucky little pancreas isn't quite up to scratch, and doesn't do it's job properly. That's why all of you are here, and that's where the Pfaltzer Institute comes in."
A needle appeared, wickedly sharp and gleaming. Rob had only a moment to wonder why the needle was drawn in such detail. In contrast to the happy blob that was the pancreas, the needle looked downright terrifying. It plunged into the pancreas, which shivered and jittered and seemed to be struggling to escape.
"Fuck," Rob whispered, noticing a young woman one seat ahead and to his left flinching.
Someone else hissed, "Jesuschrist."
The announcer was back. "What you are seeing is the injection of a new drug that works wonders!"
A stream of coruscating particles poured out of the needle and into the interior of the blob, where they looked for all the world like tiny fireworks. The blob-like pancreas turned from gray to a healthy pink as the tiny fireworks continued to flash and sparkle inside of it. It began to bob around again to the plinking background music.
Rob shook his head. If a real pancreas ever tore loose its moorings and began to shuck and jive like that, he thought, it might not be such a good thing. The viewpoint suddenly zoomed in on one of the fiery particles until it filled the screen with colors. Then a chyron appeared over it: Pfaltzer i/c95A.
"Yes, this new Pfaltzer insulin compound was approved for human testing in May of this year by the Food and Drug Administration."
The cartoon faded, and was replaced with a bird's eye view of a cage full of white mice.
"With your help, we will test this marvelous new creation on you. We know you won't be disappointed. All twelve of these little fellows were bred with diabetes, and every one of them is now healthy and producing its own insulin."
All of the mice had tiny tags on their ears, inscribed with numbers and letters. They were all digging and snuffling in the shredded paper that lined the cage. A few were nibbling at something. One passed a large watery smear of feces that stained the paper behind it.
"There are a few benign side-effects... occasional nausea, diarrhea, headaches, and among our female test subjects, mild cramps."
"Oh, great," said the woman who had flinched earlier.
"The Pfaltzer insulin compound," the announcer said, "Is a radical new approach to the problem of diabetes. The causes and effects of the disease have been narrowed down, but it still cannot be cured. That's where we come in. The Pfaltzer insulin compound is engineered genetic material, pancreatic genetic material, which when it is injected into the host pancreas, regenerates the insulin producing capability within five to seven days. It's a miracle of modern science. We-"
At that point Rob got up to take a piss. What he was sitting through seemed to be directed at ten year-olds. He wouldn't miss much.
When he got back to the auditorium the lights were on and the screen was gone. A middle-aged, goateed man in a dignified blue-pinstripe suit was standing behind a podium. Another old-timer, wearing a spectacularly hideous suit of vomit-colored tweed, sat in a wooden chair on the stage. He was short, bald, and clean-shaven save for a small, pointy white beard. The appearance and bearing of both men reeked of the Continent.
The man at the podium was speaking, his German accent quite heavy. "...and this technology will even be used one day to cure baldness."
He looked over his shoulder at the bald guy. The bald guy glared. A ripple of laughter passed through the assembly.
"Genetic material has been shot into bald mice, where they got the bald mice, who knows, but the material was applied directly to the damaged, defective hair-growing cells and the mice grew hair. They-"
He broke off and peered at the back of the room. "You are a latecomer?" the man at the podium asked Rob.
Rob shrugged and pointed to his zipper, realizing too late that not only the old guy but every other person in the room was staring at him. There was a wave of quiet laughter as Rob took his seat.
The old man introduced himself. "I am Doctor Ernst Pfaltzer." He gestured to the man behind him. "This is my colleague, Doctor Wolfgang Schroedecker. I've been telling your co-volunteers... excuse me, your potential co-volunteers -I would not want to twist anybody by the arm- what to expect."
There was more gentle laughter. Everybody seemed to love the old guy. He must do a hell of a warm-up act, Rob thought.
"If you agree to take part in the experiment," The doctor explained, "Fifteen of you will be our guests for two weeks. During the first two days you will be in our intensive care facility. Don't let the words alarm you. It is simply a place where we can keep a look-out for your safety, watching you with utmost care for the first forty-eight hours. The remainder of the time will be spent in our recovery ward and then in your own private rooms. We will like to keep an eye on you so we can accurately chart the side-effects, which I can assure you will be mild. When we are sure that the compound has cured you, and I do not speak out of turn when I use the word 'cure,' you will be free to go, but afterwards we would like to see you one day a month for the next year."
Rob thought this was gonna take a lot of commitment.
"We will reimburse you for your time, of course. Each of the monthly visits will net you twenty-five dollars, and the checkup will only require a quick physical and a sample of blood, say forty-five minutes, and for the stay during the study you will receive compensation at the same rate, twenty-five dollars for twenty-four hours a day at fourteen days will give you eight thousand, four hundred dollars."
There were gasps among the crowd. Rob was alarmed.
"And," Doctor Pfaltzer said, "Because of the nature of this income, the IRS will not be exacting its full pound of flesh."
This brought laughter, and a scattering of applause. "Now is the time for questions, I believe."
People glanced around. Nobody wanted to be first.
Rob saw a guy at the far end of his row eyeing a Latina girl who was sprawling comfortably in a cotton shirt and blue jeans, both of which appeared ready to spring their seams. The guy kept dipping a hand into his crotch like he was trying to re-align his testicles after an unexpected bit of torsion.
Near the girl was a fat guy who was slowly cramming a chocolate bar into his mouth. For some reason the fat guy's mechanical chewing reminded Rob of the scene in the old black and white King Kong where the big guy picks up a fleeing native and gnaws on him like he's a strip of good jerky.
There was a long silence. Pfaltzer frowned and cleared his throat. Rob thought that Whateverdecker looked like a clever waxwork.
Flinching woman spoke first. "Is it safe?"
The doctor smiled like a grand-dad on a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover. "Instead of asking me such a question," the doctor said, rummaging in one suit coat pocket, "Why do you not ask one of my assistants?"
He plucked a little white mouse from his pocket. Its eyes were as red as rubies, and its whiskers twitched as it sniffed the air. It had a tiny metal tag on its left ear. The doctor suddenly raised both arms, forming a big T.
Rob rolled his eyes. If he starts making airplane noises I'm outta here!
The doctor peered at the mouse which was now sitting on the back of his right hand. "How are you feeling today, Herman?" The mouse suddenly ran up the man's arm, across his back, and down his other arm to his left hand. As the doctor straightened up and opened his left hand Rob saw a piece of cheese there. Herman went to work on it immediately.
"He seems very healthy," Pfaltzer said, "And he received the compound only three weeks ago."
There was another bout of scattered applause.
An intense-looking black guy who looked like he'd been carved out of mahogany said, "Mice are not people, Doctor Pfaltzer. Will we be safe?"
The doctor sobered quickly. "Your government would not have approved its application on human beings it there were any serious questions as to its detrimental effects," he replied.
Rob wasn't surprised when the word thalidomide popped into his head.
The black guy looked around, as if hoping someone else would ask an intelligent question. He got a bitter glare from a bony, sallow-faced girl to his left.
"We are, after all, asking for volunteers," The doctor said in a soothing voice, scratching Herman behind the ear with one pinky. "No one is going to hold to your head a gun, young man."
Flinching woman beamed at the doctor and shot the black guy a shitty look. He wasn't done yet, however.
"Where," he asked, "does the insulin compound come from? What exactly is it?"
The doctor put Herman back in his pocket. "Its source is the same as the source of the insulin you draw into a needle and inject into your body, every single day. It comes from the gut of a pig. It has been altered and blended with a simple bacterium which is common to the digestive tracts of pig and man. It will seek out the lining of the pancreas, settle in, and grow into, for all intents and purposes, a new insulin-producing organs, new Islets of Langerhans."
The black guy looked agitated. "You're gonna inject a living thing into a human body, let it seek out a specific biological target within that body, then let it anchor itself and grow into something else? I've never heard of such a thing!"
A few members of the audience looked alarmed, including Rob. He gave the black guy a nod, glad that somebody was on their feet.
The doctor sighed and scratched his beard. "You have never heard of -excuse me ladies- sexual intercourse? Fertilization? Pregnancy?" He shook his head, looked amused.
There was more applause after this. The black guy looked around sheepishly, Rob giving him a shrug, and then he sank down into his seat like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.
A guy with receding brush cut hair the color of a nicotine stain sitting two rows down from Rob muttered, "Dumb fuck." He was an ugly, tough-looking bastard, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, his arms covered in tattoos.
The doctor looked out over the small crowd. "Trust me when I tell you, you have nothing to fear. I too am a diabetic. I know what it is like to have to puncture yourself with a steel needle everyday, injecting something that everyone else given to them naturally. I know the frustration. The needles. The special diets. The health risks. This treatment, an application of Pi\c95A, will eliminate all of that. You will be... free."
Rob breathed a sigh of relief. For a second he thought the old guy was going to say, 'you will be normal.' That would've really pissed him off.
A hand went up, and Rob saw that the young black guy was bravely giving it one more go. "Have you had the treatment, doctor?"
Pfaltzer shook his head. "No, I am sad to say. It appears not to work in the old, as it cannot for some reason gain a foothold there. And it does not work in the very young or the adolescent, too many surging hormones get in the way. That is why we chose your age group. Young. Healthy. Strong. But mature, and as developing internal systems go, stable."
He seemed satisfied with that answer and then added, "Of course ladies, there is only a very narrow window in your monthly cycle during which we can administer the treatment -hormones, hormones!- so don't be surprised if you are discounted on that basis."
The rest of the session went quickly, the doctor telling them that if they signed up they would have to bring three pieces of ID and sign, "A cartload of forms, oh my, so many forms!"
When he left the Pfaltzer Institute, Rob still wasn't sure he'd sign up or not.
Wondering why the bald doctor hadn't said anything during the question period, he looked back through the glass doors. He saw people take seats in the lobby and begin filling out forms, even the young black guy.
"Damn," Rob said.
He got half a block from the building when he passed a middle-aged woman with a boy of about ten or eleven heading toward the Institute.
She was practically dragging him by the wrist with one hand. In the other she held a little black plastic case. "Never!" She whispered harshly. "Nevernevernever forget! It's too important! Never!"
The little boy burst into tears as his mother thrust the black case, containing his syringe and insulin, into his free hand. Rob watched as the crying boy was dragged down the sidewalk and through the doors of the Institute, and then a moment later he turned back toward the building.
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-08-03 11:28:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Supreme Overlord damage control...
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:20:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-02-08 11:58:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-01-19 16:03:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Y'know, I called (415) 398-0333, and no one answered - what gives? I want the $8400 too!
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-01-19 14:34:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
!Fantastico!
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-01-17 11:33:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2005-01-17 11:26:57 (#)
Ranking: 2
Don't do it Rob.
--
He doesn't take your advice. Read today's installment...
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2005-01-17 11:26:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Don't do it Rob.
Submitted by mikethescottish (user info) at 2005-01-16 15:43:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Top banana.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-01-16 15:12:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Long? Yes. This story needs as much foundation in reality as possible for some of the over the top stuff to come.
Submitted by metroidkillah (user info) at 2005-01-16 11:21:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I meant just this one post, Sass.
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (user info) at 2005-01-16 09:13:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice work. Not that you didn't know that already.
Submitted by Sassmasterr (user info) at 2005-01-16 01:52:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
metroid you dumbfuck! he did break it up...hence the link to part 1
Submitted by metroidkillah (user info) at 2005-01-16 00:43:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Decent writing, but waaaaaaay too long. Pehaps you could have broken it up into two or three posts.