Date: Sun, 2 Aug 2015 14:31:11 +0000 (UTC)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: White Noise, Part 1

White Noise 1
Part 1 of 10

z119z

© by the author 2015

I welcome comments. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.


Prologue: Stage 4

The headline in the science section of the newspaper caught his eye.
"Autumnal High Noon" revealed that this year autumn officially began
exactly at 12:00:00 noon EDT. The writer tried to make a big deal out of
that—the odds of the seasons changing exactly at noon were so
vanishingly small. What he didn't say was the odds of it happening at any
given second were equally small. It had to happen at some point on the
clock. 12:00:00 wasn't magic. Just an unlikely looking coincidence. It
wasn't as if 12:00:00 EDT coincided with the solar noon throughout the
Eastern Daylight Time Zone anyway. Given the width of the zone, it was
possible that along one longitude autumn began at exactly solar noon. The
article was the trash science typical of the newspapers—long on
speculation and short on science.

Still, he liked the symbolism of the moment. The world poised on the cusp
of moving from days that were longer than nights to nights that were longer
than days at exactly the moment the sun stood right overhead, at least
according to the clock. He wasn't superstitious. It wasn't magical that it
was happening exactly at noon, but still there was something to be made of
the double change from am to pm and from summer to autumn.

Because he was all about change, alteration, modification, improvement.
Most of all, improvement. A change that wasn't an improvement was a waste
of time. The end product had to be better than the inputs. He was very
fortunate that he had the tools and resources to make that happen.  He
could do what others could only dream about. He could imagine an ideal and
then bring it about.

He had been wondering when to begin Stage 4. It was so momentous. It was
fitting that he do something to mark the moment. Begin something just at
noon at the moment of the autumnal equinox. Then complete it at the exact
moment of another equinox or solstice. Nothing less than a cosmic alignment
was a propitious time to begin or end his new creation.

There was still a week to go before the equinox. That would give him enough
time to prepare.


Chapter 1

"Is your leg still bothering you?"

"A bit."

"The way you're limping, it's more than a bit."

"It's this weather. Cold, damp weather always makes my joints ache."

"Let me have a look."

"It's fine. Don't fuss at me."

Michael let more of his irritation show than he intended. Nothing was going
to fix his leg, and it didn't help to have Jeff come running and hover over
him pestering him with exaggerated expressions of concern every time he
winced when he put his weight on it. Well, they weren't exaggerated. At the
very least, he owed Jeff honesty. Jeff was concerned. "Exaggerated" was an
expression of his annoyance. But he should know better by now than to react
to the pain around Jeff. He had to develop the ability to keep his face
neutral when Jeff was present and a sudden stab of pain racked his body.

The attention from Jeff was an unwelcome reminder that he was damaged and
would be for the rest of his life. It wasn't as if he would ever forget
that, but dealing with Jeff's worries didn't help. Jeff just added to the
burden of the pain because it hurt him twice—once from the physical pain
he experienced and once from the anguish his pain caused Jeff. Things
weren't going to get any better, and the doctors were noncommittal when he
asked if they might get worse. He had to learn to live with the pain and
not burden others with it.

And now Jeff had that slightly aggrieved look on his face that he got when
his help was refused. After five years, Michael knew all the subtle hints
that played across Jeff's face. Perhaps that was what love meant—that
you stayed around long enough and cared enough to observe your lover in
such detail that you learned to read his thoughts.

It was so hard on Jeff. Love combined with guilt. It didn't matter that he
had told Jeff over and over that he was not responsible for what had
happened. Jeff still felt guilty for the role he had played. Michael hoped
he didn't exploit that guilt. He tried to reassure himself that love was
behind his reliance on Jeff. He wasn't capable of getting by either
physically or emotionally without Jeff's help. The alternative would be to
hire someone to come in and help him or to live in an assisted living
apartment. He didn't want either of those. He didn't want a stranger whose
got paid by the hour to be caring. And he certainly didn't want to be in an
assisted living facility. He had been in one of those for two weeks after
he had been discharged from the hospital. Never again. He would commit
suicide before he went back to one of those warehouses. But he couldn't
live by himself. He needed a combination of nurse and personal aide to
survive daily life. What were small, insignificant acts for others were
challenges for him, sometimes even insurmountable obstacles.

He was lucky that Jeff was willing to be that person. If you love someone
as he loved Jeff, then you had to be willing to allow that person to
express his love for you by doing things for you. It didn't matter whether
you needed his help or not. You had to be willing not to be totally
independent. You had to share your life and do things together.

It didn't help that Jeff was so gorgeous. Jeff could have anyone he wanted.
An agent had once come up to them when they were drinking coffee at a
Starbucks and given Jeff her card and offered to find Jeff jobs as a model.
The woman hadn't even acknowledged his existence. It was as if she couldn't
bring herself to see a man whose left eyelid drooped permanently at
half-mast, whose nose swerved to the right of center, whose left ear was
misshapen, who relied on a cane to stay upright as he shuffled along. The
reconstructive surgery on his face had undone the worst damage, but it left
the skin taut and immobile. The scars on his face may have been almost
erased by plastic surgery, but his whiskers did not grow through the scar
tissue, nor did those areas tan. Two or three hours after he shaved the
remnants of the scars were visible as channels of livid white flesh bounded
by his heavy, fast-growing black beard.

Occasionally when he was out with Jeff on the street or in a restaurant, he
would catch someone's eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them
and clearly wondering how someone as handsome as Jeff got stuck with
someone who looked like him. Beauty and the beast. What story did they make
up to account for the link between the two of them? Most likely they
thought Jeff was a nurse hired to take care of him. What pity they felt was
probably directed toward Jeff for having to deal with him. Well, better
Jeff than himself. There were times he pitied Jeff too for being yoked to
him.

Sometimes he was tempted to walk over and tell the gawker, "I just got
lucky." It would be no more than the simple truth. He had been incredibly
lucky. In the hospital, after the "accident," some of the nurses and
doctors had hid their feelings about his looks by being overly bright and
jolly. He could see them pause for a second or two before entering his room
and assuming a mask of cheerfulness. Others hid their feelings behind a
sterile professional demeanor. He preferred the second group. At least with
them, he didn't have to force himself to pretend to be in good spirits.

And then there was Jeff. That day when he had emerged from the haze that
engulfed him in the aftermath of the accident, Jeff had been sitting next
to the hospital bed. IV stands on both sides of the bed were attached to
tubes in his arms. The incessant beeps from a bank of monitors reassured
everyone that he was still alive. His mouth was wired shut, and air was
pushed in and pulled out of his lungs through a tracheotomy tube connected
to a pump. Jeff had threaded both of his hands through the sidebars of the
bed frame, taking care not to disturb the various attachments, and was
holding his right hand. Not squeezing, just gently sharing his warmth and
life. When Jeff saw that his eyes were open and trying to focus, he
smiled. A radiant smile. For a second the flood of emotions surging through
him had been more painfully intense than the wounds he had suffered. Love
at first smile.

He would tell Jeff that one day. He would have to pick the moment
carefully. Jeff didn't like to talk about the accident. The "accident."
Their euphemism for what had happened. "Oh, Michael was in a bad accident.
But don't mention it to him. He doesn't like to talk about it."  He had
overheard Jeff whisper that once at a party. Jeff tried to make it sound as
if he had been hit by a drunk driver or had walked in front of a bus or
something. The truth was much worse, but Jeff never talked about that. At
least not with him. And it was Jeff who didn't like to talk about it. Maybe
someday Jeff would be able to discuss it. He hoped so. He was working on
helping Jeff accept what had happened. Neither one of them would be healed
until they could talk about what had happened. Just the two of them. But
that was for the future. Right now, he needed to mend a fence. Sometimes
you owe the person you love the courtesy of a small lie. It doesn't matter
if he knows that you are lying as long as he understands the love behind
the gesture.

"Maybe we should try massaging some of the cream in. Sometimes that helps.
Could you get it? It's in my dresser. The top drawer, on the left."

Seconds later he heard the drawer sliding open and the click of pill
bottles being pushed around. "Do you need to take any of your pills right
now? I can bring them." Jeff called from the bedroom.

"No thanks. I'm all set for now. I've just got the two to take with dinner
and then the usual pre-bed ones."

Jeff returned to the living room bearing the tube of ointment. It didn't
really do much good. It kept the scar tissue supple, but that was about
it. But it would give Jeff something to do and they would both pretend that
it helped. He eased his pants over his hips and down to his ankles,
exposing his legs. He studiously avoided seeing them, superimposing a
memory of wholeness on them.

"I think it's looking better," Jeff said. "Not so red."

"Is it? That's good. Doctor will be `pleased' with my progress."

They both chuckled. It was one of their jokes. Dr. Cameron was always
"pleased" with Michael's progress. That was another of the building blocks
of their relationship, of any relationship, he supposed. The thousand
little ways in which two people were linked, none important in itself, none
meaningful to anyone else. The small things that made up a shared day.

"Oh, that feels good."

Jeff smiled shyly at him. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"No, no, it's fine." He watched the strong fingers massaging the cream into
the flesh above his right knee. "Do you think my leg is getting bigger? I
think the new set of exercises Joe has me doing is beginning to pay off."

Jeff drew back a bit and regarded Michael's leg judiciously. "There's
definitely better definition." He was happy to be asked and happy to supply
some improvement.

Michael watched him. Jeff was so beautiful. So alive. The lock of brown
hair that usually swept across his forehead from left to right tumbled
forward as he bent over Michael's leg. The tip of his tongue poked the
flesh of his cheek out from the inside. He always did that when he was
concentrating. Michael reached out and laid his hand on Jeff's shoulder.

"Am I hurting you? Should I stop?" Jeff looked up in alarm.

"No, no, you're not hurting me. I was just watching the muscles in your arm
and shoulder, and I wanted to feel them move." The gesture had been
impulsive, the reflection of a sudden need to be in contact. He wasn't sure
if the reason he had offered Jeff was the truth. Sometimes he just needed
to be in contact, to reassure himself that Jeff was real and not just an
illusion conjured out of hope and desire.

"If you like, I'll undress and you can feel all my muscles." Jeff hunched
over and pressed his groin against Michael's thigh.

"Hmmm. I think I'd like that. But are you sure this is a muscle?" He
grabbed the crotch of Jeff's jeans and squeezed.

"Always so technical."

"Always so horny when you're around?"

"Only when I'm around?"

"Sometimes I daydream when you're not here. If I can't have the real thing,
at least I can think about it."

Jeff giggled and pushed his crotch into Michael's hand. Michael stroked it
for a few seconds and then moved his hand to the back of Jeff's neck. He
guided Jeff's face down toward his. They kissed.

*****

Mark hesitated. He glanced at the name and address of the store he had
written on a slip of paper the night before after consulting the store's
website and the comments on Yelp. From the opposite side of the street, he
checked and rechecked the information on the slip of paper against the
tarnished metal numbers on the door and the name on the sign above the
front window. The paint on the sign had become chipped and streaked with
dirt over time. The sign needed to be repainted. It wasn't that he was
uncertain that he had found Foster's Sandman Shop at 2216 Buchanan
Street. Mark knew he was at the right address, but something about the
store made him uneasy. All the reviews on Yelp had praised the Sandman
Shop—often in extravagant terms—but none of the pictures posted
online had prepared him for the dreary reality of the place.

All the stores on that section of Buchanan Street were run down, tired
looking. Dented aluminum siding or shingles over tarpaper covered the upper
stories of the building. Every shop had metal shutters and grills that
could be fastened across the windows and doors at night. On most of the
stores, handwritten signs written in broad strokes with colored felt-tip
pens covered the windows and prevented him from seeing inside. Those on the
front of the liquor store next to Foster's advertised sales of cheap beers
and wines and brands of vodka and whiskey that Mark had never heard of.
From their tattered corners and faded colors, Mark guessed that they had
been there a long time.

An old woman lugged a cloth shopping bag bulging with groceries past the
Sandman Shop and the liquor store. As Mark watched, she shifted the bag
from her left to her right hand. The bottom of the bag skimmed the
ground. It must be heavy. Like the street, she looked tired and run
down. She scurried along the sidewalk as if she wanted to get home as
quickly as possible and shut out the world.

It was only 5:30, yet the street was almost deserted. He could see the
elevated tracks leading to the subway station only a block away. He would
have expected to see more people coming home from work—the trains were
always packed at this hour.  Now that he thought of it, the station had
been quiet for this time of day. No one had been waiting to board, and he
had been one of only a half-dozen people to get off the crowded
train. There was none of the usual surge of people colliding at the doors
of the cars. By the time he found the exit he wanted at the unfamiliar
station, the other passengers had melted away, leaving him descending the
open metal stairway down to the street level alone.

The street lights buzzed and flickered on. The days were getting
shorter. Colder too. Mark shivered. He stuck his hands in the pockets of
his jacket and pinned his arms close to his body. He almost turned
back. The neighborhood made him uncomfortable, and his first impulse was to
get out of there.  But Foster's Sandman Shop had what he wanted. In fact it
appeared to be the only place in all of New York City that did. He had left
work early in the hope of avoiding the rush. Still it had taken him an
hour's ride on the subway to get there. Even if he left without going in
and buying what he wanted, it would take him at least 45 minutes to get
home, and that was only if he didn't have to wait too long for the trains
he wanted. In the end, he decided he might as well go in. He would get what
he wanted and then leave as quickly as possible.

Foster's Sandman Shop wasn't large, but it had the high ceilings of a
previous age. Harsh florescent lighting from ceiling fixtures bounced off
the waist-high glass display cases that extended across the back of the
store and along the sides. The store was too bright, and the strong smell
of incense did not completely mask an underlying odor of mold and ancient
dust. Mark frowned. Smells bothered him. If he stayed for very long, he
would get a headache. A narrow walkway behind the cases separated them from
shelves filled with boxes, presumably holding unopened copies of the items
on display. Colored crystals and small glass objects hung by chains from
metal stands atop the display cases and reflected the overhead lights,
staining the walls and floor with bright splotches of red and green and
blue.  A young man standing behind the counter on the right-hand side was
showing an oddly dressed woman a tray of small objects. They were deep in
an intense conversation, and the clerk barely glanced up and nodded when he
heard the door open. Mark stepped over to the opposite side and peered at
the objects arranged on the glass shelves of the display cases. He had to
bend over to see them. The cords attached to some of the small devices made
it clear they were powered by electricity. Others appeared to be battery
operated. One shelf held goggles with short, stubby antennas attached to
one side. Those had to be the self-hypnosis and concentration masks
featured so prominently on Foster's web page. The mirrored finishes on the
eye pieces reflected distorted and oddly colored images of his face.

"May I help you, Sir?" An older, white-haired man pushed aside the curtain
covering the doorway to the back of the shop and sidled in, letting the
curtain fall back into place. He had to be the owner, Mark decided. The
younger man must be an employee. Or maybe the man's son. It looked like a
family business. If so, he felt sorry for the son. Imagine being stuck in
this place because your dad needed help and was too cheap to hire a
clerk. A story of their family life flashed through his
mind—domineering, demanding father; resentful, overworked son.

The man was looking at him expectantly, waiting for Mark to speak. Mark
suddenly felt bashful. His request seemed so trivial and silly. It
embarrassed him to talk about it, as if he were confessing a fault, a
perverse oversensitivity to something anyone else would barely
notice. Mark's eyes slid away from the man and focused on the shelves
behind him. "Uh, yeah. I've got a new neighbor upstairs who comes in late
at night? He makes a lot of noise and wakes me up?" Worse, now his voice
was rising at the end of his sentences. He hated it when he found himself
doing that. It made him sound like some teenage girl. Mark coughed and
swallowed and then started again. "One of my co-workers suggested I look
into white noise machines. I Googled them and found your website. I thought
I'd come by and check out what you have. Do they really cover up noise?"

"Oh, yes. They work very well." The man had a very smooth voice. It sounded
trained, like an actor's or a radio announcer's. Surprisingly educated for
this neighborhood. "There are different models, depending on the intended
use. All of them cover up noise, but some of them prevent people more than
a few feet away from hearing a conversation. The white sound they generate
is designed to intercept the normal range of the human voice. Others are
designed to cover up the usual environmental noises—traffic, sirens,
machinery—that sort of thing. They generate a different sort of white
sound. Then we have models that are aimed at both sorts of noise. It sounds
like you need one of the latter. Let me show you."

The man slid open a panel at the rear of the counter and took out a small,
round white cylinder about three inches high and five inches wide. "This is
the Sandman 2100. We have them made especially to our design, and it's one
of the most popular models for nighttime use. It will effectively mask
about 90 percent of external sound. The other 10 percent is usually not
enough to wake anyone. Let me demonstrate it for you." The clerk unwound
the electrical cord and then plugged it into a socket at the base of the
shelves behind him. The plastic housing encasing the device had diagonal
slits in it. The clerk twisted the top of the cylinder to open them and
then pressed a switch.

"We just got these in . . ."  The younger clerk's conversation with the
other customer was immediately cut off as the shop filled with a sound like
a fan blowing. Both of them glanced over. The younger clerk smiled at Mark
and said something. Mark saw his lips move but heard no sound. Mark
suddenly realized that all the street noise had disappeared. "That's
amazing." He could hear himself speak, but his voice lacked depth. It was
like the sound was swallowed up as soon as it exited his mouth. The older
clerk smiled at him and turned the machine off. The sounds from outside
came rushing back.

"What was that?" asked the other customer.

"It's a white noise machine," explained the younger clerk. "It drowns out
other sounds. People use them so that they can sleep at night or so that
they can talk or make noise without other people hearing. We sell a lot of
them."

"It's also adjustable," said the older clerk. "This switch can be set for
either high or low volume, and the cowling around the machine can be
rotated to open and close these ports. You adjust it to the level you
need. The top settings are too noisy for most people at first. We recommend
that you keep the volume low when you begin using the machine and then
increase the sound level gradually as you get used to the machine. It
generally takes about a week or so to learn to tolerate the higher
settings. Of course, the higher the volume, the more external sound the
machine drives out.  If you're using it to prevent others from hearing a
conversation, however, you need to turn it down a bit or you won't be able
to hear what the person you're talking to is saying unless they're talking
right into your ear."

"I want one of those," said the other customer. "There is a new baby next
door, and the crying is keeping us up. That's just what we need."

Mark decided he wanted one as well. "I'll take one too."

The man Mark had identified as the shop owner handed the younger clerk a
bright blue box with a picture of the Sandman 2100 on it.  "I'll just be a
moment, Sir. That's was the last of these machines we had out front. I'll
run back and get a unit for you. We just received a new shipment of these,
fresh from the factory. It won't take a moment, Sir"

Mark wandered around the store looking at the other merchandise while he
was waiting. The stock was varied, to say the least. A rotating stand of
subliminal learning tapes sat on a case filled with crystals; medallions
with new age symbols were displayed beside books on meditation. The younger
clerk rang up the other customer's purchases and bagged them. "Thank you,
and come again."

The clerk held the door open for the women and then walked over to where
Mark was standing. "Can I show you anything else, Sir, while you're waiting
for Mr. Foster to come back?"

So I was right, thought Mark. The older guy is the owner. "What are these
crystals for?" He wasn't really that curious about them, but he had to do
something to fill the time while he waited for Foster to return. And the
clerk was definitely worth looking at. A little conversation would help
keep him in view. To judge from the way his arms and chest shaped his
shirt, he spent a few hours each day at the gym working out. The gaydar
wasn't ringing at full volume, but it wasn't sending negative "back-off,
full-het" alarms either. So maybe. Worth a try anyway. A bit of
conversation wouldn't hurt. You never knew when you might get
lucky. Perhaps the clerk would offer to teach him how to use the
white-noise machine.

"They're used as an aid in focusing the attention, Sir. Here, let me show
you."  The clerk pulled out a tray of crystals from the cabinet and held up
a clear blue diamond-shaped crystal on a chain. It caught the light as it
slowly swung back and forth on the chain. "You hang this at around eye
level and then focus on it while you meditate. It helps order the mind. You
can see that the crystal is very clear. You just stare at it and then relax
your thoughts and make the mind as clear and as pure as the crystal as you
focus on it."

The clerk's voice was soft and relaxing. Mark could see that the crystal
might work. Not that it had magical powers. He didn't believe that, but it
was effective at catching your eyes and holding your attention. He watched
it swing back and forth. "I don't meditate."

"That's all right, Sir. It can be used to help you relax. It's good
practice just to concentrate on it and then relax. It helps to remove
tension and prepares you for whatever task you want to focus on. Many
people use it to train themselves to have better concentration."

"I see that Jeff is introducing you to our crystals," said Mr. Foster as he
came out of the back room. "You'll find that they can be used with the
Sandman 2100. The machine will eliminate all noise, and the crystal can be
used to focus your attention. Many people find that sensory isolation helps
them concentrate. Let me give you the one Jeff is holding up. You can try
it—if it works, you might want to come back and try out some of our
other aids for training the mind.  I'm sorry it took me so long. They've
changed the packaging on the 2100 machine, and I had to open a box to make
sure that I had the right machine."  Mr. Foster held up a bright red
box. "I don't see why they changed the box, but it's the same model.  As I
said, we advise that you start off at a lower level, Sir, and then increase
the sound as you get used to it. For covering up noises while you sleep,
the best place to position the machine is near your bed and above your
head. If you have a shelf over your bed, that would be the perfect place
for it." The man began punching numbers into the cash register. "Now, Sir,
how do you wish to pay?"

Mark gave him a credit card. "Can we add your name to our mailing list,
Sir?" asked the young man Mr. Foster had called Jeff. He was handing the
blue crystal to Mr. Foster, and it sparkled in the light. Mark stared at it
again. He resolved to give it a try. It might work, and it couldn't hurt to
have better concentration.  "We have a monthly newsletter," continued
Jeff. "It's mostly announcements about meetings of local groups and topics
of interest to those of us in the Sandman community."  Jeff really had a
dazzling smile, Mark decided. He suddenly felt that he wanted Jeff to like
him; perhaps the meetings would provide an opportunity to meet him again.

"Sure, it sounds interesting. I'd like to know more," said Mark. Jeff
handed him a blank card and a pen. Mark filled in his name and email
address and handed it back, receiving another dazzling smile from
Jeff. Perhaps it was only his imagination that Jeff winked at him.

"Here you are, Mr. Simmons," said Mr. Foster. "I hope you enjoy your
purchase. Please come again. Jeff, please unlock the door and let
Mr. Simmons out."

When Jeff opened the door, Mark suddenly became aware that the street
outside the shop had grown totally dark and only the streetlights illumined
it. He hadn't realized how long he had been in the shop. Suddenly he
couldn't wait to get home and try out the Sandman 2100. He felt
invigorated. He couldn't think why he had been so reluctant
earlier. Sometimes his imagination ran amok. This section of Buchanan was
really pleasant. He wished his street were lined with trees too. It made
the neighborhood look so much nicer, more welcoming. Plus there were all
these shops around. Everything you might need was close by. It didn't
appear there was much traffic along the street either. It would be quiet,
probably much quieter than his place. And it was clean. He could see the
sign for the subway through the branches of the trees. He sauntered toward
it, pausing occasionally to check out the window displays. He was in no
hurry to get home.

*****

The two large cats lay on the bed, their front paws extending over the edge
of the mattress and their eyes fixed on the ball in the man's hand. Their
sleek muscled bodies, covered by glossy coats of black hair, quivered with
anticipation. Their back haunches were poised to propel them off the bed,
and their erect tails swished back and forth. When the man threw the ball
across the floor, the cats scampered after it, sliding on the polished
wooden surface as they attempted to match its every move. The man laughed
and tossed the ball again and again until he tired of the game. He patted
the bed, and the cats leaped lightly on to it. They curled around him,
purring as he stroked their bodies. As they had been trained, their tongues
licked him and their paws stroked his body. As the man became aroused, they
doubled their efforts to please him. The bodies become entangled on the bed
as the cats endeavored to satisfy the man. Feline and yet not feline, the
duo brought the man to a climax under their tongues, their heads buried in
his crotch.

Spent, the man relaxed and patted the cats. "Sleep," he ordered. The two
cats ceased cleaning themselves and stretched out on the bed, the black
furry costumes hiding their human bodies. Their size and the human lips
that showed at the edges of the costumes' mouth slits were the only signs
betraying their true nature. They slept cat sleeps and dreamed cat dreams
of warm spots in the sun and meals of fish and chicken, happily unaware
that they were not really cats.

The man was satisfied. His manimals were performing so well. Tonight they
had been good kitties. Perhaps tomorrow he might have them be bad
doggies. That was always fun. Or he could play the sheikh riding his prize
stallions.

Still, there was something lacking. He needed a new challenge. The drug
made it so easy to mold the test subjects. There was no waiting, no
tiresome training routines. A few seconds after administering the drug, he
could control the testees. They so quickly became obedient objects,
mindless, ready to do whatever he wanted. It only took a few doses to
destroy the subjects' free will and make them totally obedient.

But they were being so stingy about supplying new subjects to experiment
on. They knew what he liked, but they kept sending him rejects, people he
wouldn't even consider if he had a choice in the matter. It took all his
fortitude and discipline to bring himself to work with them. It was almost
as if they were intentionally sending him piss-poor excuses for human
beings that they knew would repulse him. Really they didn't even deserve
the label "human." They were subhuman at best. Human-shaped objects. That's
what they were. Human-shaped objects. Most of their minds so drug-addled
that the drug he administered actually improved them. It was tedious to
deal with them. There was no other word for it. Tedious. He had to force
himself to administer the drug and take the subjects through the test
protocols. He would do much better if they gave him what he wanted. He had
told them that repeatedly. Surely they could see that. And the test
protocols were so boring. He could do much more interesting things if they
would let him.  He had had to find the raw materials for his two manimals
himself. His report on their training was detailed and accurate. If he did
say so himself, he thought his creation of the manimals showed
initiative. The potentials of the drug were so clear. But other than a curt
"interesting," his report had been ignored.  Two days later the latest
batch of disgusting creatures had been delivered to him. This time they had
even included a woman. When he protested, they explained that they needed
to test the drug on both sexes.

Maybe he should train another manimal. He had enough of the drug for
recreational purposes. That was part of his contract with them. He was
given enough so that he could pursue his own interests. He would show them
what a person without inhibitions could do—that would make the scope of
the drug apparent even to the dunces he had to deal with. But first he had
to find the right material. And that was never easy. He had to be so
careful when harvesting a new toy.

The man lay back on the bed. He needed to think about his problem. He had
to come up with a plan. Should he troll the clubs again? Or visit the
websites?


Chapter 2

When the door opened, Kenneth Foster looked up from the monthly sales
report he was skimming in the room directly behind the customer sales area
of Foster's Sandman Shop and glanced at the monitor for the CCTV. A young
man took a few steps into the store and then halted. His eyes roamed the
store, taking it all in.

Foster's Sandman Shop didn't get much foot traffic, perhaps a couple dozen
walk-in customers on most weekdays and fifty or so on Saturdays. It wasn't
located in the sort of neighborhood with a readymade customer base for its
"special" products. It had to attract customers from a wider geographic
area. When the store opened in 1986, it had relied mostly on mail
orders. The advent of the Internet had resulted in a tenfold increase in
business, and now most of its sales were made online. Foster was reaching a
much wider market than he had in the days of quarterly photocopied catalogs
sent to the names on his mailing lists or small ads in the back of
magazines catering to its target audience. It was even reaching an
international audience. Overseas shipments still accounted for only a small
percentage of sales, but they were growing. Foster had high hopes for that
market.

Fifteen minutes earlier, he and Jeff had been going over the accounts and
sales figures in the back when they heard the street door open. Ordinarily
he would not have been there on a Friday, but Cindy was taking a week off
to go to her sister's wedding, and Jeff had had to be out on several
service calls earlier in the afternoon. Foster had groaned inwardly when he
saw who it was. Mrs. Reilly came in at least once a week. She liked to
browse the crystals and talk about recent fluctuations in her "aura," a
subject of immense interest to herself if no one else. Foster suspected
Mr. Reilly paid no attention to her, and Cindy's willingness to spend an
hour listening to the woman and Mrs. Reilly's occasional purchase of a
small item to justify her visits were cheap substitutes for the therapy she
so obviously needed. He had sent Jeff out to deal with the
woman—delegating unwelcome tasks to employees was one of the privileges
of ownership. In any case, Jeff was good at handling her. He always
convinced her to buy something.

And now there was a second customer. A much more intriguing customer. A
young man. A young man whose posture betrayed some unease at being in the
shop. He definitely was having second thoughts about being in a place where
New Age music was playing quietly on the speakers and gaudy trinkets were
on display. Mrs. Reilly's preferences for large dangly earrings, assorted
necklaces, and a dozen bracelets on each arm, not to mention a multicolored
shawl worn over a white peasant blouse and a voluminous red skirt covered
with embroidery and small mirrors, probably didn't reassure him either.

Foster abandoned the report he was reading and leaned toward the monitor to
take a closer look at the young man. The lad projected a sense of
diffidence and uncertainty. Those were always good qualities in a potential
unit. He wasn't bad looking either. Not model quality, but not
ugly—although there was a market for ugly units. Some clients equated
ugliness and roughness with butchness in both men and women. But the young
man on the screen was more to most people's taste. Promising, definitely
promising.

Still, it was rare to find a candidate among the walk-ins. Occasionally an
individual with potential would pass by the store, and the window displays
would catch her—more often than not it was a woman—eye, and she would
come in to satisfy her curiosity. But Foster could count on the fingers of
one hand the number of such individuals who had gone on to become
units. Certainly it was rare for a young man to walk past the store and
come in by himself. Most were dragged into the store by their wife or
girlfriend. Their unwillingness and discomfort didn't promote the state of
mind that augured well for his purposes.

This particular young man didn't look like he came from the neighborhood,
however. He wore a tie and a white shirt under his black nylon windbreaker,
for one thing. Like many young men these days, he had a back pack slung
over one shoulder. Whoever he was, he wasn't part of the briefcase
brigade. More likely a store clerk or low-level white-collar
worker. Someone who stood behind a counter or sat at a desk and had to wear
a tie, but not a suit, to work. He probably was searching for a specific
product and had stumbled across the website and decided to pay a visit.

Did he have time to begin programming a new unit? There had been a dearth
of new candidates lately, but all his spare time was devoted to training
that bimbo a client had brought in. He should have known better than to
agree to take her on. Special orders were always unsatisfactory. First,
they were less of a challenge, and the challenge of bringing a unit under
control and developing it was a major part of the reward for
Foster. Second, as he had explained to the client, he selected candidates
for conversion only after a rigorous scrutiny and multiple evaluations to
ensure their susceptibility and trainability. Perhaps only one out of a
hundred of those he considered as candidates made it past his inspection
process. He refused to guarantee a unit that had not undergone this process
and the full training program. That was why the regular units cost so much
to lease and why the monthly maintenance fees were so high.

Many of his richer clients, however, seemed to feel that they could bring
in a trophy wife or a boy toy and have him wave a magic wand to make them
compliant and obedient. But, as he always told them, what he could achieve
was determined by the raw materials provided; the better the quality of the
input, the better the quality of the output. And the current trainee gave
airheads a bad name. Foster held out no hope for her. Commissioned objects
were always highly unsatisfactory; indeed they were almost always failures.

It was unusual to have two people in the store at once. He had better do
something quickly. The young man was showing signs of restlessness waiting
for Jeff to finish with Mrs. Reilly. If he had to wait much longer, he
might leave. And you never knew till you tried. The young man might
qualify. Foster pushed back the curtain that separated the shop from the
back rooms. "May I help you, Sir?"

The boy looked startled. He glanced at Kenneth Foster and then at Jeff and
then back at Foster. Disappointment flashed across his face. Ah, thought
Foster, he was hoping that Jeff would wait on him.

In person, the young man was even more promising-looking than he had been
on screen. He fit all of the basic selection criteria—he was in his
mid-twenties, in good shape and apparent good health. He was about 5 feet
7, neither so short nor so tall as to fall in the special-tastes
category. An intriguing face rather than a handsome one. Curly brown hair,
clean-shaven. He gave the impression that clothes and grooming were not
high on his list of priorities. Such matters could easily be fixed,
however. The basic personality qualities and good looks were enough of a
platform on which to build a unit. As long as those were present, he could
touch up the unit and polish it to make it more presentable.

Another factor in his favor was that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Of
course, Foster reminded himself, these days that didn't mean that he wasn't
living with someone. But that bit of information could be uncovered
later. It was always easier, however, to deal with someone who wasn't in a
relationship, but, if necessary, relationships could always be ended,
especially informal ones. Divorce required more effort, but it wasn't an
insurmountable obstacle.

The way the young man had checked out Jeff made Foster wonder if he was
gay. Clearly the lad would have preferred Jeff to wait on him, but he
covered his disappointment quickly and responded politely—two more good
signs, as far as Foster was concerned. Politeness was another good
characteristic in a potential unit, and the demand for gay units was
strong. Although Foster supplied units to satisfy all sexual preferences
and indeed could program for sexual preference, he found it easier to
develop a unit along the lines of his or her natural inclinations rather
than seek to change them.

The young man gave an immediate impression of vulnerability. In person, the
sense of diffidence and passivity was even stronger—something about the
way he presented himself suggested shyness and uncertainty. It was as if he
welcomed others taking the lead. Of course, these were all pluses in the
process of conversion. They were personality traits common in highly
suggestible people. And, they were good selling points as well. Of
necessity the clients were wealthy and successful. They were very demanding
and aggressive, and they liked getting their way even if they were
nominally bottoms. They regarded submissiveness and pliability as
attractive qualities in a unit.

Foster was delighted to learn that the young man wanted a white noise
machine. It was almost as if fate had led the lad to the store. White noise
machines facilitated entrance into a potential unit's mind. In Foster's
opinion, they were the best means of accessing a person's mind and
overcoming the initial resistance that always existed. The new
remote-controlled machines even allowed him to fine-tune the indoctrination
and tailor it to the individual's progress and personality. Of course, not
everyone wanted one. For other candidates, he might use relaxation tapes,
crystals, self-improvement tapes—he had a whole gamut of devices to
lower resistance and to make it possible for him to test the individual and
to begin developing the more promising ones into units. He varied the
initial parts of the process depending on the applicant's purchase. The
store stocked both regular and modified versions of each of these
objects. Most customers received the regular version. A select few were
given a special gift, although they did not realize it at the time.

Mr. Foster made a production out of helping the young man select just the
right white noise machine to suit his needs. He always used the excuse of
fitting the machine to the particular circumstances of the purchaser to
gather information on the customer—if he lived alone or not, the type of
place he lived in, what sorts of noise he wanted to cover up. Like most
customers, the young man was only too happy to talk about his personal life
and reveal more about himself that he realized. When Mr. Foster learned
that the man lived alone in a small apartment with noisy neighbors and lots
of traffic, he nodded judiciously and pretended to ponder the various
models on display before choosing the Sandman 2100 model. Of course,
promising candidates always got a modified Sandman 2100, but Foster varied
his spiel to suit the individual. For those who lived alone, he emphasized
that it obscured most noise; for those with a roommate, it was "This won't
disturb your roommate, but you should close your door when you use it. He
(or she) won't be able to hear you, and you won't be able to hear him/her."

The regular version of the Sandman 2100 was an excellent white noise
machine. The sound was like that produced by an air filter or a hair
dryer. The output was very steady and regular and masked other sounds. The
Sandman 2100 did everything such a machine was supposed to do and did it
very well. In fact, Mrs. Reilly was so impressed that she wanted one when
Mr. Foster demonstrated it. Foster pretended that she was buying the last
machine on the store shelves. Her purchase provided a good excuse for him
to visit the storeroom to pick up one of the modified versions of the
Sandman 2100. He kept those at the back of the stockroom to prevent them
from accidentally being sold to the wrong sort of customer. That would have
been a waste.

Foster intentionally took his time finding the unit. He heard Jeff finish
with Mrs. Reilly and then begin talking with the young man. He was
confident in Jeff's ability to get the message that he was interested in
testing this customer and was getting one of the modified Sandman units. It
had taken only a small twitch of his eyebrow to signal his assistant. Jeff
was an irreplaceable asset, not only in the store but also in all of
Sandman Enterprises' many activities. He was a natural hypnotist and read
body language so accurately that he could adjust his conversation to the
subject and induce a trance so naturally that the subject didn't realize
where he or she was being led. It didn't hurt that he was so
attractive. That fact alone seemed to overcome resistance in many
subjects. Many people found that they wanted to please Jeff and earn a word
of praise from him.

Foster quickly found a modified version of the Sandman 2100 in the back
room, but he could hear that Jeff was showing Mark a crystal and
demonstrating how it could be used to relax the mind and focus
attention. From the flow of his conversation, he knew that Mark was
succumbing to Jeff's efforts.

"You hang this at around eye level and then focus on it while you
meditate. It helps clear the mind. There's nothing magic about it. It's
just a tool. You can see that the crystal is very clear. You just stare at
it and then relax your thoughts and make the mind as clear and as pure as
the crystal as you focus on it." A quick glance at the CCTV monitor
revealed that Jeff was holding the crystal at eye level and swinging it
slowly back and forth. His own eyes followed the crystal as he demonstrated
how to use it. Inevitably the young man matched his action and began
watching the crystal. Jeff lowered his voice, both in pitch and volume,
forcing the subject to concentrate on what he was saying.

The young man said something at that point that Foster didn't catch. That
was good. It meant that the guy was relaxing, and his voice was quieting
down along with his mind.

Jeff replied, "That's all right, Sir. It can be used to help you
relax. It's good practice to concentrate on it and then relax. It helps to
remove tension and prepares you for whatever task you want to focus
on. Many people use it just to train themselves to have better
concentration."

Mr. Foster prayed that no one else would walk into the shop. The initial
step was always a very exciting part of the process—when the preliminary
tests on a candidate were promising, he felt what a hunter must feel when
he sees fresh tracks. The challenge of the seduction was such a
thrill. Would this person turn out to be prime material? Would he be able
to ensnare this person? To train him? To convert him?

The preliminary signs were extremely encouraging. "Many people find that
just looking at the crystal helps them relax. They come in all sizes. Some
people use large, stationary ones; others prefer to watch the crystal move
back and forth. They find that focusing on the motion tires their
eyes. Some people even tell me that their eyes become so heavy and tired
just watching the crystal that they nod off. But most people just notice
that the crystal catches the light. It shimmers so, always changing. It is
so hard to take your eyes off of it. It becomes so relaxing. It's just so
easy to watch the crystal and let it sparkle as it swings. So relaxing just
to watch it. So easy just to focus on it. So easy just to clear your mind
and relax."

Jeff's soft voice continued along these lines, repeating the words "relax,"
"focus," "watch" over and over. The young man made no sound. At that point
Foster dared not risk a look in case the sound and motion disturbed the
man, but he need not have worried. Jeff must have felt that the trance was
proceeding well, because he soon made a further suggestion. "We have a
larger crystal set up on a table in back. Come with me, and I will
demonstrate it for you."

Jeff led the young man into the back room and had him sit in a chair at a
table on which a large clear crystal lay in the center underneath a soft
light. The crystal glowed with light. Jeff continued suggesting that the
young man focus his attention on the crystal and relax. Soon the man was
struggling to keep his eyes open, and when Jeff suggested that he just
relax and close them and let himself sleep, he quickly complied. Jeff took
him deeper asleep. All the tests showed that he was in a deep trance and
highly open to suggestions. Jeff then began to implant the idea that he
wanted to use the Sandman machine faithfully every day, that he would find
it extremely pleasurable and rewarding, that he felt very relaxed and
comfortable listening to Jeff, and that he would not remember anything that
happened after Jeff began showing him the crystals. Jeff gave a thumbs-up
sign as he repeated the suggestions. Mr. Foster felt a rush of
excitement. The initial session was going better than he could possibly
have hoped.

Foster returned to the front of the shop. Luckily it was almost the usual
closing time. He locked the front door and pulled down the shade. The back
of the front window was covered by a plywood panel covered with black
fabric to showcase the displays better. It also concealed the inside of the
shop. No passer-by would interrupt.

The preliminary trances were best kept short and simple. If the candidate
proved worthy of further attention, there would be time enough for more
extensive sessions. Jeff soon brought the young man out of the back room
and positioned him in front of the crystal display case. Under Jeff's
guidance, he soon returned to full consciousness, convinced that only a
short time had elapsed.

While Mr. Foster completed the sale, Jeff had the young man fill out a
customer questionnaire to get his name and contact information. Mr. Foster
glanced at the credit card the young man had given him. His name was Mark
Simmons. Good, between the information on the credit card and that on the
questionnaire, he had enough information to run a background report on
Mark. Mark appeared to be relaxed and happy, although he was visibly
disoriented when he realized how dark it was outside. He recovered quickly,
however—Jeff had suggested that he take anything that appeared to be out
of the ordinary in stride.

***** "Good morning, Director."

"Are you alone? Can you talk now?"

"Yes. I'm free for another hour or so. Then I have to leave for an
appointment. Is something the matter? You sound worried."

"Have you seen his latest report?"

"The one on his `manimals'?"

"Yes. What do you think?"

"The drug is performing as expected. The uses to which he put it may be
more innovative than we envisioned but . . ."

"But he's turned them into puppets, sex puppets as far as I can tell."

"Director, we knew that he had special interests when we hired him to test
the drug. It was made clear that funding would be forthcoming only if we
hired him and kept him occupied."

"Yes, yes. We've been over that before. But this is . . . I mean . . . I
never thought he would go this far."

"But, Director, we may find it necessary in Stage 4 to use the drug to
create just the sort of mindless robots he has created. There are people
who can't be saved. No matter how successful the drug is, there will always
be those who are criminally insane. We will have to deal with them somehow,
and this version of the drug will be perfect for them. We might even use it
on those who resist the new order. The ultimate punishment will be to
deprive someone of his mind and turn him into a robot. Of course, we won't
turn them into manimals. But we can train to do all sorts of low-level
jobs. Mopping floors, emptying the trash. Routine, repetitive actions that
require no ability to make decisions."

"Yes, yes, I know all that. We've discussed this before. But where did he
find these people? He's got to be careful. He can't just take people off
the streets and give them the drug. He's endangering the project."

"No. I discussed this with him. He's being very careful in selecting his
own testees. The two that he has now—the ones he calls his
manimals—were street people. Both were relatively new arrivals. He found
them soon after they drifted into the city. They hadn't had time to find a
group of people to hang out with who might wonder where they were if they
didn't show up. They hadn't even established a territory yet. Just a couple
of kids from upstate who thought they would try the drug scene for a
while. He's had them for four months now and nobody has reported them
missing."

"I still don't like it."

"Director, I will talk with him again and impress on him that it is
paramount that he do nothing to endanger the project. But we don't want him
complaining. We've got to keep him happy, or we may lose our
funding. Another year and it won't matter, but right now we need the money
coming in."

"You'll let me know how the talk goes? How he reacts?"

"Of course, Director. I will take care of this. On another matter, I'm glad
you called. I was planning to call you this week to check on Jenny. Is she
performing to your satisfaction?"

"Oh, yes. She's terrific."

"And you're making sure that she's listening to her training modules?"

"Yes. She's programmed the machine so that it comes on while we're
sleeping. It doesn't bother me at all. I don't even notice it."

"Very good, Director. I see that you have an appointment for a review
session next month."

"Yes, I've got it on my calendar. We won't forget."

"Excellent. I'm always happy to hear that our clients are satisfied."

"Jenny has been noticed. I've had several people ask me where I found
her. Of course, I've been very discreet. I haven't said anything about her
special properties. But I do have a couple of names for you—possible
clients. I can forward you the information on them."

"Excellent, Director. You deserve a special reward. Have you tried Option
35 yet?"

"No, what's that?"

"I won't spoil it for you. Just tell Jenny that I told you to ask her for
Option 35."

"Option 35?"

"Yes, Director."

*****

"Hey, Mark, you're looking good." Jake shouted at him from across the break
room. Several people interrupted their lunches long enough to look at
Mark. Mark felt himself blushing. It always embarrassed him to be the
center of so much attention. He wished that Jake would learn to speak
softly. He had a loud voice anyway, but it seemed to Mark that he always
spoke even louder when he had a personal comment to make about someone
else.

Mark retrieved his lunch from the refrigerator and maneuvered his body into
a chair at the crowded table along the back wall. It was where he usually
sat, and his neighbors on either side shifted their sandwiches and salads
and bottles of water to make room for him.

"Jake's right, Mark. You really do look better these days," said Annie from
across the table. "You been working out?"

"No. Don't have the time to go to the gym. I did what you suggested and got
a white noise machine. It's incredible. That elephant upstairs and his
girlfriend can make all the noise they want, and I don't hear
anything. It's amazing how much better I feel since I've been getting a
good night's sleep."

Mark did feel a lot better since his visit to Foster's Sandman Shop. From
the very first night, the white noise machine had made a difference. He had
placed it on a shelf over his bed as Mr. Foster had recommended. The
instructions included with the Sandman 2100 repeated the advice that
Mr. Foster had given him to begin with the volume set low, and as he grew
accustomed to the sound, to increase it gradually until the unit was being
used at the highest settings. Mark set the machine at the lowest level the
first night. Even at the minimum setting, the sound filled his bedroom. It
wasn't an unpleasant sound. As Foster had said, it was like the sound of a
hair dryer. It wasn't any louder than a vacuum cleaner running in another
room, he decided. He settled down into bed and picked up the mystery novel
he had been reading. Soon he was immersed in the book. A half hour later
when he turned off the reading light over his bed, he rolled over on his
side, stretched out his legs, pushed his pillow into a comfortable shape,
and pulled the covers up under his chin. He fell asleep in a few minutes,
without giving the white noise machine another thought. He woke up when his
alarm went off at 6:30 the next morning. He was in the shower before it
occurred to him that he had slept the entire night without being awakened
by the noise of his neighbor upstairs or the sounds of sirens racing by in
the street outside. After several nights of uninterrupted sleep, he
congratulated himself on his purchase. As he texted his mother, "It's the
best thing I've bought in long time."

What surprised Mark was how quickly the Sandman 2100 became part of his
routine. He switched it on every night and turned it off each morning. Just
hearing it made him sleepy. He found that he could no longer read in bed if
he had the machine on. As soon as he heard the familiar pulsing sound,
waves of sleepiness began surging through his mind. He literally could not
stay awake for more than a few seconds. He found that he had to wait to
switch the machine on until he was ready to go to sleep. Even then he had
to rush to turn off the lights and adjust the covers.

He had set the crystal on his night stand, where it caught the light each
time he entered the room. For some reason, every time he looked at it, he
thought of Jeff and the crystal swaying back and forth on its chain. The
image of the golden chain looped around Jeff's hands was vivid and
detailed. Jeff's fingers were strong and well shaped, the nails nicely
trimmed, and the fuzz of brown hair protruding from under the cuffs of the
long-sleeved blue shirt Jeff wore hinted at the masculine body hidden
beneath his clothes. Odd what the mind remembers, he thought. The clerk
couldn't have held the crystal for more than a few seconds. It was weird
the way imagination and desire built on the basis of a few glimpses. Mark
couldn't get those brown hairs out of his mind. They seemed to be
hard-wired to his groin. Every time he thought of them, his ball sack
tightened and his cock stirred. Sometimes the thought of them was enough to
start the pre-cum oozing.