"It had to be fresh. Really fresh. Sitting around at room temperature, the potency began to deteriorate almost immediately. Put it in the refrigerator, and it would keep for about a day, two at the most."
"Uh-huh." Max mumbled, nursing a gin and tonic while absent-mindedly probing his forhead. His fingers were taking stock of at least three big juicy mosquito bites. Notwithstanding the bloodsucking fauna of the woods, he would much rather have stayed at the lake a few more days.
Manny huffed out two smoke rings and blew a thin stream of blue haze dead center through them both. Barely melting ice cubes clinked against his teeth, trying to follow a belt of slightly cooled scotch that disappeared into his gaping maw. Like the Statue of Liberty holding up her beacon to the poor huddled masses, Manny rattled his glass in the direction of the nearest waitress. She had anticipated his thirst and was already returning from the bar with happy-hour scotch number three.
"Ya see, this epinephrine shit is no big secret. Everybody and his brother has known about it for years. The problem never has been the supply. Hell, there's an unlimited supply of potential stiffs just walking around all over the place. Ever wonder where those skeletons come from that you see hanging in the doctor's office? They sure as hell don't make 'em outa play-dough. Jeee-sus Christ, in India there is a huge industry in the harvest, processing, and sale of human skeletons. It's true, and it's legit too. Completely on the up-and-up. You know how they get the meat off the bones? They stick the bodies into these big bins that are just crawling with meal worms. The little buggers just chomp away at them stiffs like teensy little piranhas. In a couple of weeks there's nothing left but pretty white bones. No shit Max, that's how they do it. Just think, each one of those stiffs has got a brain that he don't need no more, but that can make guys like you and me candidates for Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."
"What about the freezer?"
"Whaddya mean freezer?"
"Put the speed in the freezer. Freeze it and when you need a little pick-me-up just go grab yourself a frosty brain-sicle."
"Nope. Doesn't work. Seems that as the juice freezes, the formation of ice crystals breaks the molecules apart. Ever see what a frozen banana looks like after it thaws out? Turns into rancid black mush."
"Okay wise guy, if the speed won't keep for more than a couple of days, what good are even a couple million dead little Indians?"
"I'm getting to that, goddamn it!" Manny slobbered, rattling his glass at the waitress.
There was a stack of bills on the table between the two of them, but Manny went for his wallet when the arrival of scotch number four became imminent.
"It's on me this time, Manny," Max said.
"Burrugghpp. Jeez, thanks, Max!"
Manny continued to fumble with the wallet and finally produced a sheaf of photocopies, apparently taken from a magazine of some sort. "Fish oil. Look at this Max. It's all in here and it's as plain as the nose on my face. It's fish oil, goddamn it! Fish oil."
"Your nose looks more like a fish head to me, Manny. And besides, there's nothing plain at all about your nose. As a matter of fact, I think that if you keep sucking up scotch like a flounder, you'll be sleeping with the fishes before you can say Johnnie Walker Red. Now what the hell are you jabbering about anyway? Gimme a look at that stuff."
It was the most incongruous association that Max had ever seen. Manny had just handed him a dozen or so pages photocopied from an old issue of Scientific American magazine. The thought of Manny actually reading, reading anything, was a stretch of the imagination. Manny was not even the sort of guy who read the playmate data sheet in Playboy. Actually seeing him produce an article from Scientific American was approaching the incomprehensible. Sure enough, the photocopied pages contained an article entitled "Sub-Zero Circulatory System Temperatures in Deep Diving North Atlantic Cod." What transpired in the next hour or so truly was as plain as the puffy red nose on Manny's face. Included with the Cod fish article was a take-off piece in the Amateur Scientist section of the same magazine. It involved an experiment in which small animals (in this instance goldfish) could be frozen solid and then revived after being treated with a vile mixture of cod liver oil and some other easily obtainable household chemicals.
Max immediately saw the possibilities as if the souls of ten thousand dead little indians were whispering in his ear. If, with a little fish oil extract, one could resucitate a living breathing animal that had been frozen as hard and as stiff as a tire iron, then perhaps a drop or two of epinephrine could be safely stockpiled on ice.
Max's first experiments with goldfish did indeed result in resurrection after two days behind the top door of his coppertone Ammana. Granted, the first batch of six happy swimming goldfish yielded only two slightly freezer burned victims that floated belly up more than they swam, but they were alive. Both of them lived for three days, until an unrelated accident involving an attack mouse sent those first frozen fish pioneers to that great celestial fishtank. Following a few refinements in the pre-treatment process, aided by the comprehensive bibliography in the magazine articles, the goldfish survival rate was essentially 100%.
The substitution of human epinephrine for the goldfish was the next logical step.
Thick shiny black vinyl with a toothless waterproof zipper. About seven feet long with stitched carrying straps at each end. The first time that Max was confronted by one, he thought of a giant sized cheap plastic garment bag, the kind that comes with a new suit. These bags just about always came with clothes.
But the clothes were always used.
Sometimes there were expensive silk suits, sometimes lingerie, sometimes layer upon layer of threadbare, tattered greasy rags. Invariably the clothes were soiled with human effluvia. Blood and snot and pus and puke and piss and shit. Sometimes one, sometimes all, sometimes more. The body bags were opaque black for a very good reason. What was inside was always very bad to look at.
There was only one bag tonight. A John Doe of the street people genre. Knit cap, three shirts, insulated coveralls, mismatched shoes. Extremely filthy from head lice to toe jam. This poor fellow had been done-in by a garbage truck. Earlier in the day, Mr. Doe had succumbed to an overdose of Thunderbird and had passed out in an 80 cubic foot dumpster. He was unceremoniously emptied along with the refuse surrounding him into the jaws of death. His nondescript 86 proof body crushed to smithereens by a 30 ton hydraulic ram operated by a dedicated department of sanitation employee.
With little or no chance of the body being identified, let alone being claimed by next of kin, Max took the obligatory photographs, fingerprints, and blood sample. He made a very cursory examination to verify the cause of death as had been postulated by the beat cop. Twenty minutes later his work with a scalpel and pneumatic bone saw had been completed.
The centrifuge coasted to a stop. A precious few grams of slightly pinkish-amber product was carefully transferred into several very tiny vials containing an equal quantity of the very first batch of fish oil anti-freeze cum preservative. The vials were sealed and snuggled into a small styrofoam box and placed in the lab freezer. The styrofoam box was drilled with one hole for each vial. When capped with an insulated lid, the box provided a thermal lag, allowing the vials to slowly descend in temperature, reaching 20 degrees below zero over many hours. The long cooling period would prevent the formation of fast-growing or large grained crystals, and would provide the best conditions for the fish oil compound to do it's preservation work.
Manny had called at least a dozen times so far this evening. The answering machine was stacked-up and Max was just ignoring any and all outside phone calls. Two weeks had never passed so slowly in Max's life. He could only imagine what sort of torture Manny must be suffering. Although the processing of the fish oil compound was relatively simple, there had been some unforseen expenses. The common household chemicals that were used in the first experiments had proven to be inadequate for the more rigorous requirements of the epinephrine. A few consultations with a local bio-medical laboratory had provides some very valuable, albeit expensive to implement, advice. A source of purer laboratory grade ingredients was finally located at a considerable expense. Temperature and pressure controlled blending equipment and filters had also been required. Manny had gone out (way, way out) on the proverbial limb to secure financing for his project. As a matter of fact, the financier was promising to levy penalties that began with the breaking of limbs if the payments were not commenced and consummated on a suitable schedule. The first payment, essentially all interest at 20% per week, was due yesterday. The payment was either to be $5,000 in cold hard cash, or in the form of cold hard frozen and very potent Hyper-Speed.
If the epinephrine preservation technique proved to be successful, then the repayment of the loan sharks was still a negotiable item. The original agreement was cash on the barrel head, at least until such time that the Hyper-Speed had a proven track record. When (if) that occurred, a partnership was planned. Splitting the profits (albeit on a lopsided schedule) would supposedly retire Manny's debts. Max had no financial connection whatsoever (at least for the time being). He was involved for no purpose other than to sate his vicarious curiosity of the macabre. As far as Manny's no-neck business associates were concerned, Max didn't even exist. At least that is what Max had been led to believe. Max had prayed long and hard that his anonymity still remained intact.