Snuggle Ch. 01

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Author's Note: This is a work of fiction. It might interest the reader to know that I've based the premise on an actual newspaper article that was very much like the one I put in Chapter Two.

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Chapter One

Incentive

Alright, let's face it. You probably decided to give this little narrative a try because you thought it might contain some hot sex ... and maybe a little lurid erotic mind control. Okay. I can promise you some of that. It's here, right in these pages. But this time, you're going to encounter more. Lots more. A few years ago, I never actually believed that truly evil men existed ... or that real terror would touch those around me. I had always figured that, eventually, the bad guys lose and the good guys win. They don't, of course. Bad guys win all the time. Well, most of time, anyway. And us good guys? Well, I'm here to tell you, that with a little hard work, pure intentions and perseverance .... Yeah, sure. Only in your dreams. Right?

And then again, maybe ....

I am a nerd. Now, if you're like most people, that term conjures up a certain image. Hollywood hasn't helped, of course. But, like most preconceptions, the image is wrong. The word itself has mixed definitions. A standard dictionary will declare a nerd to be stupid in one line, and intelligent (if single-minded) in the next. Most people who qualify for nerdom wouldn't be able to define it themselves. I, however, came across the perfect meaning myself a few years ago.

I was shanghaied into going to a wedding with a girlfriend. Yes, nerds have girlfriends. Well alright, she wasn't exactly a real girlfriend, but we had been out on three or four dates. Women love weddings. Weddings are planned by women, arranged by women, orchestrated by women specifically FOR women. Guys are more or less just along for the ride. I did not react well ... I never do at those sorts of things. I didn't know anybody else there, and I wound up just loitering around the periphery of the reception room, watching, while the women and their ensnared gentlemen all did the "chicken dance" and hokey pokey and other inane acts of revelry.

As I stood there, drowning in my misery, I noticed another guy just standing around, too. This fellow, however, did not fit anyone's definition of a nerd. He was tall, muscular, young, handsome ... the type of man that single girls fall all over themselves for ... but since he appeared to be out-of-touch with the gaiety around him, I thought I'd wander over and strike up a conversation. He wasn't very talkative. I finally pried a few facts out of him. He was a "Naval Aviator" ... a pilot ... one of those gung-ho idiots that fly jet aircraft into the decks of aircraft carriers and hopes something stops him. He had driven out from Norfolk with his wife. The bride was her cousin.

I felt an urge to ask all the questions that I suppose most people would ask a guy like that. You know ... how does somebody actually DO that sort of thing? Is it scary? How much training does it take? That sort of thing. But, of course, those were probably the types of questions he was trying to avoid, standing off from the crowd the way he was doing. Instead, I said: "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself very much. You don't like parties?"

He glanced at me and shrugged. "Oh, I love parties. I was at a great squadron party just last week. But nobody here really speaks my language."

And I thought: Bingo. That's it. That's me. That's the definition. A nerd is someone who's socially withdrawn because nobody around him speaks his language.

Now, you're probably going to point out that it's a two-way street ... and you'd be right, of course. I really SHOULD have tried to speak in terms of chicken dances and hokey pokeys. But my language of cyber cryptology, CERT/CC and OWASP is so very much more interesting. I'm certain that if some other pilot/nerd/Adonis had shown up at that wedding reception, that quiet fellow I talked to would have been great company, with his left hand chasing his right through immelmans and barrel rolls and split-S's as he related tales of dogfights and bomb runs. You just have to find somebody that speaks your language.

Fortunately, I know somebody that speaks mine. It took me long enough to hook up with him. I never really hit it off with any of my college roommates ... until I answered an ad to share an apartment my senior year. Frank was different. While we didn't share the same major (he was in computer graphics, I was into security software applications), he could not only SPEAK my language, he'd listen. He also became the best friend I've ever had.

We started off small enough, selling little programs, gimmicks, applications, services. I'd help him market some new avatar or cartoon character; then he'd help me test some new security idea for a personal phone app ... that sort of thing. It wasn't until we'd been working together for two years that we came up with an idea that would combine both fields. It was sort of a stroke of genius, actually. I thought of it, of course. Don't ask him, though ... he'll tell you it was HIS idea. Whoever. We immediately realized it was a completely new concept. And ... we realized it was going to be worth a lot. A whole lot. We worked hard on the thing ... day and night ... weeks, and months. And when we finally figured out how to get over the last hurdle, it all just seemed to click ... one of those true "Eureka" moments.

Since you probably don't speak the language, let me describe it like this. There are dozens of elements in a computer game. In just about every case, however, there are two overriding factors that make or break it as far as sales: writing and graphics. There wasn't much either one of us was going to do about writing, since neither of us were writers. But Frank was good with graphics. And I mean, he was really good. Once a game is published, however, the graphics code is pretty much up for grabs. Anybody can take a background graphic (just as an example) and with a little massaging, turn it into a background for a competing game. The image might LOOK completely different, but the code would be roughly the same. In other words, you might spend months putting together a masterpiece, but with very little effort, your competition could rip it off and use the code YOU slaved over. We figured out how to protect it. The magic, of course, was not so much with the encoding as with the decoding. With a little compression, we could fit BOTH onto a standard game DVD, with plenty of room to spare for the game code itself. It was all done using a variable algorithm that never repeated. I'm not going to get into specifics, other than to say that if another company really, really wanted to defeat this encryption, and if they could come up with the money to buy time on a quasi-opportunistic supercomputing distributed-array to figure it out, it would still take eight or nine months to hit the proper code sequence. By that time, the original game would be obsolete. And every disk used a different code.

We were going to be rich.

My biggest error (and, looking back, I made so MANY errors) was that I'd taken a couple courses in contract law, and I figured I could handle any deal myself. Frank (friendly, innocent, loyal Frank) simply took me at my word and entrusted the entire project to my "expertise." I decided to sell the rights for fifteen million dollars. I just sort of pulled that figure out of thin air. The truth be known, I really had no idea what the thing was worth. My next biggest error was that I decided to approach Apocalyptic Arrow Arts & Electronics, the largest privately owned game manufacturer in the world. I was so absolutely sure that nobody could reverse-engineer the process, that we downloaded a popular public domain game, applied our concept, and sent off a DVD to Rankin Toddworth himself ... yes, right to the head of the company. I was right about them not being able to crack our code, by the way. What I was wrong about was Toddworth. I'd heard rumors ... that he was a ruthless, unscrupulous businessman. But I had no idea what he was capable of doing. I had no idea that ANYBODY was capable of what was to follow.

It didn't take long. Two weeks later, we received a phone call from a lawyer here in town who said he wanted to see us. He came to our apartment and presented us with a very official-looking contract which would grant them exclusive rights to the process ... and there was a certified check for three million bucks. I suggested to Frank that we turn it down flat and make no counter offer. Frank was actually, physically drooling over that check, but he stoically took my advice. The lawyer, on the other hand, didn't even blink an eye. He thanked us for our time and left. Just like that. I didn't get much sleep that night. As the days ... and then the weeks ... dragged by, I felt as if I'd probably made a huge mistake.

But fifteen days after we first saw him, the lawyer paid us a second visit. Instead of another offer, he asked us to sign for delivery of a large, thick envelope ... and he left again. Just like that. I swear, I could never be a lawyer. The envelope bore a formal request to visit Rankin Toddworth, Esq., at his home in Danbury, Connecticut. There were airplane tickets (first class, of course) from Denver to New York; there was an envelope containing fifteen thousand dollars cash (for incidental travelling expenses); there was a cell phone with several numbers programmed in; and there was a list of instructions about who to call (and when) for limousine services, both here in Denver and then in New York. Mr. Toddworth looked forward to meeting us in person and discussing our "kind offer" regarding our computer process. Dinner on Thursday night (two days hence) would be "black tie casual," and rooms in the house would be at our disposal for the night. His personal chef's specialty was veal cordon bleu.

Now, that should have been a red flag right there. Frank is absolutely ecstatic about veal cordon bleu ... his all-time favorite dish. Looking back on it now, it should have been obvious that Toddworth had had us investigated. I mean, anybody who cuts a check for three mil and has it delivered by a guy like Mister "Just Like That" certainly has the dough to scout out a couple nerds in suburban Denver. He probably knew everything about us, from the color of our eyes to when we took a crap (I would soon learn that at least the former was true). But the cash, of course, was the real incentive. Neither of us owned a suit, and we had to look up "black tie casual" on the internet before heading to the mall for clothes and luggage. I don't think it ever really dawned on us to turn the invitation down.

By the time we landed at Kennedy and got in the limousine, I finally broke the code. Champagne on the way to DIA, Champagne on the flight, Champagne now. We were going to be blitzed by the time we got there. Frank reluctantly agreed, and we swore off. It was a full two hour drive to Danbury, even though the traffic was relatively light that time of day (or at least, that's what the driver told us), and the sun was very low when we finally turned into the gated driveway of the Toddworth mansion. It was quite a place ... right out a gothic novel. Anybody would have been impressed, but especially two nerds from the Midwest.

Toddworth himself answered the door. "Mr. Rustman, I presume. May I call you Randy? And you must be Frank Green. Wonderful to meet you both. I'm sure you smell dinner. Gooswin is outdoing himself in the kitchen. This is Bains. He'll show you to your rooms in the East Wing. You only have forty-five minutes, I'm afraid. We'll party a little tonight ... enjoy ourselves. Business tomorrow, after we get to know each other. See you soon!"

I'd never owned a suit that fitted me like that one. We'd gone to a tailor and spent $550 apiece for them so they'd be done in time for the trip. The tailor had taken one look at us, told us not to argue, and had chosen shirts and ties, as well (for an extra hundred bucks each, but we hadn't resisted). He wrote us a note, telling us what brand and type of shoes to get. Damn, we looked sharp! Our rooms were next to each other, but didn't adjoin, and each had its own bathroom. There was a mirror at the end of the hall, and when we looked at ourselves in it ... well, it just LOOKED like we were in the big league, you know? Frank's a bit on the gangling side, tall and thin and sort of awkward. I'd tried my best to put a little muscle on him over the past year or so ... my Dad had bought me a Stairmaster when we moved last time, and I'd been using it pretty religiously. So had Frank, at my insistence.

We got lost getting back downstairs, but eventually, we found Toddworth in a huge den, sipping a drink with another man, who he introduced as Ephraim Yarnell, a personal friend (and lawyer). He mixed us martinis, which neither of us particularly liked, though I'm sure they were made with the absolute finest ingredients. Yarnell left us for awhile, and Old Man Toddworth started walking us around the room, telling us about the artwork on the walls, the books in the bookcase, the trophy head above the mantle ... things like that. The truth of the matter is that we weren't all that impressed, but what are you going to do but listen and nod, you know what I mean?

And then suddenly, there was Yarnell, the lawyer again. And with him were these two gorgeous girls. And Toddworth was saying "Ah ... please let me introduce Janie and Kendra. Girls, this is Frank and Randy. Gentlemen, please let me be clear about this. You are certainly under no obligation, but I expect my guests to be comfortable and happy. Whether we decide to do business or not, these ladies are yours for the night. Do with them what you will. They are here to serve only you. Shall we go into dinner now?"

Well, boil my grits (as my grandfather used to say)!

Alright ... I told myself when I decided to write this narrative that I was not going to spend too much time on descriptive phrases. But let's face it; that one moment in time is what this story is all about. It all started right there. To say that you could have knocked Frank and me over with a feather would not be too much of an exaggeration. These girls were beautiful. They were foxy. They were stunning. And ... they were strange. From the very first second, there was something strange about them ... something you couldn't really put your finger on ... but something that only got stranger and stranger as the seconds and minutes ticked by. Still, some factors overcome the importance of others ... and strangeness is evidently easily overcome by beauty.

Other than their striking elegance and magnificence, the girls had absolutely nothing in common. One was tall, the other short. One was white, the other black. The tall one was slim, had long blonde hair, pale complexion, small breasts and slender hips, and she was dressed in a dark blue silk halter-top dress that hugged her body like a second skin. And the first skin was obviously as smooth and tactile as the fabric that covered it. The only things that were NOT smooth were her nipples, which were very prominent and seemed to point accusingly at us. The short girl had a close-cropped short afro hairstyle that accentuated her long neck and amazing skin, which was a cross between light chocolate and burnished copper. Her breasts were very generous, considering her height, and she wore a short dress of green velvet ... the kind of material that's so rich and soft that your natural instinct is to touch it. Her eyes held a spark of raw intelligence that seemed to light the whole room. It took me a long moment to realize that I noticed those eyes because they were directed toward me, and no one else. They studied me, scrutinized me ... I swear, they seemed to almost worship me. I glanced nervously around, only to find that Janie, the blonde, was doing almost exactly the same, only to Frank. Frank, for his part, was just standing there, openmouthed, trapped in her gaze.

And then slowly, the weirdness began to manifest itself. The girls were close. Very close. Their shoulders and arms and hips and legs were touching all along the length of them as they stood side by side. They were holding hands, but because Kendra was so much shorter, her arm was slightly bent. Their fingers interlocked, but seemed to move slightly, caressing gently. Toddworth and Yarnell had walked away from us, I assumed toward the dining room, leaving the four of us staring at each other. Without a word, Kendra reached out toward me with her free hand, cleared her throat, and said: "I suppose we should go in to dinner." And oddly, as her hand extended toward me, Janie's hand reached out toward Frank, exactly the same. Instinctively, I took Kendra's hand in mine ... just as Frank took Janie's ... and then (and only then) did the girls let go of each other and move apart.

I turned to follow our host, and as I did so, Kendra turned with me, her hand clutching mine. The oddness of the past few seconds left me with a bizarre impression, and I shook my head a little to clear it. I took my hand out of Kendra's to hold the dining room door open for her, and with a suddenness that shocked me, the girl reached up and clutched my upper arm with both hands. I glance down at her, puzzled, but she averted her eyes and simply followed as I got my feet moving again and led her into the large dining room.

Inside, Toddworth was speaking, indicating where we should sit ... Frank and me on one side facing the girls on the other. Kendra didn't move to go to her seat, and neither did Janie, so that I suddenly wondered what the proper protocol was in such a situation. After a few seconds, I walked around the end of the table a bit clumsily, Kendra still clutching my arm, until I had maneuvered her to her assigned place. I pulled out her chair with the arm she wasn't trying to strangle, but still she refused to let go until Janie was within striking distance, and their hands shot out toward one another's and touched. Finally, the grip on my upper arm was relinquished, and, a bit dazed, I walked back around to my own chair.

The food was very good. I remember that much about the meal, but not a heck of a lot more. Toddworth prattled on and on, but I can't tell you what he said ... I was too wound up in trying to figure out what was going on ... who the girls were, and what was behind their odd behavior. I had the strangest desire to lift up the table cloth and peer under the table; certain that if I did, I'd catch them playing footsies. They were always touching. Their shoulders and upper arms were in constant contact, and from time to time, when the meal paused between courses, they held hands, as if it the most natural thing in the world. Toddworth asked a general question ... I wasn't really paying attention, but I perked up as Kendra answered it, saying that the women's translations were far superior to the men's ... and Janie said that the best was the Julie Rose translation ... but Kendra countered that Isabel Hapgood's was better, and most certainly better than Wilbour's or Denny's. I didn't find out until later that they had been talking about Les Miserables, by Hugo. Then, as an extension of that, he began quizzing them about Jules Verne. Frank mentioned that he always thought Verne wrote in English, which made both girls giggle. Kendra smirked a little, but Janie couldn't seem to bear Frank being embarrassed, and explained patiently something about translators working for the Royal Geographical Society in England and some other stuff. The way Frank was looking at her, I don't really think he was listening, either ... he just seemed content watching her lips move.

Toddworth announced that it was time for cigars and brandy in the "drawing room," but as I rose, I mentioned that I had to visit the bathroom. Yarnell pointed down a hall and told me where it was, and I prodded Frank as a signal. When he didn't seem to notice, I prodded him a little harder. He issued a small "ouch!" but finally got the message and excused himself, as well, though his eyes never left Janie's. She was blushing, for some reason, and I noticed she was squeezing Kendra's hand hard enough to make her shorter companion wince. I lead the way down the hall, anxious to talk this whole thing over, but as soon as we were out of earshot, he was yammering away like little kid.