Consumerism Ch. 35-39

35. My House

As you pull into my driveway, you see the lawn is overgrown and full of weeds. You kill your police SUV's engine and open the car door, the dashboard beeps repeatedly, and you feel the chilly morning air. The ignition key clicks and the beeping stops and when you hop out of the driver's seat door, your boots thud against the concrete driveway. It's misty outside and you can see leaves falling from some of the large trees around my yard. The neglected lawn makes you wonder if the house has been abandoned.

You approach the front door, stare at the doorbell, raise one of your fists and knock loudly against it. A minute elapses. The door creaks and opens slightly and my wife peers out. "What do you want?" she asks, narrows her eyes at you, and presses her lips flat.

"Ma'am, I don't know if you remember me," you say as you stare at her expressionless through aviator sunglasses. "I was at the police station the night your husband was the subject of a DUI investigation. I saw you there, but I don't think I introduced myself."

"Are you looking for him?" she asks as her arms cross over her chest. "My husband?"

"Yes," you respond quickly before slowing your speech and continuing, "do you know where he is?" You stare at the knob on the front door.

"Well, he hasn't been here for months," my wife says with a shrug of her shoulders. "I haven't spoken to him since that day at the station. I have no idea where he is. Honestly, I've moved on and don't want anything to do with him. I've been waiting a while now to file for divorce."

"Waiting for what?" you ask as you tilt your head to the side.

She hesitates before responding, "His direct deposit to stop." A yawn escapes from her mouth.

"Has he been active using the account?" you ask as your hands lock together and remain still.

"No, not at all," my wife answers as she examines the painted nails on her right hand. "Not in months."

You look away from my wife as you push on your diaphragm. After pausing, you continue, "You're not... concerned at all about that?"

My wife shrugs her shoulders. "He shouldn't have been messing around behind my back," she says. "Why should I care when he didn't care about me?"

36. Police Station -- Interrogation of Dr. Anne Welker

You walk into the interrogation room. The door loudly clangs when it is shut. On the other side of the room is Dr. Anne Walker. She sits laid back in her chair with her legs spread. She wears a white lab coat over a yellow blouse and tan pants. There is a smirk on her face. "Is everything ok doctor?" you ask.

Dr. Welker chuckles. "I'm fine," she says. "I did an internship in medical school at the state prison. You may be surprised to know that this isn't the first time that I've been locked in a room with a murderer."

You stare at her in silence, completely expressionless. The quiet persists. A minute goes by.

Dr. Welker avoids eye contact and rolls her shoulders.

"Where's Jamie Peterson?" you ask, finally breaking the silence.

"I don't know," Dr. Welker says before pushing her hair back.

"He works for your company, right?" you ask and lean forward towards her.

"No, not anymore," she answers and thumbs her nose like a violin.

"Any reason his wife reports still receiving paychecks from Vanholt corporation?" you ask.

Dr. Welker shrugs. "I don't know, an accounting error?" she suggests and rubs her nose.

"Have you ever prescribed drugs to Jamie?" you ask and bury your head into a case folder.

"I'm not answering anymore questions about Jamie Peterson," Dr. Welker says. "I invoke my right to remain silent to anything involving that... man."

"Doctor, I'm just trying to locate a missing person here," you explain. "His wife and family are worried sick." You cough. "Besides, if you don't cooperate, I'm going to find out the answers to these questions anyway. I'm going to subpoena all of Vanholt's employment records. Obtain copies of all the prescriptions issued under your DEA license. One way or the other. I'm going to find out what happened here."

Dr. Welker chuckles and leans her head back before escalating to full-throated laughter. "God, your dense," Dr. Welker mocks. "This investigation of yours is a joke. If you think you're going to obtain any of those things you're deluded. I'd be surprised if you're still employed as an officer a week from now. You have no idea how big of a mistake you're making right now. It's ok though, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving murderer." She sneers at you.

"Are you trying to threaten me?" you ask as your face remains expressionless.

"What is this all about, officer?" Dr. Welker asks and crosses her right leg over her left. "A piddly DUI investigation? You really think that's going to be your golden ticket? A license to launch some sort of grand fishing expedition into Vanholt? Getting involved in business matters you don't even understand. Let me ask you this, officer. The lab test you ran on Jamie Peterson's blood. It came back positive for amphetamines, right? Did you know the U.S. air force used to administer amphetamines to its pilots? The reason is that it improved their reactions. They could fly better. Yet you want to investigate me, Jamie, and my company which donates millions of pharmaceuticals every year to developing countries over this? Just more proof that the state never squanders an opportunity to waste taxpayer money. I doubt your superiors would approve of it. You investing so much time and resources into such quixotic nonsense."

"You should stay in your lane, doctor," you scold, smirk at her, and crack your knuckles. "It's illegal to drive under the influence. Jamie failed my sobriety tests. The drugs you've been giving him. They put him at risk. The public as well. He could have crashed his car. Killed someone."

Dr. Welker snorts, smirks at you, clasps her hands together, and leans forward. "Oh yes, the sobriety tests," she says in a mocking tone. "Officer, when you traumatized poor anxious Jamie with your tests. When you ruined his marriage. Let him leave your police station suicidal begging me for my assistance. Did you have him perform the tests while he was wearing high heels?" She leans back, stares intently at you, sneers, and oddly giggles. "He didn't have any other types of shoes when I picked him up after you abandoned him on the streets. You're that incompetent, aren't you? As reckless as you were that night you slaughtered those racial equity activists."

You pause before pretending to look for something in your file folder.

"Uh huh," Dr. Welker confirms, nods her head, and adopts a knowing grin on her face. "You're a keystone cop. An imbecile. You'd throw someone into jail for taking something that improved her driving because she failed to walk in a straight line while wearing high heels. What a joke. All to push a new front in the fascist drug war."

You cross your arms over your chest. "I don't know if you get out much doctor," you begin as you rub your chin with your right thumb and forefinger. "The whole hugs for drugs, bleeding heart, compassion for junkie bullshit hasn't been all too successful as of recently. The streets and the morgue have never been fuller. I think you're out of touch, doctor. Too much time in the corporate boardroom. It's been too long since you practiced real medicine. It doesn't surprise me though. One of America's most prolific drug dealers thinks drugs should be legal. You call me a murderer. How many people have committed suicide after taking the dope you deal?"

"I remember the first time I became aware of you," Dr. Welker recalls as she fidgets in the metal interrogation room chair. "That headline. White police officer open fires on crowd protesting racial injustice. That's your legacy. Honestly, it's the legacy of all police officers. Besides, aren't you aware that Jamie is transgendered? Shouldn't that be a cue for your types to stop giving a fuck?"

"It doesn't matter what Jamie's gender or sexuality is; I just want to make sure she is safe," you respond quietly, bite your lip, and clear your throat.

Dr. Welker pauses and studies you. Her head tilts to the side, eyebrows slightly raise, and a smile slowly builds on her face. "I see, I see" she murmurs. "You know officer, sexuality does matter. Gender matters. Like I said, I have no idea where Jamie Peterson is. So, I'm speaking hypothetically. Maybe he got into trouble at work. Got voluntold to participate in a new experimental program. A radical approach that can change someone's gender and sexuality even against his own will and desires."

You lean forward, body trembling, your eyes firmly focused on Dr. Welker's. "And how would you do something like that?" you ask.

Dr. Welker grins knowingly and nods her head. "We're already hardwired for sex," she says. "It's the opioid receptor in our brains. It activates when we orgasm. If you can control someone's opioid receptor, you can control their orgasm. If you control their orgasm, you can condition them. Of course, lots of other techniques can help accelerate the process. High doses of estrogen can alter sexuality. Optimal testosterone keeps sex drive high. Amphetamines boost libido and performance. Synthetic MDMA derivatives can cause someone to emotionally bond easier with people and make them more suggestive and easily persuaded. There's even a new technique. A potent dopamine receptor agonist. One that suppresses prolactin, boosts sex drive, causes harder erections, and eliminates the male refractory period. At high doses it may even compel the patient into extreme, uncontrollably compulsive sexual behavior. At that point they'll do anything we want them to."

As the doctor speaks, your carefully guarded expression crumbles. Your eyes narrow, jaw clenches, and you grimace. "So, you're controlling her with these drugs and hormones," you accuse with a growl. "Treating her as your pet science project. Forcing her to do things against her will. You said it yourself."

Dr. Welker leans back in her chair and smirks. "I'm not a fascist like you, officer," she condescends. "I believe in the non-aggression principle. Like I said before, I have no idea where Jamie is. But if she was hypothetically participating in such a program, I'm sure she would have agreed to everything in writing ahead of time. It's not my fault if people don't read the fine print. As George Fitzhugh once said, some were born with saddles on their backs, and others booted and spurred to ride them. Some people are destined to become rich and famous doctors, CEOs, and billionaires. Others are perpetual doormats who will always let people walk all over them. Secretaries or..." Her eyes narrow as they focus on you. "Government goons."

"This is your last chance doc, put me into contact with Jamie," you demand before slamming your fist down on the metal table. It bangs hard, your fist bleeds, and a few scarlet drops drip onto the tabletop. "If you don't, I swear I'm going to get the broadest search warrant that's ever been signed by a judge in this county, bring an army of cops with me, and I will investigate you and your bullshit for the rest of my career." You seethe, snarl, and your body quakes. "This country still has laws. The people. They're pissed. Furious at what companies like yours have gotten away with recently. Vanholt's impunity has never been on frailer grounds."

"Maybe so but if Vanholt is on thin ice, drug warriors like yourself are drowning in freezing water," Dr. Welker says with eyes gleaming behind her colorful frames before she stretches her shoulders. "So many states are legalizing drugs. And I'm not just talking about marijuana. The wind is clearly blowing in one direction. And it's not the one your sailboat is headed for. People will always fight for more of it. Freedom. It's my destiny. Like Roark or Taggart. I will ride the waves of this new front. Liberty will defeat tyranny. People will remember me for the emancipations my grand vision and boundless ambition will bring to this world. You..." She wrinkles her nose and rubs her right wrist with her left hand. "If any record of you exists in the future. It will be this. Officer Holtz. Racist, white supremacist, murderer."

Your left hand grips the left temple of your sunglasses, and you pull them down to the tip of your nose so that Dr. Welker can see the intensity of your gaze. "I predict a very different future, doctor," you say, discard your poker face, and adopt a wicked scowl. "One in which I rescue Jamie from whatever mind control you're subjecting her to. She walks free while you rot away in prison for the rest of your life. Maybe you're right. The drug war. It could be a losing battle. But saving someone's life from someone as evil as you. That's a cause that is worth fighting no matter what."

Dr. Welker chuckles before leaning back in her chair and smirking at you. "Keep dreaming," she dismisses. "Are we done here? I've got a trillion-dollar company to help run."

"Just one more question, doctor," you answer, press the sunglasses back up your nose and cover your eyes, and adopt a neutral expression. "When I stopped Jamie that night. She said something to me. That her company forced her to take female hormones. I didn't believe it. I'm still confused. I can't imagine any man who would agree to such a thing. Is there a drug you used to make him compliant?"

"Officer, of course I have no idea what you're talking about," she responds with her chin held high, shoulders held back, and a knowing grin on her face. "Hypothetically though. If you wanted the perfect test subject. One you could control with ease. It would be very easy. You see, as Chief Psychiatrist, one of my duties is to provide advice on forming corporate teams that are compatible on a psychological level. One tool at my disposal is the standard corporate personality test. If I wanted to, I could require all Vanholt employees across the country to conduct such a test to better synergize our operations. In theory, I could sort through those applicants. Identify those with the highest levels of introversion and social anxiety. Have the Chief Executive pick his personal favorite. Coax him with a huge pay raise and fancy job title to move to a new city where he'd inevitably take out a mortgage on a house. Then, with him now back on probation, find some pretext to take it all away. You know, people are way more psychologically averse to losses than they are excited for prospective gains. Someone like that. They'd be desperate to do anything to save their job."

You remove your sunglasses from your face revealing an intense, fevered stare. Your jaw clenches and you grind your teeth. A vein in your neck throbs as you stand up and prepare to lunge. "Forget prison," you snarl. "How about your grand ambitions ends splattered against that concrete wall behind you?" Your hands clench into fists, biceps bulge, and the hair at the back of your neck stands to attention.

Dr. Welker's face whitens, lips tremble, and her body wafts a musky feminine scent into the small, enclosed interrogation room. She swallows hard and visibly sweats. It would be so easy. You smashing her skull against that concrete wall until her brain falls out.

The door clangs open and Mr. Fackler enters the room. "This interrogation is over!" he demands. "My client invokes her right to remain silent and will not answer any more questions." As he looks at you and Dr. Welker, he blinks. "Anne... is everything ok?"

"I-I'm fine..." she lies.

You let out a huge breath, cross your arms across your police vest, and wink at her. "Fine counselor," you relent. "I already got everything I needed." You stare at Dr. Welker with a smirk on your face.

37. The Pinnacle Highrise Luxury Tower

The elevator dings.

My big boobs hang out of the opened top of my black and white Dior dress. As I enter the elevator, the sound of rustling echoes off the narrow confines of the elevator walls. I can barely fit all of them inside. The various designer shopping bags hanging off my shoulders, arms and hands. I had it all. Fragrances, dresses, lingerie to show off to Chief, jewelry, accessories, makeup, and knickknacks for our place. It feels cramped in the elevator as it whirs up and begins to rise towards our luxury high-rise apartment.

The doors woosh open and I step out. Thankfully our front door is unlocked. It would be so inconvenient. Having to put all these bags on the ground and find the key. The door clicks open, and I step inside the apartment. They're everywhere. The entire apartment is filled with shopping bags. I've been so busy recently. It's a bit much but I just get such a rush shopping. God, I want to be stylish for him. Femme for him. I want to be so sexy for him and have him fuck me so much. Suck his dick and ride him all night. I want him to come inside me again and again. And I want to go shopping and buy more clothes and perfume and naughty underwear.

I catch something in the corner of the eye before there is a loud cracking noise followed by searing pain against the back right-side of my head. I collapse on to the ground and my hands touch the cold white granite as all the shopping bags tumble off my arms and fall to the ground and crackling. "Ahh!" I yelp, wince, and begin to sob.

"Where is it!?" Mr. Bentley yells, flares his nostrils, and steadies his right wrist with his left hand as he rotates his right palm. "Give it to me. Now. Either that I will beat you until you're bleeding on my floor. You'll be chained to the toilet until tomorrow morning. This isn't a fucking game, whore. You don't steal from me. Not ever."

He eyes my Fendi handbag on the ground and quickly grabs it. His rough fingers violently ruffle through it.

"I'm sorry Chief, I couldn't help it!" I plead. "Don't chain me. Take me to our bedroom. Punish me there. Use your belt. Or the riding crop, please! I have new lingerie. Please, let me fuck you Chief. I will make you come again and again. Please, I just want to fuck you so bad. It's all I think about. It's not right. It's what you get for leaving me alone with it. Depriving me of your cock, Chief. I'm sorry I took it. I want to be your nasty slut and have you come all over my body, again and again."

He yanks his credit card out of my handbag and lets out a huge breath. As he gazes at all the shopping bags covering the floors and counters, he shakes his head, pinches his face together, and grimaces. Finally, he looks down and sees me whimpering on the floor below. "Fine, pick a bag with lingerie and go get dressed for me. Handcuff yourself to my armchair. When I am done with my shower, I expect you to be on your knees with your mouth wide open."

"Of course!" I agree loudly, adopt a wide grin, and bounce up off the ground. My eyes sparkle as my heels clack against his granite floor, and I pick up one of the bags I had just purchased. I can't wait to femme for him and let him beat me up and fuck me senseless.

38. Police Station

"Hey, Holtz, the lieutenant wants you in his office pronto," the police aide tells you while you pass her by. The station is busy and the sound of footsteps, clanging doors, phones ringing, and various people speaking fills the air.

"I was just heading over there," you say as you adjust your aviator sunglasses. Clutched in your left arm is a draft search warrant you've been working on for days. One that, if signed by a judge, would allow you to search for me in the Vanholt Pharmaceutical Division's executive offices. Your boots tap against the tiled station floor as you walk.

The door to the lieutenant's office creaks open. When you enter, you're surprised that there are already two men seated. One of them is handsome and well groomed, dressed in a suit. You notice something. A holstered handgun to his side. The other man is big and fat, snacking on potato chips, wearing a baby blue polo shirt, and a pair of khakis. He appears unarmed.