Rachel's Love Potion

Rachel's Love Potion

Today's the day! After month's of finagling and finessing, I was finally going to enact my sinister master plan. The final ingredients had arrived, and soon, my love potion would be complete! I don't care what anyone says, days like today merit sinister laughter.

Rachel Levine was going to be mine.

I snatched up my package from the front porch and waved to Mrs. Lundegaard across the street, who was out watering her herb garden. She didn't wave back; the old bitch hates me. And I her, I should add, but today I couldn't help but smile at her wrinkly old ass. Smile right through it in fact, then through the house behind her, through two more, and right at where my quarry dwelled. At least, until I had her move in as my permanent live-in love slave.

Back inside it was straight to my laboratory, where the early stages of the concoction were in full swing. Plural, actually: concoctions. That's what most people don't realize about love potions -- they think you toss some ingredients in a blender and force it down her throat. Not remotely. There were in fact three distinct portions to it, each of which need to be maintained separately until the crucial stage of the process, which with my new package in hand, I would see to presently.

The first was to personalize it. After all, a love potion given to the wrong person doesn't usually work right. Everybody experiences love differently, see, so if you go feeding a love potion to someone it wasn't brewed for, what you're more than likely to wind up with is a thoroughly confused woman staggering around trying to fuck a chair leg. Nobody wants to see that.

Thanks to modern home security systems and the neighborhood's general dislike of their warlock neighbor, it had taken me six months to find an opportunity to get close enough to dear Rachel to get a serviceable hair sample. Now that hair sample was affixed in a perfect double helix with one of my own, dissolving together in a swirl of imbued chemistry. It would work for Rachel and myself alone -- none of that "whoops, she looked at the wrong person first" garbage you see on TV.

The second essential was something all too often neglected: the base. Every good potion needed a competently brewed base to empower it. Only a moron forgot it altogether, and then he didn't have a potion at all but instead some expensive, foul-tasting sludge. My base had been brewing for over a month now, infused at intervals with enhancements that had, quite frankly, nearly bankrupted me. Still, when it was done, my love potion would have the most potent base of any potion I'd ever seen, much less made myself. Rachel would be so blinded by infatuation, I could do anything to her and she would only beg for more. Abuse her, humiliate her, torture her friends and family right in front of her, and she'd still be utterly besotted.

(I had less than no interest in such macabre pursuits, but still, it was nice to have room to operate.)

Finally, there was the alchemical instructions for the potion itself. This was where the alchemy could trigger the mix to cure (or cause) a disease, enable flight, induce fire breath, or -- in the case of my potion -- cause romantic infatuation. It was actually the simplest part of the potion. It was formulaic, and perhaps disturbingly straightforward. After an anxiety-inducing two-week delay, the ingredients had been delivered today. I tore the package open with boyish eagerness.

I did a quick inventory. Glauber's salt, caustic potash, purple of Cassius, white vitriol... On I went down my checklist. Everything seemed to be in order right up until I got to the lunar caustis. No. No, this couldn't be right. No no no nooooo! I picked up the order confirmation, scanned down its contents. There it was, lunar caustis, 10g... wait, no. It was supposed to be 100g!

Damnit all to hell!

I had a mere three hours before I needed to be ready! Four, if I was willing to risk being fashionably late. Even if I had the silver on hand right now it would hardly be enough time! My instinct was to call the chemical supplier and raise bloody hell, but there was no time. I had the narrowest of windows to make this right.

Ripping around like a wild man, I drove around to every store I could think of, scrounging up what little I could find of use. After two hours, I was convinced I'd found all I could and raced back home to start the processes. All the while, I knew full well this was a doomed effort. I'd gotten up to 40g, and I might be able to get another 20 distilled by deadline, but still! Still. I allowed myself an exasperated sigh.

It might be enough. Everything else had been done so perfectly, and I had all the other ingredients. Insufficiency wasn't the same as a mistake. It might just... dilute it. Or maybe I'd been overly-ambitious to begin with, right? Sure, that could be. Maybe this would actually be better than my incredibly meticulous plot that I had so carefully planned, researched and perfectly executed with this one exception.

Damnit!

The block party was set to begin at noon sharp, and the love potion was done only shortly thereafter. I didn't have time to get tidied up like I'd wanted, but I was presentable at least, and with less than no time to spare. Thank the dark powers of the void that the rest of my things were already packed in the van and ready to go. As I pulled up to the strip of parking spaces alongside the park's east edge, I saw more than a few irked glances cast in my direction; there were still those in the neighborhood who were none too pleased to see me arrive.

I swear, one little story in the newspaper about about disseminating aerosol toxins not approved by the FDA, and you're the neighborhood nemesis. (OK, so there were three stories.) In my defense, I was only trying to kill mosquitoes. All of them, for about a twenty mile radius. Even if it hadn't made those lacking the antidote (i.e. everyone but me) a little sick for a week or two, it was a small price to pay for not having to worry about West Nile, right? Lucky for me the judge couldn't live without his morning coffee, and the flavor of coffee handily masked my mercy potion.

That was years ago, however, and of late I had been a model community member. Organizing the community watch, buying excessive amounts of cookies from the girl scouts, competing in last summer's home garden competition, you name it. (Fourth place, but still, all agreed my tomatoes were the sweetest!) I don't think many of them had forgotten past transgressions, but I was only looking for tolerance, not acceptance. More than a year of intensive boot-licking later, here I was, finally invited to the annual block party largely thanks to a promise to furnish the booze on my own dime.

Now to pray to all the dead gods of history that it wasn't going to be for nothing.

Things were in full swing by the time I arrived. The younger kids were entertaining themselves on the playground and the older ones were isolating themselves with phones and tablets. Three grill pits were churning out meat (and veggie burgers for the Thompsons), and tables were overflowing with the potluck offerings. There was both sullen grumbling at my arrival and fervent expressions both relief at the contents of my van.

"Sorry everyone -- had something come up last minute, but rest assured, your alcohol has arrived!" I opened the back end of the truck to the sound of grudging applause and started unloading coolers, quickly joined by a few other neighbors who helped me set up. I'd sprung for beer, wine, some fruity girly things, and a not unimpressive stock of liqueurs. All told, it had set me back more than the potion itself (which had not been inexpensive).

We had a rather large neighborhood, using the term "block party" lightly, as it was really more like five blocks. There were around two hundred attendees expected, and we may well have exceeded that with friends and party crashers. In all the hubbub, it took me some time to spot Rachel, especially as I was trying to look like I wasn't looking.

She was so mesmerizingly beautiful, this whole charade might have been worth it just to see her. There she was with a dozen or so others playing volleyball in the park's sand pits. She wasn't dressed for sex appeal, or if she was, she didn't know how to do so. All she had on was a simple pair of jogging shorts and a sports bra, not even socks or shoes. Her golden brown hair was tied up in a simple ponytail; without it, it would hang midway down her back with the slightest hint of curls. Her skin was perfectly bronzed; I couldn't detect the edges of a tan line anywhere.

It was strange, really. My appetites generally ran to big boobs and big butts on big girls, yet Rachel was the antithesis of my norm. She was on the short side, thin near to the point of skinny with petite breasts and a runner's ass. She had the face of an angel, undeniably, but usually that wouldn't be enough for a man like me. There was something about her, something unaffected and simple and quietly unashamed, and it had sparked a need in me. A need to possess this woman.

I bided my time. Rushing over with a special drink just for her would blow the whole thing; this had to happen organically, or at least seem to. So I settled in, handing out beers, pouring from bottles, guarding against ambitious teens, and increasingly displaying my skills as a mixologist as word got around. Within the first hour, I might have been welcomed on my own merit. Soon enough I had a small group of neighbors gathered around the bar, laughing and telling jokes, myself an equal member of the circle. It felt like I could live like them, simple people with normal lives, if I so chose.

But I didn't. I was waiting. Waiting for my moment.

Then it came.

Rachel and several of her fellow volleyballers approached the bar, their game evidently concluded. She was walking alongside a young man who was teasing her about some of her missteps on the court; she rejoined that she'd had more fun than him, which made her the real winner. "No, I'm the winner," he said warmly, smiling with teeth so white I literally heard them sparkle. It must be a new thing; I hadn't heard of any boyfriend in my researches, though I'd not re-checked lately.

I couldn't help but smile as the couple sidled up to the makeshift bar. The poor guy would be going home alone tonight.

"Good afternoon, neighbors," I greeted them.

"Hi," said Rachel, and I detected a quick frown flash across her face at the sight of me. Guess somebody was still bitter. "You're... Knox, right?"

"Good memory!" I was genuinely impressed. I'd made sure to keep as much distance as possible, not tip her off in the least. "And if I recall, you're Rachel?" She nodded. "And this... well, you got me there." I looked to her date.

"Jim," he said, extending a hand. As we shook, he asked his variant of the same stupid question I've been getting since boyhood. "Knox like the fort, or knocks like the school of hardness?"

I wanted to make a joke about having gotten a PhD in hardness, but it was too soon. "The fort. Not that you'll need to spell it anyway," I said with a laugh I'd been practicing for months. "So, you didn't come here to make introductions. Can I get you a drink?"

"Beer for me, light if you got it," said Jim. What a pussy.

"Yeah, same," said Rachel. Good girl, watching her figure. (What, like I'm the first guy to hold his crush to a lower standard?)

"Phhhh, you can't drink some shitty beer! Knox here is a bartending god! C'mon, it's his treat -- live it up!" interjected Stan Whitford, who I had been plying with free cocktails all afternoon for precisely this reason. He'd been drumming up business for me all afternoon. One of those guys who wants to share his inebriation with all present, and preferred everyone follow his lead. He was perfect.

"Oh, well, um, can you do a long island, Knoxie?" said Jim. Knox. Not Knoxie. Fucker.

"Sure can. And you?" I asked Rachel, my excuse for not being able to fulfill her request at the ready.

"Oh, I dunno, I'm not picky. Whatever's handy for you. Something tasty?" she said uncertainly.

Man, sometimes things are just too easy.

"One long island and one mystery drink, coming up," I said. I started with Jim's order and took my time about it. Sure enough, the two were soon drawn into the conversation, and I was as forgotten as any regular bartender. Once his was ready, I reached down under the bar and removed the stopper from the potion. It would begin to lose strength after only a few minutes out of my specially enchanted bottle, so it was time to move quickly. I poured it into a glass, stuck a little umbrella in it, and handed the couple their beverages.

More than ever, I was wishing I could have used a simpler method, like breaking into her house and forcing it down her throat at gunpoint. Stirring it into something in her refrigerator. Veritably anything less complex than this whole charade. Yet every other way had held too much risk to me. The presence of great fear or hatred could dull or even negate the effect; there was no guarantee she'd be the only one who consumed it if left sitting somewhere, or that she'd do so in timely fashion. Plus, those plans held the added risk that I could get caught and incarcerated if things went awry, which -- hot as Rachel was -- simply wasn't worth it to me.

As I put the glass into her hand and murmured a "you're welcome" to her "thanks, Knox," there was nothing to do but watch and wait. Seconds dragged by like hours as I watched her hold the glass, sipping ("oh, that's yummy") but not guzzling. To calm my nerves, I made another mojito for Stan's wife Donna, who giggled and cooed her thanks to my deaf ears.

Then, for the second time that party, serendipity struck.

"Everybody! Hey, pipe down -- everybody!" yelled a tipsy Stan Whitford. "I gotta say, I was on the fence about inviting ol' Knox here, but... dammit if you aren't the best part of this damn fine party, am I right?"

As he went on, I tried to smile at the praise rather than stare in mounting anxiety at the lip of Rachel's mostly full glass. He took my hand and roughly tugged me into the center of the circle beside him, then raised my hand in the air. "C'mon, everybody -- seriously, you make one hell of a... what did you call that thing again?"

"Dark and Stormy," I answered.

"Well whatever you call it. So c'mon everybody, raise your glasses. To the bartender!" Stan finished, lifting his glass and draining it in a slug. I sure hoped he wasn't driving home. Then such petty concerns were rendered moot, as the rest of the circle followed suit. Dozens of neighbors echoed Stan's toast, lifting glasses and cans and taking long drinks.

Rachel drained hers to the dregs. My smile probably seemed like it was a response to the toast -- and in a way it was -- but really, I was imagining my future. Rachel Levine was going to be my love slave.

Just so long as that damn potion worked. It had to. Almost everything was perfect.

Sure enough, over the next few minutes, I watched for the subtle shifts in her behavior. She gravitated back towards my bar, then started making eye contact with me, and soon forcibly engaged me in banal small talk. Jim had gotten roped into conversation with a few neighbors, but she seemed to take no notice. I made her another drink, then another. In fact as the evening wore on, she never refused an offer.

It had to be working. Right? Maybe "love" to her didn't mean stripping naked and spreading her legs right off, but rather showing her interest in me, then submitting to my every desire once I stated it. With so many people around -- and with the bar becoming the centerpoint of the party -- there was no way to test it out. I couldn't simply say "hey Rachel, why don't you crawl around under the bar and suck my dick while I pour?" If the potionwasn't working and she was only being friendly, I'd be in a world of trouble.

Three hours later, Jim took her hand in his and said it was time for them to go. I watched Rachel carefully for a reaction -- surely, she'd never leave with this loser when she was totally infatuated with me. Only then, she did just that.

Rachel did pause to say goodbye to me, I guess, which was certainly out of character. I guess. "Thanks so much for the drinks, Knox. We'll definitely have to do this again sometime!"

"Already counting the days, and readying the hole in my savings account," I said, forcing a smile at my lame joke. Then she gave me a little hug, breaking it off before I could even reciprocate. She took Jim's hand and didn't look back.

What. The. Fuck.

The next couple days were a low point for me. I'd really put all my eggs in the love-slave basket, and to have everything come so close to perfection and yet still go totally bust... it was a lot for a warlock's ego to handle. When I finally extricated myself from Stan and the rest of the lingerers around midnight, I'd come home tipsy and was drunk in short order. I smashed a fair amount of my chemistry gear in an inebriated rage, and the next day sat around alternately moping around the basement, storming around the main floor, or flitting around the upstairs watching for Rachel to come throw herself at my feet.

I slept on my couch that night. Alone.

The next day wasn't much better in terms of my temperament, but at least I started getting productive about it. Ordering replacement glassware, doing laundry, catching up on back issues of Home Alchemy Quarterly I'd neglected during my scheming months. I called up the customer service line of the company who'd bungled my order and gave a thorough tongue-lashing to an Indian man pretending his name was Dennis. It didn't help, though. I was too dejected to be cheered by some vicarious cruelty. To think, I'd squandered all that time, money, resources, favors... and what did I have to show for it? A hug from a pretty girl. Ahug. What a waste. What a damn waste!

On the morning of the third day -- no, wait, it was going on 2:00 in the afternoon -- by the sound of the doorbell. I ignored it at first, reckoning it was some solicitor. The second time, I figured it was some package delivery I'd forgotten, one that required a signature. The third time, I didn't care who it was. I was in a foul mood, and I didn't want its foulness disrupted by the outside world.

"Now listen here you son of... uh, Rachel?"

There she was, clad in an adorable little pink romper, smiling congenially into my doorway. In an instant, I found myself trying to smooth wrinkles from clothes and kinks from my hair, all the while thinking that if life were fair -- to me, not to her -- thatshe'dbe the one eager to make a good impression onme!

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, no, no. Well, yes. But no matter, I should've been up some time ago."

"Good then. I was going to come by earlier but I didn't want to freak you out or anything." Were her cheeks coloring, or was I imagining it?

"You seem harmless enough. Why would you freak me out?" I managed a smile, despite the hatred of the universe sitting in my stomach like a pile of lead.

She giggled. "That's how I get ya. But no, I wanted to swing by, see if... I dunno. If you wanted to... do something. Or whatever."

Rachel was definitely blushing. Perhaps I was too, as my imagination flooded with all the something I wanted to do with her. Still, I was cautious by nature. If the potion had been working, surely she would have acted on it before now. Maybe I'd made a good impression during small talk. "I have to say, this is kind of a surprising offer. What brought this on?"

If I thought she was blushing before, she was positively crimson now. "I... Well, I... Geez, this sounds weird. I..."

"You...?"

She took a deep breath, hands fidgeting self-consciously. "Ever since the block party the other day, I've really been thinking that you and I don't spend enough time together. Like, we'venever spent time together. And that seems so... wrong. You know?"