ILLEGAL AS WELL (Wrote This Book With the Intention of Saving Millions of Lives - Free to Read)

[SpunkySkunk347]

I wrote this book with the intention of saving hundreds of millions of lives! harm reduction indeed.

You're welcome; hope you enjoy the read; all in the interest of harm reduction.

Synopsis:
A new computer is invented that can see back in time! Meanwhile, a presidential candidate is promising to end all the leading causes of death while government agencies race to track down the last murderers and kidnappers.

ILLEGAL AS WELL
By Michael Berg

Chapters
1 - Death and Evil Approach an End – p. 3
2 - Illegal As Well – p. 15
3 - The Zenith City – p. 19
4 - Ghosts from the Past – p. 27
5 - The West Virginian – p. 37
6 - Hide and Seek at the Widow's Market – p. 51
7 - An Island with Only the Devil On It – p. 56
8 – Christmas – p. 67
9 - Funeral Partners – p. 72
10 - Wrong Family – p.85
11 - The Wizard and the Sorceror – p. 89
12 - Healing the Heart – p. 102

Chapter 1: Death and Evil Approach an End

A new presidential candidate promises to end all the leading causes of death in the United States.
"To end the first leading cause of death, which is heart disease, resources used to make excessive junkfood will be used to make fuel for cars and industry instead, using tax cuts to get everyone on board.

To end the second leading cause of death, lung cancer, land used for growing tobacco will be used for growing vegetables instead, or perhaps cannabis, but hopefully healthy vegetables. The best way for this to happen seamlessly is by constitutional ammendment: Tobacco is not allowed to be grown, harvested, sold, or imported in the United States of America, effective February.

To end the third leading cause of death, medical errors, doctors and medical workers will have to pair or triple up for each patient by law: two doctors per patient, per visit, in the same room at the same time - thus drastically reducing the probability of injuring the patient. Some medical workers will also be incentivized from now on by having their earnings double every few years they go without killing any patients, and not by just ignoring them
These three things alone would end the majority of all deaths. The remaining causes of death thereafter could then be focused on, with our efforts then freed up to do so. In the future, it will hopefully be that the only cause of death is dying peacefully in one's sleep, which science is now showing is actually possible and common, in their late 80s, 90s, or 100s+"

The bills were simple, profitable for everyone, and no one yet has come up with a reason to oppose them. Although there is fear that there must be something at work planning sabotage, as has always been the case when something so altruistically pure and sensible tries to happen, and it just seems too good of a thing for the wicked world to let happen. But who? No one would be losing any money from the changes proposed, so there is no financial motivation for any opponent. Wholly and objectively good, who would try to stop it? The devil himself? No more deaths - a promise that proves to us it will work in its simplicity. Nothing to lose and everything to gain. Profitable for everyone. Thus far, both parties have been showing overwhelming support for the candidate. 'Is there any way we can get him in office ahead of time?' spoke another candidate. The public and the government have become extremely protective over him already- our hero.

Rejoice was taking place in the streets: parades, parties, food, drink, fireworks.. But everything still seemed eerie; why had it taken the world so long? Why though? Why? Wasn't all of it illegal already?

In a motel room in Arkansas, a man wearing an eyepatch and a Boston t-shirt was staring at the television, thinking of loose ends. No more deaths meant something for him: it meant the end of his career. Rumors had been going around about a new type of investigation technology that can record from any point in a room remotely and perpetually, prompting him and many others to stay one step ahead of themselves - a final spree of run-arounds, or 'fastists'. People owed him, and for some reason the fact that other people couldn't die anymore meant that they couldn't pay him. He got into the side pod of his motorcycle, and his goon of a cousin-uncle wearing a spinny-propeller cap was already on the bike with it started ready for orders. "We gotta go to Kansas to stab somebody! I'll give you half a dilly!", the eyepatch wearing man said. The tires squeaked from him saying this, and they sped off. He sometimes gave him half-lorb tabs to humiliate him, but the acetaminophen in those was about to kill the eyepatch-wearing man's liver from acetaminophen poisoning just 10 hours (yes, 10 hours) into his addiction to pain meds, so they switched to dillies, which had no acetaminophen and wouldn't rapidly kill their livers. Death by liver failure was a slow and painful death, guaranteed, with agony and pain going on for several days while other organs are rotting because the liver can't filter out toxins that build up no matter what that the liver must process.

In the middle of a courtroom elsewhere, a man in a black suit, sunglasses, and a creepy clear coiling tube that came out of his ear for some reason, walked up to a blonde red vested attorney and whispered to her with his hand held up, "I think someone is running around killing people" in a sort of dutyish, half-worried tone. The female attorney, who had been speaking before the court, turned and looked at him. "Ech.." she replied while shrugging a little bit, while her hands were out explaining things. Soon-to-be-Banned products were now selling by the crate in a hurry and she had become an auctioneer mid-trial. They declared a county health inspector guilty of treason and perjury 20 times before fining them $200,000 dollars and then selling the debt on the internet to Saudi Arabia. The trial/auction finished with hoo-hah and barfing noises, and people left the courthouse to go to the bar across the street. Armed guards with M16s (yes, M16s) stood outside the bar while people were walking in talking mad shit about one another. The ATF arrived soon and pointed guns at people, who needed to know things about land and where the crates came from. "Why am I selling bad drugs?" the red-vested attorney cried aloud, genuinely confused and frustrated. She was hand-cuffed but the DA freed her while interrupting the same sentence she was arrested in. She then freed herself by announcing that outloud and shaking fingers at the DA like that 'was her job'. The ATF, not wanting to end the raid empty-handed, turned instead and began battering other people at random. A man with a Brooklyn accent began lecturing everybody, "Fucking poison! NONE of you have ever done shit about all this stuff that's been killing millions of people: tobacco, poisonous medicine, bad food - it should have all been gone 50 years ago by now! Yet all of you your entire life have just been ignoring it and watching sickeningly as more of those naive continue to fall victim." The ATF stopped beating people for a second and looked at him like what he just said required biblical analysis.

The man with the eyepatch and his sidekick goon were riding through the night. No stars were visible for some reason. The eyepatch man picked a worm out of his ear and smiled at it and the idea that he was somehow merging with some unified micromachine radio consciousness as a result, and wondered if his rank in such a system would allow him to turn off advertisements and dysphoria that 'noobs' were subjected to.

The man wearing an eyepatch pulled into a gas station parking lot. This gas station was of a different chain brand that did not sell products which killed people - in place of tobacco products were trading card packs, handheld video games, movies, music albums, kids toys, and action figures; instead of junkfood, they had vegetables and guacamole. It made a fortune, but hadn't taken off yet across the country. "...I can barely move!" shouted the man in the eyepatch, "I don't know what it is, I can't move right now! We need to leave! Why do I feel like this..." A picture of Jesus on a movie poster stared down at him disapprovingly. "You win," the eyepatch man said between coughing, "you win.." The eyepatch man's goon started the bike again and they drove off, confused and nervous. "I'm still getting my money down there. I get it no matter what. That's all that matters. I'm getting that no matter what."

Out in the woods, federal agent Clark was having his final battle with the hitmen's drones still after him. He had fashioned a rail gun, which immediately fired at anything interrupting an empty sky - if the telescope lens had something in it, an amplified image of it changed capacitance in a series of capacitors which, if capacitance changed, flipped a transistor when at a voltage slightly greater than the capacitors' from an empty sky, and this would then trigger the rail gun. He disconnected it briefly if a plane was flying overhead.
A drone showed up making an eerie and ominous noise; the drone was disintegrated by the rail gun, which was satisfying to watch and Clark had a lot of fun doing it. "The power company finally accomplished something," he stated.

The next day as Clark got back into town, a guy in a white doctor's coat with burns in his face was running around in public blasting a geneva-gun. People had managed to get far enough away from him where he was only hurting himself. Clark began to devise a plot to sharpen a spear quick and impale him, but moments later a mail carrier swerved off with his truck and flattened the asshole. Clark was inspired by this, and thought about all the stylish ways mail carriers utilized various mob-style weapons for self defense. As the guy in doctor's scrubs started to get back up, the mailman blew into a flabby rubber mouthpiece and a steel dart shot out of a hose, defeating the bad man who fell back down onto the pavement. The last of the murderers disguised as doctors were occasionally popping up in public having little freakouts.

When Clark got back into the office, a few people stood up and began clapping for him. "We don't have to worry anymore Clark - the military has this place protected like a fortress right now. We won the chess match. Your friend from earlier found most of the rest of them for us too, and the money that was crowd-pooled was announced seized. We did it; they're all gone. Every last one is dead... There's nothing to do now... We're bored. Anyways, the election is coming up soon, it's almost Halloween, and we're to have NOTHING to do with our future president AT ALL. We attract too many terrible people. We're going to try doing something new and exciting; we're going to find the bad guys and kill them! How fun!" A few people listening began nodding with casual approval. "As I'm sure you've all heard, the new pres is going to end all common causes of death for all time, and we'll all look stupid for not thinking of that earlier. Why didn't any of you think of that? What are you even trying for? Anyways, since the public doesn't care about surveillance being 'like sonar' and the fact that we can see literally everything, we're going to use it to find the remaining baddies. Kidnappers and murderers take priority, we kill those. Drugs don't matter, and neither does most everything else, like jaywalking and parking tickets; unpaid taxes is for the IRS to figure out later, and 'no namers' should have their privacy protected- rule of thumb is 'why aren't you finding a murderer or missing person right now'."

The building director went on, "We're also starting a higher clearance level operation. Something new entirely," he looked back and forth seriously, seeing whose attention he had caught. "There's a new computer that can see back in time. We're going to get them all. Every single cold case will be busted this next year, as fast as possible, before anyone can figure out what we have. What, don't believe me? Mark, you set a restaurant on fire when you were three because you were too bored to sit there any longer, and didn't tell anybody it was you; Lisa you stepped on a frog when you were six, what a terrible person you are; James is the one who ate all the chocolate when no one was looking at a picnic when he was 10; and Eric you stole a samurai sword then destroyed someone's house with it when you were 12, you should have known better by that age, shame on you. Please raise your hand if all that was true and we'll move on." They shamelessly raised their hands one by one except for Mark and Eric; much of the room still didn't quite understand what he was saying. "So bust these cold cases. I found four missing persons just messing around with the computer this morning. Top 5 lifesavers each get five hundred thousand dollars. Don't fake one or you're disqualified from that, but do work fast if you can. The equipment that takes the measurements is mobile, and later on we'll probably do some measurements on foot. If its too difficult to arrest one, just get rid of them."

"...What were you saying earlier about cold cases?" "You can look back in time! Literally! I told you about a bunch of horrible things you did when you were younger so you'd believe me! This isn't a trick or a joke. You can now view footage of anything that's ever happened, and we're going to use that technology to bust cold cases. Particle resonance is how it works; quantum microarchitecture is how we read that. They found a unique signature in the measurements from four seasons which were divisible by 365 days and nights which was also apparent, in particle resonance. We put a date and time to it then, and later on figured out how to pull audio and imaging off it. Before the bad guys or the public learn that we have it, we're going to take the opportunity to bust all the cold cases. No more questions - the program runs the same as the 4d viewer that's 'like sonar'. Get to work." The office lazily turned back in their chairs to their computers.

"Clark," the building director walked over to him, "Go do something else." Clark was taken back with disappointment for a moment, then realized the strategic importance of him leaving the building in case bad guys tried finding him again someday soon.

As Clark turned to walk back out the door, the director quickly added, "Oh wait! Take one of these with you, here." The director handed him a strange looking stick with buttons, dials, a little screen, and a cone on the front. "These are the new particle resonance readers I was talking about! You know, the ones that let you see back in time!" Clark looked amazed and eager, "Here, just press this button to get it ready, cycle through the material types with these arrow buttons, and turn the dial until the imaging isn't blurry anymore. This dial selects how many minutes in the past you want to look at, then push it in once for hours or again for months. Hold the cone over the surface of what you're reading, now look around with it to see the imaging from back then. Press this button if you want to pause, then here's fast foreward and rewind. Here, look, here's you walking in earlier." Clark watched in disbelief. "Now point it over here and see me." Clark turned around, and saw the director giving the speech he just gave. Now here's here 68 years ago before I could have recorded any of it. Wow, look how different town is! Older buildings. Anyways, verify any detail from back then however small and you'll eventually begin to find ways of proving to yourself that it's genuine. Okay, now go find people who are kidnapped and rescue them and bust bad guys with it! We don't know what's faster yet, doing this all by drone or on foot, so try and race us and we'll get a good idea what the best way to do it is! Anything you read gets saved, so don't worry about that, but add time-stamps with this button when you've found something important. Then you can add notes out loud too or write them on the touch screen. Isn't that cool? It gets in the way a little bit right now though, and the only way to close out of it is to add another timestamp. We can and are going to see everything you see, so no looking at people naked, just saying that to everyone once more, no looking at people naked! We can see you doing it!!" the director shouted to the rest of the office. "Since you're the most familiar there, go to your home town with this first and find out what happened to that girl who got abducted when you were a kid. We can also figure out if any bad guys still after you are trying to find you there! Now go - start saving lives with that thing. When you get close, don't let the bad guys know what it is either."

Chapter 2:
Illegal As Well

In the late 1950s and early 1960s in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maine, and western and northern parts of New York, an older man had built a TV transmitter into the back of his van and would park it at the end of a block in a neighborhood, using it to overpower the signal of local television stations with his own broadcast. Usually while programming for a younger audience was playing, his broadcast would come on and his face would appear, accompannied by a creepy but memorable and melodic jingle. He'd instruct children to do various chores around the house, in a silly announcement tone of voice, and in the process add household cleaners to unknowingly poison food and beverages before giving it to their parents.

When the man was caught, he was arrested for homicide. However, debate actually began over whether or not what he was doing illegal. "Why were children even allowed to be anywhere near such dangerous products?", "They wouldn't have done it if the color of the liquid wasn't meant to look like juice or candy", "They shouldn't be able to open the container even" - he started winning the federal government over to his side. The public at the time, for those who caught the very brief mentioning of the case in a single issue of a newspaper, claimed that whatever form of hypnosis he had used on children he was now using on agents of the federal government; the victims' family members believed the same rumor to be true. Because of this, the second victim's husband shot the man before he stood trial.

The feds woke up. No one had ever come up with such a terrifying way to commit homicide before. How did he manage to make his own broadcast, and have it appear instead on a channel over what else was showing? Could other people do this? Who else knew how? To prevent others from copying whatever it is that he did, the federal government kept anyone from publicizing the case. Time forgot it, nearly - which is what was planned to happen.

Doesn't history repeat itself though? The fear of history not learning its lesson and something similar happening again was disregarded, mostly due to the fear of fake transmissions driving many government workers nuts.

The concern about children accidentally poisoning themselves or others was overlooked, although he mentioned that as his motive, "I'll show you what I did and exactly how I did it; I did it for an important reason: so you could protect children." Many of the federal agents who had similar opinions never shared them for fear of being typified the same as someone who was homicidal. It was as if it all happened for no reason and meant nothing.

After the case had been smudged from the public, the victims' families had to fight to keep their children out of hospital or state custody. This continued for years. Many were strongly medicated, even reporting torture. No one knew what happened, and no one cared when they'd try explaining it again. Their record only said they had poisoned someone, and maybe it was an accident.

The case was eventually brought up again to help try to clear the names of the children, decades after it had been forgotten about. It almost seemed like it was about to happen again, being stuck in hospitals or labelled mentally unstable, and having to fight to gain any legal foothold. Luckily, something amazing happened: the case became widely publicized; it took off, whether those few federal agents early on wanted it to or not. Their story was talked about far and wide, and for the first time in their lives people gave them something in regards to it all: support. Lawyers offered to form a legal team for them, for free, and in their interest entirely, which was whatever they chose it to be.

Upon requesting compensation, the court found the federal commission liable, and ordered that the government pay the kids, now adults mostly in their 40s. It wasn't much, and according to most of them, it wasn't worth it, as they once again tried to make publicity of the case disappear. It didn't work; other countries even took copies of the various details and testimonies, and in multiple languages. The same simple stubborness never again resulted successfully in the total undermining of the issue and neglect of the victims, and it looks hopefully like it can't and never will.

Although time moves on, it is usually the case that nothing changes when there is no one there to change it. There's still poisonous cleaning products accessible to kids, and they're still colored like juice or candy, and no one is going to typify you as a serial killer if you want things to be different. That man, the one who convinced children to unknowingly poison people with household cleaners, was evil. He took an issue that most people acknowledge and recognize as one of society's terrible and simple problems, and used it to try justifying homicide. If his point was that it would be malice to get someone to drink it, he proved that he himself was malicious.

Chapter 3: The Zenith City

In the 1920s, Duluth had a population which consisted of more millionaires than anywhere else on Earth, due to a geographical tendency of a choice made by those who had made their wealth in Chicago and were moving: only millionaires could afford to move up north to Duluth - which was in the thick northern Minnesotan woods, on the easternmost point of Lake Superior. The city had everything it needed for natural resources, moreso than Chicago even, and seemed like it was going to become the next big metropolis, waiting to be set up by those who could make it happpen.

With millions of dollars, and the ability to set up any type of industry one was willing to, numerous inventors emerged. For a few years around the Duluth harbor at night, you could see fantastic colors being showcased from newly invented types of artificial lighting for the very first time. New York City didn't even compare to it, because that you couldn't see all in one night. Around the Duluth harbor, you could see new gas lanterns, neon signs, and even arcing, which looked like lightning.

The light show lasted only a few years however, as the millionaire inventors and business owners soon realized that much of it was quite hazardous to people's health, especially when being cleaned. Nothing was at a standard yet, and soot built up that was toxic to come in contact with. There was a notable visit by Tesla, who put on one of his touring demonstrations for the aristocratic upper class, during which many of the audience members felt unsafe being so close to the arcing of electricity being displayed, becoming mentally ill even; Tesla had drawn Faraday lines on stage for the safe spots for himself to stand in, but hadn't bothered to find any 'safe spots' for his audience - and the millionaire society of Duluth would never forget it. The desire to be enchanted by magic and fantastic colors turned into a demonstration instead of the dangers of ignoring energy equivalence laws, that the power of electricity when changed to a different medium by strange forces is still as powerful, even if that new medium is now the air in a room full of people. Tesla hadn't reserved an auditorium in Duluth large enough, as the only large auditoriums in town at that time were likely already booked, and thus, his audience was stood dangerously close to the arcing being demonstrated, resulting in disaster. After the night of that tragic performance, it could be said that the Zenith City had officially began to shut down its light show.
At the end of it, the millionaires had mostly left or started to move, leaving behind a museum piece of success, triumph, and finally a humble tragedy, like a person who grew old and gray way too early. The city has long since lost most of its Zenith antiques, but retains its 1920s aesthetic - painted by time with last century's tragic truth that beauty ultimately becomes toxic for material objects.

Duluth was also home to some of the creators of the very first computers ever made - the ones the government basically had no choice but to purchase, as no one else knew how they even made them. The ones they don't usually let people know about. Our public imagination of the first computer being a giant calculator made in the 1950s with a room full of scientists standing inside of it turning dials and flipping switches is a cleverly placed lie. The first modern computer could be said to have been made in the late 1800s for processing telegrams between Chicago and New York City. And it was geniously simple to make. A grid of copper wire running vertically, foreward and backward, and side to side, was set up with a junction of transistors between intersections of wires. The same type of computer was also used to run those cities' electrical transformer grid sometimes, although not as early on. The Duluthian communications computer on the other hand consisted of intersecting rows of rectangular metal columns, molded all from one piece. Waves were then sent through certain rows between the columns on different sides, computing a resulting wave pattern after waves entering had interfered with one another, cancelling each other out or deflecting off at different angles interfering with itself such that output of a certain type arrived before or after previous output. As they got better at it, these computers were used to process analog signals for television and radio. They could also make advanced calculations for not just things like exponents and logarithms, but integrals and derivatives. It seems as though someone had the idea to invent this for a transmissions standard ahead of time, as if they already knew the dangers of stronger and simpler means of broadcasting with amplified signals and high voltage direct current.

The wave computer didn't take off in popularity for a while, as people barely knew how to explain what it even was. The inventor remained humble when bigger government greatly overlooked his invention, but later into the 1920s and 30s, they came back running.

Other types of transmission methods, not requiring computers often, were being set up by inventors around the country - often high voltage analog signals which might be described as not even needing a TV to be able to see, if it were a different frequency. Even when the signal strength itself could be withstood without adverse health effects, the amplification of the signal, and mismatching of different generations of equipment, had catastrophic consequences. Rooms full of people were found knocked unconscious by their television sets - entire neighborhoods even, who were attempting to rescue one another. If the electrons were leaking, seizures and burning would occur, especially with children laying on the carpet in front of it. Nausea, headache, dizziness, and deep hypnotic states were more frequently reported. The flicker of the screen itself could cause seizures, and no one yet understood why.

The people who later became the first agents of the Federal Communications Commission were many of those who had taken it upon themselves to race across the country checking signal standards, and/or warning communities what to do should high power interference knock groups of people unconscious (you should turn off the power at the fuse box, and if its the tower signal strength itself that is too strong, you should run and go get the military). Broadcasters at that time period typically liked the proto-FCC communications and safety workers - who were appointed by mayors, county or city vote, neighborhoods, or just their ability to explain things. You might think that a few broadcasters early on would have already been power drunk with the ability to knock the entire town unconscious, but in such a case they usually had already inadvertently damaged themselves - and that is where the need to make the safety workers' early uniform first came to be: a lead or rock suit covering the entire body, which was enormously heavy but preferrable to damage from high voltage electromagnetic fields and radiation. The design was styled after the equipment worn by engineers during the first World War.
Those periods in history and the lessons learned during them were innevitably forgotten, as the dangers inherent in such technology led the government to make awareness of them non-public - a story rarely told - and perhaps forgotten even by the FCC itself.

The invention of a televised video display did not happen in Duluth, Chicago, or New York City, but what history that has faded into urban legend perpetuates as somewhere in Pennsylvania, or near Philadelphia (during a World Fair in some variations of the telling) in the very late 19th or very early 20th Century. A community fair and circus was taking place in a town/city park; among the strange attractions was an inventor who had managed to use light, electricity, and likely trapped gases in clear glass containers, to show moving pictures. He had even managed to make a lens for showing the audience an enlarged image of him and themselves. According to the urban legend, the fair ended catastrophically when the electricity began to hit people in the park with sparks and loose streams of ions, after the glass containers of gases exploded or caught fire. The fire department according to legend desperately attempted to stop the disaster with hosed water, until a wisened member of the crowd from earlier who knew some of the science behind the exhibit's equipment explained to them that water was making it worse; the famous expression by the firefighters from the legend being "It's on fire!" while people were screaming and asking what was going on. The military was sent for to try ending it with cannonfire, but someone with a sense of bravery above danger worked up the courage to disconnect it, not knowing if it would electrocute him/her. The conscious survivors (most survived) then explained to the military what had happened, who decided that firing cannons would be safer than trying to disconnect it, should a similar thing happen in the future.

In modern times, broadcast signals become moving images after a receiving unit distinguishes the signal from others present in the air, either by the angles of deflection throughout a series of corridors where only a specifically curved wave produces a signal at the end's detection capacitor/transistor, or a branching network of wires has substantial alternating current produced in it from a series of signalled waves coming in contact with the metal of multiple wire branches simultaneously, coinciding with spikes in signal strength at predicted intervals - which must consist of voltage from all metal wire antennae branches simultaenously for a transistor to switch, ensuring that only the intended signal and not stray airwaves are received. Both of these rapidly switch transistors producing an image on an XY grid of rows and columns of lights.

Chapter 4: Ghosts from the Past

Clark dug into the ground while mourning, at the tree where the particle resonance reader showed the body was buried at. He was having bouts of denial more frequently that the particle resonance reader couldn't possibly be actually working, and that it was just some way of training him while there was no other work to be done, or to give him courage by making him think events happening in the present day had happened a long time ago. But none of that was true. He had tested that it was genuine by comparing it to memory of his home town, checking places he had been when he was younger. It was a nightmare. Things, places, and people that were no longer around - what his town looked like before it had become older and more abandoned. That was when the reality hit him that he was racing toward a skeleton. There was no way to stop or change any of it; it could only end in disappointment. Over and over. Finding her alive was all he wanted, but already knew that was unlikely. The trail to justice was still long ahead of him after his mission ended in failure. They couldn't yet pull dentals off the particle resonance reader; the only way to find the murderer was to follow him all the way back to the present day.

Clark eventually tracked him back to outside a town nearby where the murderer was living in a shed off in the woods. Clark was getting better at finding the same person again across months or years. He had been contemplating along the chase whether he should shoot with a service pistol or not the monster who killed the little girl.

"Clark, this is the first time anyone has ever done this. Coders are setting up dental reading capabilities on your devices later today, it needs a computer hardware update a drone will do for you later today. You can't kill him. Why? This is the first time anyone has ever done this. You can't set a bad example. What do you think we should do? You know him pretty well at this point and we want your opinion." Clark replied sounding exhausted, "I dont know. I don't know what we should do to him." The guy on the other end came back over the radio,"You know what? We have a credit card from the military that says 'fucking kill em incorporated' on the front of it, fuck it, bomb them, why is this taking so long? Spreadsheet guys already worked out his location because you were too slow. This is the way it works now, probably. But because our displays might get hacked, we'll check it every once and a while the old fashioned way. Unless this all gets hacked by lasers which can't happen, good wins and evil loses. With the dental parameters and whatnot, we found most of them on television sets in like an hour. A few television sets had computers attached to them, and those guys were thrown in our detainment facilities. I don't even know why we sent you out earlier really, other than to see it work. Hurry up and catch up to him Clark; when he blows up into little pieces, you can verify for us all that you saw it."

Clark got to the shed where the murderer was residing. "Alright Clark, see his face for us?" Clark checked his face on the particle resonance reading for the shed, which looked like him. Then Clark pulled out his binoculars and started waiting for him to go near the window. "Clark we can't be here all day, go up and knock on the window." Clark ran up and tapped on the window, prompting a man on the ground in a sleeping bag to roll over and look up. After a few seconds of eye contact, Clark spoke up "Nevermind, sorry to bother you," then Clark walked back out to the woods nearby and put on some goggles and a debris mask. "That's him." Clark radioed.

About 20 seconds later, a rocket sped down and the shed exploded. "Well, good job Clark, how easy was that? The rest were already verified earlier, and they're about to blow up too, tell me if you feel the Earth shake." Clark stood there for a moment, with a sense of hope for the future for the first time in days.

"Well, there it was Clark. What a fucking relief. All the murderers who kidnapped, raped, or tortured somebody are gone. People who murdered someone for no reason are mostly gone. The rest are getting worked out in time. I doubt there's a bulk of them we missed, I got to look at the numbers myself. Once nearly all of the miscellaneous killers are worked out, which shouldn't take more than a month, we can tell the public all about this. What a fucking day."

Back at the office, a Halloween party was happening, and everyone was wearing costumes as part of a bad joke. "Why?" Clark asked. "Some of the miscellaneous killers are still out there. It's just in case they get ahold of one of our new readers," a man dressed as a giant spotted dog replied. "There's not really a need to worry," the director started saying, "There's like 2800 or so of those left and most of them are already in detainment centers. They were obvious at some point. The last thing to work out actually is gangs firing machine guns at each other. The ones that killed someone of a different gang for little or no reason will probably have to just go to prison, because we can't be siding with this gang or that gang. Other than that, there's a few in a gray area, and that's just going to take a while. If we tell the public right now, we're concerned it will inspire a new generation of miscellaneous-only killings, or that people will work out in their head then when they'd actually still kill somebody, and that might inspire them to do so. We also don't need a bunch of other people getting these particle resonance readers and thinking there's still murders when there isn't, because the display will probably get hacked then and it could cause a cascade of people killing each other. Right now we're the only ones who have them, and we're going to look into who to give them to in other countries where they won't be misused. If analysis comes back that we missed a large number of them, we'll be glad we didn't tell the public. It's still something we want to do some day soon, we just don't think we should right now. We're going to sample a town and see what happens when we tell them, then one at a time as long as they handle it well we'll tell more and more people. I'm sure there's things we don't understand yet about how people will handle this, so maybe just 1 out of 20 people will be told about it, or more or less if that would work better. If some day an enemy tries to wipe out all the people with these readers, we're going to set up ways ahead of time for stopping them first. We're all in this together now, we can not fail. We need work to continue to get done in this building for another few years; I've thought about it. It will work and no it won't come back to us, the trail gets too long. Clark took a long way back, and none of our dentals leave this building. Clark, you're an asshole, now get out! Go out the same way you came in, and swim out in the woods for a while. You'll get a bunch of money. Hide some. Don't come back here. When you get done swimming, go into town but somewhere away from here so your last spot isn't here, use the restroom, then go back to swimming. Do exactly all of that, we'll figure out how to get you lunch. Now go!"

Clark did exactly as he was instructed to do. Sitting on a little island out on a lake while wondering how his food would show up, several fish splashed up out of the water at his feet, a bag of stuff started floating up and over to near where he was on the beach. A pack of matches and with a note where to pick up money were written on it, including a note saying "stash a bill in this bag in town under a rock, then find new bag in town and stash on this island, this ink isn't real, look like it though?" "Yeah" Clark said outloud. The ink rearranged "3 letters are in ink that fades, the rest are lasers to your eyes and brain. Memorize the 3 letters quick. Goodbye." Clark was pissed they were using something like that on him without his permission, even once. The letters were H, I, and L. He decided that meant he should avoid hills for a while, or something.

After doing all that, he went and bought a scooter with refreshed money from buyer's remorse for 3 shotguns and 2 pistols.. Then drove a hundred or so miles away, and ditched the scooter by a dumpster and began looking for another scooter he could buy, but there weren't any. He really wanted to find a second scooter, so he got back on the first one and drove to another town to look for one, then left it near a dumpster again. He finally found another scooter and gave someone refreshed money for it. He then went around placing bills under rocks in plastic bags, every so often, when it didn't look too obvious from the last time. When he got bored of doing that he went to a job bank where a bunch of other federal investigators who had been working on catching murderers were at, "Did you hear that they all blew up?" they kept saying to one another nodding and laughing with approval. "Careful about talking about that right now," Clark said "Think about it for a long long time and you'll get it, it'll be there." Clark tried looking stern, and they took what he said slightly more seriously. The job bank told most of them to go do dumb shit for a while. Clark's coupon however said "go to back room", so he went to the back room. In the backroom some guy there told him to go to another room further back. In there was a note that said "wait for package". After about 45 minutes, a package dropped on the table from a hole in the ceiling, and inside was a new model particle resonance reader. The note attached said "fight crime with it, we want to see if that works. Nothing big. Don't use near electronics." He turned it on, and the screen said "put back in box, go outside". Outside, after walking away while pushing his scooter, another package plopped out from the woods on the road up ahead. Inside was another particle resonance reader, this time with a note that said "fight crime with it, we want to see if that works. Nothing big. Don't use near electronics". He turned on the screen and it only showed a video of where to find another package. He got the idea now. He went to the frickin third package opened it up, and put the fake particle resonance reader in there next to the new one and then juggled them around with his hands for a bit. He turned one on, it was the one with the video again. He watched it in its entirety, then turned it off, and picked up the other one. He considered that good enough, and got the hell out of there before more bullshit happened.
He went to town to a used car lot and asked for the car owned previously by the worst person they knew of. "This guy left the car super trashed after 4 months of paying for it on time but exactly 50 dollars below the agreed upon amount per month. Only got asked for a car like that once before, can I see if you have a badge even?" Clark took out his surrogate cop badge and the guy smiled and gave him the keys.

Clark still couldn't think of what to do yet with the new reader. He figured he'd try to bust kidnappings. The drones with the readers on them from earlier had already found a bunch, and they were just getting enough local cops ready to grab the kidnappers while they were knocked out by sedatives. If he could get a list of one nearby, he could maybe start saving a few early. He called the request line. The operator replied, "That literally just went down about an hour ago. We're just hoping they followed our instructions and put them all in separated cells so they can't talk about how they got caught. What the hell have you been doing? Go for people who were severely beaten and see if there was a reason for it or not, then go find whoever did it to them. There's one at the hospital nearby right now. Go talk to him. Or hey, wait, want to get an old lady back her purse? There's one of those nearby too." "I guess I'll try to get both." Clark responded.

Clark was distraught, stuck on something he had been repeatedly forcing into his memory earlier over and over: that to save a life is above all else the greatest endeavour - but the device he wielded could only offer realization that he had already failed that endeavour, as he was set in the past where following the trail directly would never bring one to the present. For the flow of time to be faster was asking the impossible; only while they rested did he get closer, but then proximity must make him weaker and wearier. This creeping lack of confidence was as though it were some dark ritual meant to trap him in a trance. Instead of chasing a ghost, he needed to be able to look forward and find them alive. Sherlock holmes style deduction might work, but most effective would be the use of modern mass surveillance computers to locate the villain. And that was it. Without modern supercomputers, it was folly. And trying to solve an unsolved crime had always been as terrible, as even with an image of the past where you can see what happened and where they went next, it was still extraordinarily difficult to catch them. The number of ghosts to follow must be innumerable.

Chapter 5: The West Virginian

Surrounding the West Virginian as he drove through town was emptiness. The twisted winding roads through the hills lead only to abandoned buildings and properties, except places which he and one other local resident had maintained, such as the power and water plants, and other vital town infrastructure. They basically ran the place, and no title had ever been properly defined for what exactly his position was. Town constable would have been an insult given all the other work he did for the town, so when he talked to the state government, those that new him simply referred to him as the mayor, or sherriff, or shopkeep, or whatever role in town he most resembled given the present nature of the conversation.
The town had collapsed over the early and mid 2000s, and no matter what he would never forget the chain of events behind the collapse, as it all traced back to identity theft as the primary cause. As soon as one person integral to the town's functioning left, especially in the mountains, the rest of the town was shortly to fall apart thereafter. "We could all just stay here and do our jobs like we're doing them, each of us perform our roles, and the town can still survive!" he tried encouraging them, "We don't need money; it's imaginary! We'll keep everything working the same as it is right now without money!" Innevitably they all left. As soon as the grocery store went under, the remaining crowd in town that was still trying had to part their separate ways. "We can hunt! We can fish! And one of us can travel somewhere else in the state to get fruits and vegetables for the rest of us!" It was no use. The town was leaving and as it got toward the end of it. He didn't blame them - it only hurt himself.

Identity thieves. Fucking identity thieves was what caused it all. They blamed it on a few of the kids in town too, on computer viruses they caught. A dozen or so families lost all of their savings and moved. No one was managing one of the vital jobs at the town's water plant, and after a week of rising pressures and leaking pipes in people's basements, a main water line exploded, causing yet even more people to move. Most of the town now relied on people in town who had wells if they were lucky enough, which they complained about the taste, or bottled water. The grocery store running out of bottled water and the cost of having to ship more than one truck up at a time, along with having lost many of its customers, caused the grocery store to fall into the red. The owner sold the property, and the new owner had yet to reveal himself. How would the town get groceries? No other building could function as a grocery store. While it was being proposed to just use the same store and not tell anybody, and pooling together money from food stamps to order pallets of food in whatever way they had been ordered before, more people left the town, as that just sounded ridiculous and criminal.

Even with the food stamp money they wielded, the price per pallet meant that those remaining had to choose 4 different food items to eat for that entire month, but stocking them up at least with extras for the next month. If anyone else left, they couldn't even get 4 pallets and had to pick 3 food items each month. The West Virginian's biggest mistake finally was telling everyone at a meeting, to try calming someone down, that he didn't hold it against any of them if they should leave at any time for any reason, and that he wouldn't fault them and still thought they were good people. Two pallets is all they could afford to order the second month: cereal for its vitamins, even though there was plenty of cereal still but kinds that no one liked, and canned stew. The canned hashbrowns from the first order was almost gone, and the canned stew grossed everyone out like effin 9 year olds, and that, yes that, was the reason they left for! No one was even eating any canned peaches or mixed vegetables! Ordered since there NEEDED to be some form of vegetable, so why not all of them? Breakfast cereal doesn't have all the vitamins; you have to get them from vegetables! Vitamins A, E, K, etc.. well, vitamin A is in some cereals - yeah! F-load of cereal! GOT IT! But you still need some kind of vegetable! So first month again: a pallet of cereal got ordered which people got sick of having to eat without milk right away; a pallet of canned hashbrowns which was devoured; canned peaches were occassionally being eaten; and no one eating any effing vegetables! Turning the townspeople onto canned hashbrowns for the very first time and telling them all about how great it was got them to try it and kept them totally satisfied until they were sick of it the next day - however the hashbrowns were all the rage for a minute; can you imagine eating hashbrowns for the first time? It almost seemed like the town was going to pull through! But it didn't swallow right the next day, and they up and fuckin left. Then the second month, of the remaining 9 people, 7 of them detested the canned stew, and decided to leave as well. The last remaining other person was quite content downing can after can of stew and hashbrowns and peaches, and agreed to stay.

They both got jobs for the government, and would make trips every month to buy a truckload of groceries after hitting up bars and stripclubs. They'd turn off everything in town before they'd leave, and turn it all back on when they got back. The water pipe that burst they never were able to fix, but managed to seal off water going to that side of town so that they could keep water running on the other half. Electricity came from a dam and a couple windmills. They spent a lot of time on the internet, and were in charge of running and maintaining that too.

As the years went by, he thought more and more about the cause of it all, prompting him to learn more and more about computers in an attempt to find out who was initially responsible. He learned that the identity thieves using the type of computer virus the kids had been blamed with catching were actually not viruses at all, but was actually due to their parents filling out forms on fake or malicious websites disguised as pornography, online gambling, and deals for things too good to be true.

But he didn't just become good with computers, he became very good with computers, and since managing the town's power and water only had to be checked twice a day taking up only 5-10 minutes each time after they figured out to just leave video cameras on all the pressure valves and make sure they weren't getting too high or low, and making sure voltage on the turbine didn't get too high and need to be turned off which rarely happened, they each took jobs with homeland security and the NSA that they heard were available for them as they needed someone in the area. After getting good with the permissions they allowed and learning whose shoulder was safe to rub, he set up ways of luring out identity thieves, or busting them outright after checking servers to find out where they were and using backdoors on their computers to verify it was them. His work along with others doing similar were putting an end to future economic crisis before it even happened. It was a hobby of his.

He was eventually told by his superiors that he was wasting his time doing things one thing at a time like that, and that if he was good with computers he'd be thinking bigger when it comes to stopping problems. He worked on a program which took spreadsheet analytics and worked out the data into simplified groups for the flow of currency from racketeering or laundering across large accounts on the internet and elsewhere, revealing the single group or branch of affiliated individuals behind money being sent around confusingly in circles. Identity thieves account juggling were one type of illegitimate commerce, but his program also revealed several others, notably one that focused on stealing retirement money from the old and elderly. That type had struck in the late 2000s, and some of the individuals who got away with it appeared to be starting on new accounts, but the West Virginian had yet to figure out what for.

The trillions of dollars of bailout money from the late 2000s and early 2010s had become tied up in numerous accounts that some of which were bankrupting from becoming stuck with the task of paying the money back, while other accounts currently with the money were far enough away down the sequence of accounts to spend the money freely before becoming stuck with the debt of having to pay it back later. The new racketeering plan was to keep a steady stream of these new recipient accounts coming, abandoning them before they were indebted, and ultimately as the government caught on to send the money to other continents and play the international stock market with it, crashing American companies then buying them back with other companies they now owned which the government had yet to catch up to.

Buying the companies from them finally, when they felt like the world had had enough, were wealthy affiliates with legitimate non-bailout money that the cronies could disappear with; their wealthy affiliates would buy the company stock at a reasonable price of one third its former value. The wealthy affiliates would eventually have the zero interest bailout money fall onto them, which they would return to the government, but while having gained ownership of a company whose stock would surely rebound. Their plan would leave millions jobless and homeless; their next venture included buying up homes in America after the housing market crashed again, forcing people to pay them as landlords in homes they could monitor the inside of with a security system company they also owned.

By chance, the West Virginian had caught on to it early and learned of a board meeting between many of the individuals responsible and the wealthy affiliates they were planning to trade off to in the end. There was no other way for them to all be on the same page at once comfortably other than in person together. You might think that they'd distance apart from such a meeting, but if they were all to become legitimate affiliates after finalizing accounts with one another they had nothing to fear from being in person together. The wealthy affiliates would end the chase by the government by taking accountability for the loaned bailout money and simply giving it back at that point, being satisfied with their newly acquired company they purchased for 1/3rd of its value, paid to the crooks who were responsible for it all who could now finally get away freely with billions of dollars they didn't have to pay back. The stock would rebound, and the wealthy affiliates would triple their money if it went back to normal.

The West Virginian knew that his evidence wasn't accessible to the courts, and they couldn't be stopped early by the law. Some he had pointed it out to even favored their plan, saying that someone has to eventually pay back the bailout money, and they figured out a way to do that. The West Virginian tried explaining that their plan involved destroying American companies while owning chunks of them in accounts here and overseas, crashing them by getting the market to panic by selling low to themselves, or increase in value by selling high to themselves. The trail would become so long at that point, they'd hope, that by the time the government realized what they were doing their wealthy affiliates would have already repaid the loaned bailout money. Ultimately, the changes in stocks of the involved companies could be blamed on difficulties in managing companies and resources back and forth overseas, and any investigation into that would be slowed down by the language barrier.

When someone in the West Virginian's shoes encountered a problem that no one else was able to fix, if it was important enough they'd have to fix it themselves and suffer the consequences of breaking the rules. The rules would dictate that he be imprisoned for manslaughter, as his target hadn't done anything terroristic... If he was caught, that is. 'Use the backdoor to their computer and forge documents in a hidden folder describing something like blowing up a skyscraper, then save it to your surveillance computer while viewing theirs as evidence; you'll be glad you did. Cover your trail as best you can. Hmm, but what should it say?' the West Virginian thought to himself, then began typing up the fake threats:
"FUckin hell cant deal this anymore, feds r on to me man BIG TIME. Cant pay back the FAWKIN money cause I dont FAWKIN have it no more.. im cornered and the last of its gone! Gonna have to blow uip the tower to get rid of all the FAWKIN evidence.. yah, then stab a hobo in an alley and run around with a chainsaw on mah yacht while d0in l00ds, sail ta sw33den and get cash out ma s\/\/izz benk acct b4 i come back 2 blow up moar buildings, yah gonna do that for sure, sounded like g00d idea ever since i chatted up osama bin laden on the enternet and h00ked him up with them plain tickets"

'They'll think of that as a taunting and that maybe our response was a little overzealous when they find out he got blown to pieces.. Maybe it'll be just the thing we need publicized so we can stop taking phony threats seriously. Well, I mean that's local police doing all that, but people think it's us, but maybe if a story is newsworthy it'll get police to quit overreacting and even deter people from making them, hmm,' the West Virginian thought to himself.

"Can you manage town for a few days? I got called off to some seminar thing in DC," the West Virginian asked. "Yeah shouldn't be any problems here," his friend and only neighbor replied while sipping a beer. After carrying a bunch of tools out to his truck several times, the West Virginian got in and started off down the road.

He listened to that song about a nameless horse and the one about being a passenger on a ride while going lalalalala over and over again on repeat until he got there. He only stopped on his way at a place a little north of Chattanooga that had antique weapons from the World Wars, wheeling a gaitling gun out the front door after getting the old man who owned the place to go back and look for a very specific coin in his coin collection. He ran it up into the back of his truck on a wooden ramp and drove out of there, then pulled over down the road and threw a black tarp over it quick before gunning it toward and on to the freeway down the near vertical slopes amidst holiday traffic.

A cop saw he had something under a tarp and hit his lights but it didn't matter; traffic was moving wall to wall at 90 miles an hour down the vertical slopes of the Smokey Mountains, and there wouldn't be a spot to pull over until Georgia. The cop didn't see his plate unless aerial checked for it and it'd show clearance for government work to not be interrupted. Atlanta metal detectors for guns would think it's on its way to a museum or an auction. But one was reported stolen in Tennessee earlier? That would be interesting enough to go over radio. He'd have to try clearing up the matter on his phone while driving, which was dangerous. He tried searching for what exits to take to dodge the metal detectors but there weren't any. He'd have to work quickly.

He drove straight into Atlanta to the window cleaning platform he scheduled. There were people using it, so he called their phone number pretending to be their boss, telling them to go to a different window cleaning job in a different part of town to get them to leave. They tried locking the platform up high and carrying a ladder away with him, but he flew his drone up to unlock and lower it. He slid the gaitlin gun down to the ground on the flat board of wood he used for a ramp earlier, with the tarp over the gaitling gun. He got it up onto the window cleaning platform, and began securing it and attaching the belt feed in from a black bucket. His swivel apparatus moved the barrels back and forth by attaching to a tow strap on the platform meant for raising or lowering buckets of tools up to or down from the ground, which he wired to make remote operated along with the firing of the gaitling gun and raising or lowering of the platform. A phone on the platform cable above the platform livestreamed video to his phone at street level showing him that he was correctly in position.

They were all entering the board room now according to footage on the camera in the hallway, making slight small talk about their favorite type of veal. Some looked suspicious at the platform cables momentarily, but didn't think anything of it. They had switched board rooms actually earlier in the day at the last minute, requiring him to order the window cleaning platform in a hurry for the new boardroom.

He waited for a rough headcount of 30, then started the show. The gaitling gun's barrels started rotating for a moment or two before opening fire, shredding the tarp apart like it was never there and ripping through the window panes (which were meant to be bullet and shatterproof) after half a second of bullets digging into it while forming big round white cracks. The pathetic window pane started to come off in chunks after that, as the gun swung side to side on the swivel. A trail of bulletholes snaked throughout the board room and through the group of weaselish shits who still had no clue what was going on, as such a foe had not been anticipated this many squares in advance or even expected to appear on this type of playing board entirely. When they realized in those mere seconds that they had been found out early, and that the only parties capable of retaliating in this way weren't playing by their rules and there was nothing they could do about it, they frowned like they were mad their suit got wet from someone activating the sprinkler system, and tried turning to run irritatingly out of the door. For those that made it back out into the hallway, it didn't matter, as the material that was supposed to form a wall between the boardroom and the hallway was disintegrating apart and offered no cover or avenue of escape. Miraculously, a group of half a dozen or so who managed to only have one or two of their limbs snap in half, and/or just get peppered in their gut now hanging out, scrambled to the elevator at the end of the hall, while those reduced to attempting to crawl along the floor behind them continuted to get ripped apart each time the trail of bullets happened to sweep over them every couple seconds. They frantically pressed the elevator buttons to no avail, trapped waiting for it to rise up a psychologically dissociating number of floors. Each time they heard the guttural noises made by the bodies being ripped apart behind them, they held their eyes tightly shut while gritting their teeth; their own grunting completely silent below the sound of the torrential gunfire that roared behind them.

Chapter 6: Hide and Seek at the Widow's Market

When Clark was 17 years old, after his father's funeral and the repossession of his father's house by the bank, Clark was tasked with moving all of his father's old furniture and belongings to a building nearby where they sold things previously owned by the deceased, called a 'widow's market'.

When he went inside the widows' market, Clark was taken in by how vast the place was; it was too dark to see the walls at the end of the building, and seemed to just be a big endless room of old furniture. The grim aesthetic of the place drew Clark in, who began wandering around.

With no where else to go, Clark came up with the idea of just staying somewhere in the widow's market until some of his dad's furniture sold. At night, after all the lights had been turned off in the building, Clark waited in hiding off to the far side of the room to turn an old lamp on he found an outlet for. The first night, he took tremendous care in making sure not to bump into anything in the dark as he made his way to the front of the building to look out the window and make sure the owner's car was gone.

Clark built an elaborate furniture fort to hide in. He hid under an old table up against the far wall of the building inbetween several wardrobes and an entertainment center. Facing the wall was a couch, with the table he hid under inbetween the couch and the wall. The couch had several tall wardrobes against the back of it, allowing him to remain out of sight while sitting or laying on it. If he heard someone start moving stuff out of the way, he got down under the table and went out the other way. He hadn't had to find a replacement piece of furniture yet for his fort's barrier walls over the weeks he had been living there.

 

[SpunkySkunk347]

Inside the widow's market, Clark was out of the cold and away from the homeless shelters, which were at the time full of disease. Clark used the money left by his father to buy food with, but wouldn't be able to afford that for very long if he had to pay rent somewhere should his hiding spot at the widow's market be discovered.

Every day was misery, laying in total silence, scared to move, just waiting for the day to end so he could come out of hiding at night. After 10 at night, he felt safe enough to turn a television on and watch the last few hours of programming before the American Anthem came on right before static and white noise for the rest of the night. After weeks of paranoia about whether or not the owner would come back later in the night after closing or whether he had left yet in his car or not, Clark decided to invest in a tv camera and a motion detector to help check if he was alone in the building. There was only one entrance to the place, and a fire door that was locked from the outside.

Eventually, Clark adapted to wearing disguises to get in and out of the building during the day. If the owner or one of the clerks that worked there sometimes recognized him in 'disguise', they just assumed he wanted to avoid being recognized, as he told them earlier he had a good chunk of inheritance coming when he turned 18 and didn't want to draw too much attention to himself, or be recognized by his relatives who didn't like him.

Clark began noticing some regular faces, one of which looked like some kind of cop or investigator - clean shaven, short hair, and a simple wind jacket and pants. After noticing Clark on 3 separate occassions, once while Clark was nearly in drag wearing an old woman's bonnet and old floral vest, he took note of Clark with a peculiar look. Clark realized he was starting to catch on, but didn't know what to do other than retreat to his hiding spot. One day, the investigator finally followed him back to where his fort was, and was at first astonished by Clark's disappearing act, but began looking behind furniture for him. Clark took his escape tunnel just as the investigator leaned his head around the wardrobe spotting Clark's couch area. Clark crawled through his various tunnel escape routes under and inbetween furniture he had positioned throughout the place, but the chase was on. Clark's usual strategy was just to never be seen acting strange, crawling around under furniture on his hand's and knees. Kids often played hide and seek in the building, and Clark's plan was to pretend he was following them should he ever get caught crawling on his hands and knees, or pretend like he was checking the integrity of the underside of the furniture.

Clark made a dash for the exit as he noticed the owner was busy with a few customers. The investigator saw him going briskly toward the door, and tried sprinting to the front to head him off. "Look, I think I know what's going on, but I'm here to make sure people are okay, given the circumstances that can accompany people passing away; I need to know who you are, touch base with you, etcetera," the investigator stated, "... I'm offering you a job, kid!" Clark stopped and looked at the investigator for a second. The investigator continued, "I need you to check for people coming here trying to cover up evidence that somehow ended up for sale here, or people stalking a victim's family, and people trying to steal their stuff back. I'll give you photos of suspicious individuals to look out for throughout the week, and also keep count of how many newly deceased there are having stuff dropped off to make sure its consistent. 50 bucks a week, every Friday. Deal?" A smile started to show on Clark's face under his extra large sunglasses. "You've got a deal!" Clark announced.

The investigator started letting Clark know about other jobs that suited him, and after half a year of working together officially gave Clark identification as a federal agent, which gave him clearance for all sorts of other odd jobs

 

[SpunkySkunk347]

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Chapter 7: The Devil on an Island
Black market organ trading had still been largely overlooked in one aspect: the donation of organs by non organ donors after death, intentionally overlooked to save lives. This, of course, lead to an under-reporting of the number of liver transplants per year - an almost non-existent statistic as study after study abandon the topic after realizing that the number of liver transplants a year reveals a number of donors higher than what was nationally registered.

If we assume that just 40% of people are organ donors, meaning 1.12 million of the 2.8 million deaths per year are donors, and the number of liver transplants per year is higher than that number, then the number of liver transplants per year must be so high as to suggest that the number of deaths per year may have even been elevated just to meet the organ demand, as the difference otherwise would have to be made up for by a rise in the number of deaths from liver failure, which sits at more than 70,000.
How many livers are inclined to fail per year? Hepatotoxic compounds (acetaminophen, APAP, paracetamol) are paired with recreational drugs (opioids like hydrocodone and oxycodone, and dissociatives like dextromethorphan in cough syrup) causing an astounding number of liver failures per year.

Any amount of acetaminophen causes damage to liver tissue; it's active metabolite damages liver tissue on contact. Four grams of acetaminophen a day will ultimately end up being lethal. Six grams a day causes liver failure in less than a year and a half. Ten grams just once will cause near-permanent damage to the liver, and starts to climb the bell curve for the acetaminophen's LD50 (the dose which kills 50% of animals tested). The top of the bell curve for acetaminophen's LD50 is between 12 and 20 grams. Anything past 20 grams is almost guaranteed liver failure and death.

Many view complaining about acetaminophen as 'whiney', and thus people have become far less vocal about it, to avoid being perceived as a drug user. However, there is a new reason to care again: more children's livers are failing from acetaminophen right now than ever before. Among the dozens and dozens of different cough syrup brands and preparations available over the counter at pharmacies, retail and grocery stores, and gas stations, only one or two contain only dextromethorphan - most of the rest contain acetaminophen, and in dangerous amounts sometimes higher than 20 grams in a single bottle. With lessened availability of harm reduction education, fear of getting caught by looking up whether its safe or not on their phone, and the assumption that everything has been made safe in the world we live in, children are falling victim to acetaminophen poisoning at an alarming rate.

In attempting to ban acetaminophen containing products and remove it from the ingredients, another question arises: Where does acetaminophen even come from? From opium farm to pharmacy, from lab to store shelf, at what point is acetaminophen added to drugs people are prone to abuse or use recreationally? The farmers can probably be ruled out. Was it the Taliban? Or was it perhaps a counter-attack made by enemies of the United States during the Vietnam or Korean War, or even World War 2?
In attempting to pin-point the source of acetaminophen, another logistical difficulty is encountered - the total amount of acetaminophen imported and added to drugs is not that heavy in weight. If 20 million bottles each containing 20 grams of acetaminophen are produced which end up in the USA each year, that 400 million grams, only 400,000 kilograms, would only require just one person working only 200 days a year to shovel just 250 kilograms an hour over an 8 hour shift - just 25 light shoveloads of not even 20 kilograms - which are matted down as a paste for a pill press, or heaped right into a syrupy solution.

Just one worker by himself could be responsible for the production of the entirety of all acetaminophen that ends up in the United States each year; just one person who is physically responsible for the deaths of millions.

Just one island stop in the Pacific; one small island with nothing but a red devil dancing on it as he adds millions of doses of poison to commercial drugs.
How hidden could it be? Could acetaminophen's source even be realized while tracking it down in person? It might be so secretively substituted as to just appear to be a cake oven with a blinking light that comes on every few minutes that says "Add more 'Flour #38'", with the output going through an opening in a brick wall that the oven attaches to, the acetaminophen containing drugs then disappearing into boxes out the back in the process of being shipped.

If the military decided to spare everyone the headache, use lasers to find it for us, and then just blow up the acetaminophen factories while no workers were present (sparing normal investigators the wild complex goose chase) one final concern exists: how would we ever be sure that was the last of it? When could it be declared in confidence that acetaminophen was no longer an ingredient, and could be removed from the label? For some time, there would probably be a warning carried on the boxing: "CAUTION: MAY STILL CONTAIN ACETAMINOPHEN".

Where does Clark fit in to the story? The book "The Ins and Outs of Black Market Organ Trading" was his analyst report condensed for the common reader, where Clark puts together a sting on a pair of hospitals where cannibalism has become rampant, and this book explains how to end all deaths, except for the chapter "The West VIrginian" which is just fantastical.
This chapter was going to be a story about a complex investigation following an evidence trail 'by the books' where an FTC and FBI agent are racing against time to find the source of acetaminophen while deep amidst a cautious and paranoid drug market that's not always convinced their intentions are genuine, along with the language barrier being an issue, but let's face facts: to be realistic, that would likely end in tragedy with some serpent rainbow shit, some doomed temple stuff, held against their will somewhere getting tortured for asking where Lorb Tab comes from to a bunch of batshit bandits, and that's probably why, in reality, the feds still haven't ever found the fucking acetaminophen labs, and still haven't shut them down. The message also needs to be taken all in one reading, and I just can't stand to take up 20 pages bitching about cough syrup and hydrocodone while there are so many larger causes of death to focus on - that is UNLESS the number of non-donor livers still being used in transplants being covered up resulted in a chain of number fouls somehow contributing to the rapid increase in the number of deaths per year in the USA.

And I think I found it: The dosages of opioids/opiates/dextromethorphan taken by users before their tragic deaths due to acetaminophen are now available to other people, causing the process to accelerate - and these doses are massive; the doses are often 20 times or more the daily dose of a new user.

This is why it is exponential. The illegitimacy of it all is why the statistics might be skewed, and to what extent that has happened is yet to be determined! One life saved dying from liver failure however, requires one life to have been taken, and the paperwork regarding their death is systematically overlooked as a way to fill in a donor endorsement post-mortem. The crematorium eats all the evidence, and the coroner keeps getting fooled or is absent entirely! How often and to what extent is this the case, or something similar to it and even less obvious? This writer does not know, but knows it could very well be substantial.

Whether or not the presentation of the donor program to seemingly terminally ill patients encourages assisted suicide or a mercy killing is difficult to estimate, but one might also consider the economic pressure that lower-earning hospital employees experience when faced with a tax-free bonus that can be tens of thousands of dollars for selling a non-donor organ anyways, with the promise of it being overlooked by information collection. Would that financial incentive pressure them, perhaps even subconsciously, into bringing about their patient's death? The presentation encouraging the terminally ill to sign as donors is not set to any standard - the presentors of the sheet of paper to sign up to be an organ donor at the last minute is a sheet of paper that was designed by someone just a few steps removed, if not the presentors themselves, to suit their own financial benefit. If allowed to be, it can basically even be competetive between presentors, with the terminally ill being asked to sign as a donor by multiple parties, sometimes even just a young medical student, going room to room, hall to hall, asking for organ money.

They might also even trick the patient into signing up for surgeries with a high chance of fatality, mislabelled thereafter as being non-fault of the surgeon or procedure, but just the nature of their illness.

Aside from that, however, is just the numbers suggesting liver failure and transplant surgeries to be terribly common, as there is enough acetaminophen containing opiates/opioids for every man, woman, and child to have daily doses every day of the year; with 330+ million people in the United States, if slightly less than 1 out of 100 each year end up becoming opiate/opioid addicts that year, when they are distanced from being able to hear harm-reduction advice by drug taking peers, they might very well be oblivious to the toxicity problem with acetaminophen - and since the metric tonneage of opiates/opioids imported into the country is enough for every man, woman, and child to have multiple standard doses a day, the availability likely isn't going to be much of an issue, with them ending up taking large amounts on a regular basis.

There has also been a great deal of effort put into hiding or showing the wrong number of deaths due to acetaminophen; the number of deaths I remember reading per year from liver failure due to acetaminophen was around 40,000. However, trying to search for how many of those deaths there are these days brings up what is clearly a drastically underreported number in the low hundreds. So, someone learning about acetaminophen for the first time is likely to be far more clueless when it comes to its lethality.

This process, well underway throughout the years, would lead us to estimate the number of liver failures totalling nearly the same as the total number of deaths per year. Its all too close in number and too seemingly connected to be coincidence. Perhaps also contributing to this is liver transplants when unnecessary, as the financial incentive exists on both ends: for both the party selling the organ and receiving the organ, as it's paid for by tax dollars, and how the money is divied up is actually left up to the party receiving an organ to be transplanted, not the 'selling' party (who only gets a few thousand dollar bonus for having found the organs, far less than what the tax dollars pay for the transplant and follow up care - money they would have never got if the existence of an organ for sale hadn't allowed for another transplant to happen. Even without a take, the amount of profit incentive for stockholders of a publicly traded company is substantial, with liver-related illnesses making an estimated $40,000,000,000 (40 Billion USD) - $200,000,000,000 (200 Billion USD) a year. The medical industry is the largest earning industry on the planet, short only to drugs (400 Billion USD annually) and weapons (1.2 trillion USD anually).

In Duluth, Minnesota (a town highly dependent on its hospitals for income) during the 2018/2019 winter, the sidewalks of the city's steeply sloped roads were left with an icy base layer, resulting in the city of 80,000 to experience a large number of accidents due to falls, resulting in thousands of sprains, breaks, concussions, and even death. The extra $2,000-$50,000+ per extra hospital visit brought in an estimated $10,000,000-$65,000,000. If they keep at it every year doing that, they basically become billionaires in 20-30 years just from leaving sidewalks icy. Hospitals already make billions through negligence, the types of which frequently brought up throughout this book and the last one. Everyone has become aware of how the money tree works, and exploiting it would seem to have no end in sight.

Finally, supporting the suspicion that liver failure and total deaths are somehow intrinsically connected to one another, consider that after the opiate/opioid addict becomes deceased from acetaminophen, their dose of opiates/opioids containing acetaminophen now become available to everyone else, implying that users would be dying faster from higher doses of acetaminophen as a cascading process, as their death increases the dose now possible for other addicts. It should be expected then that this would cause deaths from acetaminophen to increase exponentially. This exponential increase might even be present in the number of total deaths right now, but indirectly, as the death of another person provides the liver needed for transplant, and what would have been their death instead occurrs as the death of another. If less livers become available, it would also add to the exponential increase in number of total deaths, as the lack of a liver for transplant leading to their death.

If the difference between number of deaths per year (2.8 million in 2017) and transplants (said to be less than 30,000 for most of them) means that organs just rot in the refrigerator (pointless transplant surgeries are ordered knowing the patient won't show up, but people get paid mostly anyways), then reversing the trend of organ waste would still save the lives of hundreds of thousands who died waiting for a transplant.

Chapter 8: Christmas

The following January, the new president was about to take office, having won the election with more than 85% of the vote. He began working to put in place new laws for reducing deaths right away; mastectomies (removal of the breasts) and orchiectomies (removal of the testicles) became illegal procedures. Talks with junk food companies started, where everyone agreed to taxing them less if they cut their product production by two thirds, with some of their companies to discontinue production altogether at the beginning of the following year. The companies selling them corn and whatnot were offered government perks to switch to selling those resources to companies given government contracts for setting up plants converting corn and other grown resources into fuel. A constitutional ammendment was voted in making tobacco not allowed to be grown, sold, harvested, or imported within the United States of America, effective February that year. The surplus of fuel would assist in converting land affected by the amendment into a different industry, if it were healthy edible vegetables, and only if the land had been sold to new owners unaffiliated with tobacco, as to avoid former tobacco executives and their accounts somehow merging with or exploiting the new government programs for powerhousing the economy with new fuel. Growers that needed to supplement the loss of income were overlooked if they switched to cannabis on some of their land, but only if they also grew vegetables.

And also, new laws were made requiring doctors to double or triple up when working with patients, as well as other medical workers, and both be in the same room at the same time with their patient while discussing anything with them. These laws were effective immediately for 40% of all medical workers, to become 90% within 8 months.
The president assigned intelligence workers to assess the country's prisons, and see how many people there were imprisoned for something like drugs, a crime they didn't commit, a non-sense reason, or nothing at all. They came to him several weeks later with a list of most of the people he had requested, and he arranged a meeting where he pardoned all of them. A press conference was held shortly thereafter to tell everyone the news.

People were rejoicing. All the leading causes of death were expected to diminish drastically over the year, and many were relieved that their family members were coming home. Christmas dinner was held publicly throughout the month of January, for those who missed celebrating Christmas the previous month.

Clark was called in to a meeting with executive administration. "Clark, we've heard a little bit about some new equipment you have, and have been told you're the right kind of guy for this. We need you to find out what happened to a list of missing prisoners. They've been pardoned by the president, but the prisons they were sent to only have a record saying they were transferred somewhere else and wouldn't arrive," the administration member informed him. "Alright," Clark responded, "Well, we'll use a drone then and look for them; shouldn't take more than half a day."

What Clark and his team found when they found the missing prisoners was a facility hidden between the United States and Mexican border, where prisoners were forced to work with dangerous chemicals and materials that no one else in their right mind wanted to work with.

Clark grouped up with a team of federal marshals, and headed to the prison on about a dozen prison buses. The desert was totally vacant. There was no landmark indicating whether or not one was in the United States or Mexico.

As they approached the prison, the warden put the front gates on lockdown. Clark's drone had been spotted earlier by equipment the warden had for detecting them; the warden figured there'd maybe be someone showing up, as the building shows up as being on a road coming out of the United States but has no address, known property lines, or tax record in the United States. If people ever showed up in the past, if they were persistent, the warden would give them the company details for a facility nearby on similar looking but unconnected roads.

"Think they're home?" Clark joked to the federal marshals. "What do you normally do when they don't open and you know they're inside?" "Tell 'em 'I see you in there, I heard you walking around already! Open up!' or just use the master key and say it wasn't locked all the way," the marshal replied. "Hmm. Well, okay! Open up! I can hear you in there!" Clark began shouting while pounding on the front gate and trying to yank it open. After about 15 seconds of trying to pull the door open, Clark announced, "Okay, you know what? Let's just get the jaws of life.." Clark walked back over to the bus, going inside and coming back out with the jaws. He put on the prying head and angled it vertically with where the two doors met each other. He turned them on and the hydraulics pushed outward bending the doors apart several feet. "Alright, think I can fit these in now, " he commented while switching out for the cutting heads, and began cutting sections of the building clean off in big chunks and pieces.

After peeling open the gate like a can of tuna and strutting inside, he decided that a random support beam off to his right was in his way and needed to be cut in half, causing the ceiling to start caving in slightly, startling him a little before returning to strutting inside. The federal marshals followed his lead, wielding shotguns and bullet proof vests, looking around suspiciously like they were in a bad neighborhood. Two of the marshals stayed outside with the buses, shooting off their 12 gauges at empty soup cans for target practice, disintegrating them and showing that Clark and the marshals had gumption. The warden was in a calm panic, watching the cameras in his office with the doors locked, sweating and looking back and forth at different monitors frantically.

Chapter 9: Funeral Partners

The man with the eyepatch and Boston t-shirt was at a funeral home talking to somebody. "Here's $20,000 of the money that's yours," said a tall, thick jawed man who owned the building. "What? Where's the rest of it?" said the eyepatch wearing man, "You owe me 2 million!" "I don't have that much in cash right now," replied the thick jawed man, who had a deep yet sing-songy tone of voice. "What the Hell do you mean? After all I've been doing for you!" replied the eyepatch wearing man angrily. "I have all the money I owe you, just not in cash! A lot of it is tied up in wills and other assets which take some time for me to work money out of!"

They had started work together with the eyepatch man doing pretty simple stuff for the funeral home guy, like check and see if anyone else lived in a home that no one inherited that was just sitting there, or hotwire a few cars for him. Then it turned into 'I can't pay you what I owe you if we get caught!' as the money he was promised took time for the funeral home guy to work out of altered wills and stolen assets. The funeral home guy, however, did have a huge amount of paper cash, but was too paranoid about needing to launder it and when that he actually made all the serials worse, and now it just sat stashed all over hell in random places.

Once their partnership switched to 'tying up loose ends', the eyepatch-wearing man began having to stalk heirs who wanted their money, and figure out whether they could be bribed, tricked, led astray, or threatened. He got the order he was supposed to do that in wrong a few times, and instead of tricking them or leading them astray, he bribed them with drugs or money - and sometimes he gave them deep-hearted promises that almost sounded genuine, thanks to opioids. Whenever they stayed insistent too long, they either had to get their money which the funeral home guy was busy juggling in a thousand different ways, and if the heir realized they had stole it and seemed like he was going to turn them in, or if the heir threatened to go to the cops at all, the eyepatch wearing man and funeral home guy figured they either had to kill him or lose all their money, which was now approaching the tens of millions if the funeral home guy could figure working it all out.

Then the killing started. One heir got mouthy and fast with him and said he was going straight to a lawyer and the IRS. "Don't move dipshit, now just fucking come over here and listen to me for a second," the eyepatch wearing man ordered after pulling out a pistol and aiming it at him. "Oh God!" the heir cried. "I just want to talk to you for a minute over here out of the road for a second, okay? Move." Instead of saying something sincere however, or just doing something horrible like threatening his family if he ever says a fucking word and stealing his wallet, he shot him. He shot him cold dead. Why? Because he was evil. He used opioids to sound sincere and get him into a more convenient spot to shoot him (it was lorbtab that day too, the liver poisonous stuff). He could have still just given the guy his money, except it would have been all his pocket cash. And the killing didn't stop there. When he just threw some grass and dirt over the blood and brain in the grass, drug his body across that lawn but under the window with the kids shirt over his head and left him in the trees to pick up on the other side of the road, then drove his car over and threw the body into a tarp in the back of his trunk he had with him case he needed to do just this, it all felt too easy when it never came back to haunt him, and he kept doing it. The victim's money he burnt, and lived off stolen money when it finally came from altered wills and stolen assets. Although he thought that during the era of mass surveillance he would have been caught, he never did get caught, and his first kill was his sloppiest. After that he stuck to just poisoning people with knockout anesthesia that could be injected intramuscularly in a hurry and he'd have to hold them silent or pretend like it was a prank and he just gave them heroin, then he tried to just spray it on the back of a person's neck with enough of it so it soaked through their shirt or their hair, and all of a sudden killing was the easiest fucking thing in the world. He could take them to wherever, in a number of different vehicles registered to a number of different identities, and just bury them alive after dumping lye, bottles of strong cleaners, or 'acid' on their face, or just ruining it with a rock quick that he threw off the side of a bridge later. He made sure to smash all their teeth, burn off their fingertips, and even eventually got so smart as to start burning all their hair off in a fire while another fire was going nearby so aerial photography inspecting the fire didn't notice the other one with a body on top of it. Sometimes he even wore his victims hair on his face just to get past a camera looking like a different person. And he enjoyed it. All of it. The drugs kept coming, from the deceased's med cabinets, although stuff with that acetaminophen poison in it kept building up. Drugs made the hard parts easy. And even while he felt that empathy while making deep promises to his victims and earning their trust and forgiveness, he often killed them anyways because it was cheaper. He got both the friendship that he wanted, so he could keep getting better at making them to fool people, then unless they agreed to flat ass zero for some crazy reason, he killed them. Actually, then he started to think that if they wanted nothing it meant they were rich, and started killing them too when he actually met one or two like that. At first he worried that a government spreadsheet would connect all these missing persons with their dead relatives all from the same town, but they didn't. The missing persons were too young, they might be anywhere, and they didn't turn up missing for months or years even usually. Then the reality dawned on him that he needed to trick the hospital's death records, and maybe he could even sell their organs to make them more disfigured so the coroner had no fucking clue. There he learned of a terrible secret: the local hospital had already done that for him way earlier - doctors who killed their patients kept doing it, in fact, and even left a backup of the more well polished record nearby for when they realized they fucked up a fake and now a lot of things wouldn't match. "Backup" it had been labelled with a post-it note, so simple and welcoming the handwriting was, as if these other people were born without a guilt complex and didn't even need drugs to help them do their dirty work. "Man, hospitals are fucked up," the eyepatch wearing man had noticed way back when.

The eyepatch wearing man grabbed the bag and took off, then a minute later his phone started to ring. "There's another heir that needs to be taken care of," the thick jawed man stated over the phone. "Fucking hell, another one already? I'm gonna be stuck doing this for you forever!" "Look," the thick jawed man interrupted, "If he turns me in, we both lose everything! I think the IRS are already on to me." "I thought you quit while you were ahead?!" the eyepatch wearing man asked. "I did! He's another person turning up looking for a will from a long time ago!"

As the guy at the funeral home got off the phone, he noticed a car parked at the end of the block with someone wearing sunglasses inside who had been there a while. After waiting a minute, the guy in his car started the engine and turned around after pulling out, driving off in the other direction. "Oh boy, its the IRS," the guy at the funeral home thought to himself.

The funeral home owner might often be the wealthiest person in town, although their wealth is often illegitimately accumulated from yet-to-be-claimed wills and assets of the deceased. Traditionally in criminal psychology, either the coroner, the funeral home owner, or someone at the hospital takes it. This lasts for several months to years before they retire, after they've taken as much as they're able to handle or are just too worried about getting caught to keep going.

The eyepatch wearing man met up with his targetted 'loose end' outside a parking lot for a gas station and motel. After some light small talk, the eyepatch wearing man spoke up, "You know, I've never done this before, but here you go; here's $5,000 of your money that you inherited." The guy looked quite pleased, "Oh, thank you! How'd you end up with it though?" he asked. The eyepatch wearing man started explaining, "They only hold on to the accounts of the deceased for heirs to claim them for a certain period of time. Then we have an opportunity to hold on to that money for the relatives of the deceased for a little bit longer by taking over management of the accounts. If we hadn't withdrawn the money from the accounts as cash, it would have got mixed into our checkings account and been tough to keep track of." "Oh.." the beneficiary replied.

As the eyepatch wearing man and his loose end parted ways, the eyepatch wearing man thought outloud, "Wow, that was so much easier than killing them... Why have I never done that before?" It's almost as if the twisting dark colors and patterns permeating the area around wherever he walked lit up for the first time.
On his drive back to the funeral home to get more money and stuff out of the funeral home guy, he spotted something of interest, "Does that look like an old lady's house and car to you? Pull over," he said to his cousin-uncle driving.

He opened the door which wasn't locked, walked in, and in the room to the left there she was: black spandex veil around her head, pale white face, poofy shoulders, and a cat hair purse. Her expression had yet to change, she just sat there squeezing her cat hair purse lightly with her fingertips, going 'ech-ech-ech, ech, ech'.

"Hey grandma, got any pills?" he questioned her, but still she just sat there making delighted noises while carressing her cat-hair purse. "You're definitely on pills or need to be, don't mind me I'll hook ya up, we'll have a toast," the eyepatch wearing man said as he ventured into the kitchen and started going through the cabinets. In the fridge was nothing but old condiments. He decide to just pop a squat next to her and start digging through her purse, after saying "here, you'll love these, but I got a tolerance to 'em now" to justify digging through her purse after handing her half a dilly. The pills she had were a mixture of crap, which he figured was why she was stunned. "Holy shit ma'am, you need to get off of these! Start by throwing away this one, then taper off this other crap!" It was perhaps the second nice thing he had ever done, if we exclude all the half dillies he gave his cousin-uncle goon to get him to do things he didn't want to do. "...And don't take lorb-tabs, they'll kill your liver!"

The eyepatch wearing man eyed up a fancy glass container of brown liquid on a shelf nearby, "I'll take a sip of that liquor, though". He gulped it down, "Damn this has a burn to it."
Later on after arriving at his final loose end to tie up, he showed up at a large mansion and knocked on the door. An old lady answered, who seemed to have all of her belongings and bed crammed in the foyer, and nothing beyond it into the rest of the house. "Why are you living in the entryway?" he asked her. "There was a fire in one part of the building, and the soot is everywhere, even where you can't see it. I don't want to accidentally breathe it in or get it on me. There's also rainwater that gets in from the hole from the fire," she explained. "Huh," he replied in curiosity, "cool house though, mind if I check the place out?" "Go right ahead," she replied. As he opened the door, he walked up the stairs. "Don't go to any of the rooms on the left! That's where the fire happened," she yelled. He checked out the two rooms in the hallway to the right, one had an old bedframe in it with no mattress, and not much else but broken old stuff. He checked the dresser drawers, but they were empty. The room across the hall had a door that was locked, but he thought against breaking it open until maybe later. "This place looked bigger from the outside," he thought outloud. Back in the room with the stairs, He was drawn to a dark stone staircase going down to the basement, which had what appeared to be old armor decorating it.

At the bottom of the stairs, a small empty wine shelf had a bottle without the cork still in it. Toward the end of the hall, was sunlight coming through an old window, but to the room on his left was nothing but darkness and a hard dirt floor. It creeped him out too much to even look inside, and he turned rapidly to go back down the hallway to run up the stairs, but an old woman was looming over him, breathing in fiendishly.

"Mom... I don't want to go in there!" the man protested. She sighed with some relief, then spoke softly, "It's going to be alright, son. I'm back... Allowed back from Hell, but only so I can talk to you." ""But I don't want to go in there!" "It won't be so bad, son," she said, while guiding him into the dark room with her hands on his shoulders. "No, please! I'm scared."
As horror overwhelmed him the deeper he was lead into the darkness, his fear of it had reversed his ability to flee or turn away from it. "You started to change, so there is only the smallest glimmer of light deservingly, far less than what comes through that window. For me it's 110 years for killing your father. You on the other hand weren't even going to be allowed to exist anymore!" He felt the touch of his mother's hands on his shoulders slowly fade away. "Mom, I love you so much!" he turned back toward the entrance, then fear of what was behind him made him turn back toward the darkness. Overwhelmed with fear, the only thing he could think of to feel safer was to get down on the floor to hide. In torment he clutched himself.

Quite some time passed, and he began to cry. He had not the strength to get back up, but looked over and could see the light that poured into the hallway. Shrill feelings surrounded him from other directions, gripping him in torment once again with his eyes held tightly closed. "Please stop! Stop please! Oh God," he yelled, and kept crying to not have to feel that fear again. When he reached out to feel what else was on the floor, a cold and painful whirlwind of fear made him to retreat his hand. When he tried again, bugs began to crawl all over his arm, and when he tried not to mind it, they bit and stung him.

At night there was no light in the hallway. Crawling around in the darkness, he came to a cold stone wall at the back of the room, and hid against it. He saw the light at the entrance next morning, but was paralyzed and could not get up. Over the next dozen or so nights, attacks of torment gripped him off and on. After about 3 years, the room started to slowly light up so the walls could finally be seen during the day, and the bugs ran into cracks in the walls. 10 years passed before someone walked into the room. The room lit up and the presence of fear was absent for the first time since noticing the light still in the hallway while against the wall at the back of the room. "I managed to get you only 600 years even though the lowest number other people were suggesting was 3,000, and you get to sit up again finally in another 30, but I'll try to get that reduced to 15. You've got it pretty bad, but not the worst sentence I've ever seen. The worst was the devil's who got 5,000 and his sentence didn't start in no cellar either, it was a lake of fire. But the devil wasn't even the worst; the worst can't be redeemed and go through all of this just to cease to exist. Some are even so grotesquely disgraceful to existence they have to just cease to exist entirely right off the bat. Anyways, the question they asked was whether or not you would have shot your partner at the funeral home given your change of heart toward the end had you not drank that bottle of poison, and well, the thought did cross your mind although not really accompanied by the feeling of retribution, or maybe it was retribution but just the first time such a thing had ever started to sow itself in your brain so you couldn't really feel it. Personally, I only think there was about a 1/3rd chance of it and it would have been out of greed, but I'm also super forgiving. You don't get to go to Heaven after this either, you go to purgatory for 800 years to get to play checkers with guys like hitler, and you have bedtimes and therapy and stuff. Only after your soul is ancient and looking back on your mortal life seems like a distant and irrelevant piece of you will you be allowed out of there, and still not to heaven, but as a mortal who doesn't age in a sort of penal colony where you can walk around outside and build houses and stuff with other people like you. Finally, if you start to do evil there, like declare war on God or His angels, you go back to this basement for a while, and if you try it a second time, you cease to exist. Don't try to trick the evil of this room, it will not work and only make it bad in a new way each time. I know it can be mind-rending, but it does start to go away."

Chapter 10: Wrong Family

"The funeral home guy tried to hide half the fucking will!" Vinny alerted everyone upon entering the club-room at his Uncle's house. "... That dumb bastard!" Johnny said loud and humorously, showing some enthusiasm. "Want to know what he did?" Vinny continued. "Tell us,", Old Tony replied. "He tried to drug us all with the food he put out so we'd be too scattered to ask where the fuck the will even is!" Vinny went on, "Sammy saved some of it and tested it, first generation antihistamines, deleriants!" "Holy shit..." Old Tony added, "I thought the funeral being in a town where no one knew us meant things would be normal for once for Christ's sake." "We'll do something about this Vinny, calm down though, okay? Don't embarrass us us by telling any more people about it." Johnny said to Vinny.

"Later as they showed up with guns loaded in their pockets to ask him questions then bash him broken - with backup around the block in case he tried to run - Johnny noticed something while walking in, he pointed to something up in the umbrella entrance. "He fucking rigged up the place!" Johnny said. "This fuck," Vinny said, as they both drew out silenced automatic weapons and burst into the place after Johnny jimmied the front door open.

After finding the room the funeral home guy was in, he looked up at them and started scurrying away into the other room, going "Oh-woah-woah-woah-woah!" "Where are you going you dumb fuck?" Johnny asked. Vinny fired at him through the wall, making the funeral home guy leap for the floor; he got back up quick and waddled off into another room. Johnny was radioing to the backup around the block, "This asshole tries to wonk people with garbage wired up in the underside of the umbrella entrance when they walk in; he might have more stuff like that in the house, hit the fuse! Disconnect the line outside!" After one guy tried shooting at the line with a silenced automatic to try to sever it, one of them smashed their truck into the pole. Tommy sighed and opened up the transformer box on the block, but didn't have any tools with him to flip it off and started kicking it. "Fuck this," Tommy said as he jogged back over to the group, "Show needs to be over soon, I'm going in." Tommy ran up to one of the windows and smashed it out; "Oh-woah-woah-woah!" the funeral home guy exclaimed as he started scurrying into another room and up some stairs.

The guy took out his phone and started calling the eyepatch man, but it went to voicemail. As the slow, stupid voicemail lady robot voice was explaining the options like an asshole, Tommy, Johnny, and Vinny had started firing up through the ceiling randomly into the second floor. "The IRS are here! They're coming in!" the funeral home guy said over the phone when it finally let him start leaving a voicemail. Each time bullets started coming up through the floor nearby, he scurried into a different room. "Oop!" he yelped after a bullet hit him in the foot, causing him to start hopping and limping around. Shortly afterward, a flurry of bullets came up from right underneath him, tearing up into his abdomen and legs vertically, causing him to bleed profusely. He stumbled down to the floor, and after a short while looked up at the window and started crawling over to it, figuring it was his last chance of escape.

With his remaining strength he opened up the window, pushed out the screen, then leaned his upper body up over the window sill and started sliding down the side of the building before falling to the ground, breaking his wrists, clavicle on both sides, most of his ribs, and giving him one hell of a concussion. After running upstairs, Tommy looked out the open window for him and then noticed he was right beneath it, and started spraying bullets down at him, reloading and emptying another clip down into him to make extra sure that it killed him.

While explaining it all later back at the clubhouse, one of the girls they had over asked "So you guys are Italian, right? Do you like speak Italian to each other in secret code and stuff like in movies?" Vinny thought for a second. "Hey uhhh, bring dufus out here for a minute," requested Vinny. Tommy went into the other room and walked out with an old guy dressed up in a poofy shouldered nobleman Halloween costume; he was drooling and started mumbling gibberish as he grabbed at food on the table and picked random objects up making noises and showing them to everybody. "Someone dug around in his skull with a screwdriver; now he's all like 'Vee! Shick Talla Mashoo Toh Keeshteelee!! ' " Vinny explained while imitating latin, "We put a nametag on him and call him the godfather." Vinny cracked a beer while him and a couple of the other guys chuckled. Two of the girls started to laugh awkwardly while one girl was staring shocked and confused.

 

[SpunkySkunk347]

Chapter 11: The Wizard and the Sorceror

In Jungian psychology, the 'Wizard' archetype and the 'Sorceror' archetype, when they turn up in literature, myths, culture, and stories, have qualities that never vary in contrasting with one another; for whatever reason, these archetypes progress in patterns that stay true, time regardless - Isaac Newton was said to be the last of the magicians; Edison, a wizard; those who ran textile mills were sorcerors. The textile mill, unconcerning in name, were a bloated result of the sorceror's inability to refine materials to their base elements which only the wizard knew how to do. The sorceror, inspired by the wizard, attempted to change the material's qualities through various efforts of human labor, including pulling apart sharp fibrous soot covered garbage; separating solid chunks out of gunk; pressing debris, matting it down in attempt to make it 'solid'; breaking or chopping things into smaller pieces for no reason; and trying to sort colors out and refine yellowish debris into gold.

The sorceror is always in pursuit of wealth, and the wizard is always in pursuit of safety.

The sorceror historically always wields fire as the aspect of nature he weaponizes or uses as showmanship, although he may not know how to make it from scratch. The wizard historically always at some point realizes how to wield lightning as the aspect of nature they harness, but caution others about its dangers, and refuse to tell others how to make it. Perhaps Tesla was a good example of a sorceror who was told in confidence by a wizard how to make lightning, while disguised as another wizard. Although Tesla and Edison as those two archetypes are unique, as the wizard ended up turning bad, and the sorceror never learned his lesson.

The sorceror is not always bad historically as an archetype in society, but rather they are usually wealthy counterparts to their poorer try-hard scholarly counterparts, or 'wizards'. The sorcerors during the enlightenment (and still today, you may know a few) saught practicality through using someone else's tricks, such as often carrying with them flammable powders and liquids with different colored flames which they had simply purchased at some point from someone else, but would put on brief displays to impress nobles or women. The wizard was always wishing he could show the crowd something cooler but knew not to for safety, and the crowd mistook this as the wizard's jealousy.

Only once or twice when the wizard had given enough disclaimers about safety, and that if they tried doing this themselves they would not be able to do it the same way he did it and end up hurting themselves. The sorceror he knew might try it anyways, and would always create a hazard or stupify themselves.

He placed a wire through the middle of the coil without touching it, and then while a few things were spinning nearby and metal wire had been set in dirty green swamp water, small amounts of what looked like lightning would come off the wire going through the center of the coil over to a metal rod he held with a wire running into another bucket of water that sometimes had another wire going betweeen both buckets of water. As people, at first unimpressed, became perplexed by the mysteries of existence in true awe and inspiration, he turned it off, warning them that he had already let it run for too long, and the more that he channeled it, the more it would damage everyone nearby - especially their sanity. He only performed the experiment again on rare occassions, on nights when he just needed to see it again, and much of the rest of his time was spent trying to figure out how to make it safe. He had lost sensation in much of his hand for quite some time, and still could not feel certain parts of his fingers, from working too close with it. The sorceror heard this, about how it desensitizes, inspires, and dulls or damages the mind, and immediately thought of using it on women. "Quite dangerous," a good sorceror might add then, "I think I might puke." Or, if the sorceror were evil, he would ask on several occassions if he could borrow it, or make one of his own. When the sorceror finally acquired it, even after hurting himself many times attempting to make it, he sat women next to it, he stood behind them, eventually putting one hand on their shoulder and stepping far back. Frequent were their victims, and this continued on into the 19th and 20th centuries.

Whenever a sorceror wields lightning, as the archetype has shown since the story of Prometheus, catastrophe which humanity is not yet complex enough to handle soon arises, but is ultimately defeated by the forces of good.

Battles between a sorceror and a wizard are uncommon, as the sorceror will defeat himself eventually, and the wizard wins with karma. The sorceror usually wields wealth, but their efforts undo their wealth eventually - that is, their efforts to increase or maintain their wealth by damaging others as a result of their failure to harness harmony like the wizard does. The wizard needs only to be within earshot of the curious, and by empowering their understanding at the right time is able to defeat the wicked.

The wizard knows how to make fire, lightning, medicine, metal, and how to manipulate and cleanse water; the sorceror knows only how to trick the wizard into giving him those first four things so he can misuse them, and knows only how to poison or impurify water; even if the wizard shows the sorceror how to cleanse or purify water, the sorceror still manages to do the opposite.

In the final days of winter, there were still a great many of murderers and torturists who still hadn't been caught or destroyed yet. It took a while before two contending great minds realized they were in a duel with one another, but had begun countering one another with 'new physics' and large scale efforts, with one attempting to put an end to evil and avoid a war starting at all costs - the other trying to create massive confusion to enhance evil's perserverance and use new technologies to make evil impenetrable; and acquire key buildings of the world's infrastructure transforming them into death fortresses and command posts for evil's leadership.

The wizard was a prodigal inventor in his late twenties, who made his first chess move by giving away the patent for flying zip-ties on the internet: nanomachine stranding can be guided through the air by quantum computers manipulating the voltage going through the power grid or with communications equipment; nanomachine stranding wraps together to form micromachine stranding, micromachine stranding wraps together to form millimachine stranding, and this happens around a person's wrists, continuing to tighten but stopping at a loop with width slightly greater than their wrist as to not cut off circulation.

The sorceror heard of this, and when the wizard's plan only caught murderers and torturists and never backfired to cause large numbers of people to be arrested for petty crimes like drugs or stealing, the sorceror made the same thing except so that it tightened around people's necks or their cars' brakes, killing thousands.

Using laser surveillance, the wizard found the sorceror shortly thereafter as his quantum computer software was manipulating the power grid similarly to his and he knew how to identify the program. After a drone strike failed to completely destroy the sorceror's capabilities, the sorceror deduced how they found him and used his own lasers to deflect theirs. Although the sorceror tried to follow the source of the lasers back to the wizard, he had safely covered his tracks - so the sorceror used his vast wealth to hire out to others who wielded lasers to find him, who gave the sorceror computers which could automatically deduce the source of another person attempting to hack the laser grid, and also computers which could rehack the laser grid in many different ways to regain control of it. A tug of war between laser control ensued between the wizard and the sorceror, with the sorceror rapidly winning too fast for the military to maintain involvement again for some time, as too many teams would have location and identity measured by the sorceror before they could make any headway in disabling his equipment. Only the wizard still kept trying to fly zipties to arrest the sorceror, and the complexity of the features the wizard designed for safety were too complex for the sorceror to figure out how to manipulate earlier on into something else without losing the tightening aspect, and thus the sorceror failed to ever weaponize the wizards'. But the sorceror was honing his laser capabilities, searching for some way of attacking the wizard.

Luckily, a resistor in the power grid broke before enough lasers could aim at the wizard's brain stem to kill him, but he was forced to retreat into the woods. The sorceror lost track of the wizard and scoured the Earth for him. Friends of the wizard managed to interject false information on the sorceror's computers about the wizard's physical appearance.
While wearing a lead suit, the wizard set up rail guns in the mountains of Montana to destroy the sorceror's drones, which were going to and from somewhere in western Canada. With the drones gone, this gave the wizard time to construct rockets and purely mechanical airplanes in North Dakota. If the constellations did not match on a disc with holes in it set on a gyro, the mechanical planes did not release their bombload. A miniature equivalently weighted model of the plane set in a gyro was used to predict how wind had changed the planes direction and correct it. The rockets were brought up into space via weather balloons and fired at their targets with a loss of precision of 100 yards per 100 miles, rocketing down at their targets from space to minimize aerodynamic loss in precision. The wizard's planes carried the weather balloons to be within an acceptable range where there wouldn't be loss of life from collateral damage, and struck at the sorceror all in the span of 20 hours. The wizard severed the electrical and communications grid at key junctions so the sorceror's computers no longer connected to them. After that, the wizard set up flying zipties again to apprehend the sorceror based on his identifying features, such as the shape of his teeth, ear, fingerprint, and hair pattern, as well as apprehending anyone who tried reconnecting control of the grid to the sorceror.

However, the sorceror had removed his teeth, changed the shape of his ears, and removed his hair. He lost both hands during the wizard's air bombardment, and was now using his vast wealth to create fully functioning robotic hands and forearms; he even toted this to become a proposed Nobel prize laureate, although he never made another set, and they were too expensive for those without hands to afford.

The public saw the sorceror as a hero on the surface, and whoever was responsible for the bombardment as a terrorist. Of course, the NSA new the opposite was true. Whenever it was brought up that the sorceror's flying nooses had killed thousands, he lied and claimed that never happened, and that someone else had made an error when trying to make the flying zipties that he wielded.

He moved into an old nearby bunker he had successfully managed to steal the permissions for and classified with the highest degree of secrecy. The neurosurgeon he hired who had so successfully synchronized the electronics of the robotic hands with nerve output was forced to do the same for automatically correcting errors in the central nervous system when solving math problems. Knowing not to integrate such technology with himself, he forced it onto followers who were tortured with electrodes in their pain centers if they disobeyed in the slightest, or rewarded with electrodes in their pleasure centures if they cooperated and saw his way.

The sorceror unleashed perpetually replicating small machines upon the population as punishment for the wizard's victory. When they ended up spreading to Asia, Russia or China retaliated automatically with a Cold War countermeasure put in place to punish other countries' engineers when traced back to them for failing to contain perpetually replicating small machines they were experimenting with. By using small machine stranding on him, sowing him throughout his body and nervous system to the ground but keeping him perfectly alive. His neurosurgery team informed him that removing the stranding could be lethal, but where the stranding had damaged his brain they could have computers send/receive alternating current down the stranding serving as artificial intelligence, and began working on him without his permission to get back at him for having given them implants. All that was accomplished however was agony for the sorceror. The sorceror could do nothing but wait for his grid to someday connect once again to nearby lasers somehow and gain access to them, so he could rehack drones to free him from being kept in a state of imprisonment. This would never again happen.

The wizard, now hard at work on reversing the small machine crisis, had luckily found several methods for getting rid of them. A certain type of sponge-like fungus would draw the small machines to it, and encapture them but not allowing them to move or replicate. Learning this early on kept it from spreading. Luckily, the sorceror had not invented them to be evolving, or if he tried to the ones that he gave adaptive metal DNA to died out too soon, which led several others to proclaim that was because he lacked the ability to give the gift of the spark of life. The machines could also be blown by fans into a furnace of molten metals, and some of them even flocked to the furnaces thinking they'd find more metal.
The sorceror's small machines were only lethal if they built up too much in a person's body, otherwise they only damaged and irritated tissue. The ones that went for a person's eyes, lungs, heart, or brain were countered right away as high priority by the military. The sorceror's lair was a bunker in the mountains of western Canada which previously had norad-level clearance, allowing him to stay unbeknownst to the military, although rumors were growing throughout Washington, DC of a battle between good and evil. Most in Washington however still did not acknowledge the existence of a small machine crisis, or hacked lasers, and since friends of the wizard had labelled his air campaign as 'routine testing', most of the conflict was unknown to DC. Even the nooses the sorceror had made had been covered up to avoid mass panic.

The sorceror's high command were now the biggest threat; his former neurosurgeons were now experimenting with thin robotic metal wires, which one had integrated themselves with, using their ability to correctly solve complex math problems and manage large amounts of things at once that the sorceror had forced upon them earlier with implants. They were planning on releasing thin wire mechanical 'snakes' on the world's governments and militaries as well. Military supercomputers caught one of their early attempts to send a snake through the outskirts of a major city to see whether or not anything stopped it and if so learn what did. The military sampled the Earth's surface for lookalikes and similar models with metal detectors, finding them in one of their own old bunkers in western Canada. Laser analysis of the building pieced together what all took place there, shortly before destroying it with numerous strikes by bunker busters and nuclear warheads. A cluster of 'detonate upon anything impacting' fission nukes were used to avoid anything getting hacked or repurposed in any way. Manually piloted rockets flew the bombload up into the higher atmosphere before dropping them precisely on target.

Good had finally won and evil was finally vanquished, and with minimal civilian casualties aside from the thousands who died during the sorceror's first strike with flying microstranding nooses. All the while, friends of the wizard had been rounding up the last murderers, torturers, and kidnappers with flying zipties.

And the military was going to make sure to never let any of that crazy crap ever happen again. Except for robot hands, which the wizard endorsed, saying it was the only thing the sorceror invented that had the potential to be used for good.

Chapter 12: Healing the Heart

After the president's new policies were shown to be drastically reducing the rates of all deaths, and everything had been explained as many times as necessary over and over until people got it, everything else almost seemed to just figure itself out.

The dumbest reason most often muttered against the changes was, "Won't the planet become overpopulated?" The statistics repeatedly had to be shown that that couldn't possibly happen until some time next century, and even when we do reach maximum capacity, when people live in areas that are that densely populated, they tend to only want to have one or two children, only replacing themselves some day, thus the human population should comfortably plateau!

Obesity floors became standard in hospitals, where if you entered the emergency room and were highly likely to return due to health-deterriorating habits, they wheeled the stretcher they were in to a room down a few hallways which they were free to leave, they just had to stand up and walk out.

Sounds simple, right? Of course. First, they had to stand up when their stretcher was lowered to sitting height. If they couldn't, they'd raise it for them, or help them back on if they fell off. If they fell at any point after leaving the room that had the stretcher in it, someone would show up and give them giant cushions to help them stand up with, which had recognizable shapes like triangles, squares, circles, or cylinders depending on what they thought was their favorite.

Sometimes if they needed it, if they were having another heart or vascular related episode, or to prevent one that was imminent, a worker would come up and loosen up their muscles and blood vessels, massaging different parts of their body jiggling them with their hands!

If they couldn't make it out of the building by meal times, they were given vegetable-majority snacks! Even one really good meal with cylinder-noodle pasta, tomato-bean sauce, chicken, and a chop-up of more than a dozen vegetables! Many of them were quite suspicious of the vegetables, and some even refusing to eat, but no one was there to care! Of those, 97 plus percent would start eating at some point, and then begin to rapidly devour the food as they must have realized how good it tastes; especially after all the work they'd done!

People asking for their phone were told, 'Okay! It's on the desk out front!' People asking for a ride, were told 'Okay! They'll meet you out front!' if they asked 'Can you help me get out front?' there was no one there, as hospital staff only replied on an intercom sometimes! If they were having a terribly tough time, a super-nice physical therapist would come in and assist them as much as they needed to be able to move.

In the second hallway was a slight incline! If their heart rate went over 160, they would slide them up on a mat cushion. Sometimes, they had so much fun doing that, they would enthusiastically reply 'Yeah!' if the physical therapist asked if they wanted to do that again!

In the third room, were multiple treadmills with doors in front of them! A fun-colored smiley face endorsed sign had '5 minutes! 2 miles per hour!' printed on it. If they complained about being trapped or held against their will, they were told over intercom that one of the doors is unlocked already! Did you guess it was the one that had 'exit' nearby it? The final room had variously sized exercise balls in a long hallway, harnesses to strap in if you were scared (which ran along tracks on the ceiling), and the balls merely had to be walked through or kicked out of the way, but all you fussy kickers beware, the balls will tend to stack up toward the end then, which can frustrate some a great deal!

If they thought they were being made fun of, they were told 'Absolutely not!' and were told how many calories they had burned so far based on mass and distance, and how much weight they were losing over time, like "You'll have lost over 10 pounds by the end of the day tomorrow if you'd like to stay and do that! There's jacuzzis, an all you can eat buffet, and any channel or movie you'd like to watch on TV but the TV moves around a track you have to keep up with! It's super fun! It's totally free, and you can stay for weeks if you'd like!" If they said yes, they were brought to an exercise spa nearby in the building, most immediately loved it, as there was so much fun stuff to do inside for free! They even gave them effin drugs if they were going to keep asking for them! They just wouldn't let them dose often enough to become physically addicted to opioids/opiates, and benzodiazepines were forbidden unless prescribed prior. It was understandable that their joints might hurt! They could even have beer! One guy stayed there just to get drunk for 12 hours until 2 am until beer was no longer served, and he had lost more than a hundred pounds over a couple months or so! It didn't matter, as long as they were losing weight, as it was saving their life! BAC had to be below 0.16 to get more beer, and that's pretty fair, especially if they knew boozing it was your thing, and gave you the tall glass if you were teetering right below 0.16! And that is just one type of fun set up to make sure you stay and lose weight! Alcohol actually dilates their blood vessels, drastically reducing their chance of heart attack or stroke while exercising on the unit, although no one has ever died except for a man in his early 80s who weighed 410 pounds, as the parameters of how they monitor heart rate, breathing rate, and blood pressure, and how they responded accordingly, did not allow for fatality to be a possibility!

The vegetable buffet, in addition to vegetables, appeared to have food that wasn't also vegetables, like pancakes, pasta, bread, pizza, burger buns, etc., but were all cleverly reciped to be impossible to rule out as not what it looked like based on taste, and tasted too good anyways, in fact far better, than its less healthy lookalike! The oils and sauces available were also quite low on calories, and vegetable based! Certain oils present gave a complete and healthy feeling of fullness, as good as having eaten entire family portions of junkfood, except it didn't wear off in half an hour!

Due to the low caloric content of vegetables, even if they ate perpetually, they could not possibly gain weight in body fat from it, as it would require an impossible mass-energy coefficient where the stomach and digestive tract had gorged up with more weight than them! This was due to the fact that them simply standing at such a high weight would burn four thousand or more calories a day! The only way this could be circumvented was if they snuck entire trays of food to a chair or their bed, which couldn't happen because the trays were locked in place by key, and the plates weren't big enough to eat that much without having to get back up and get more more than several times! If they tried scooping food out onto the floor so they could sit down and eat while sitting (because they wanted to that much), someone simply came up and started sweeping it into a bucket before they could finish eating it! If they got messy, there was a jacuzzi labelled 'Okay to be Messy!' which frequently cycled in fresh water if people were in it. The other jacuzzi said 'Nice and Clean!' which often times if there weren't super messy people in the spa was dirtier than the other one as it cycled out its water more often, but this is something that's tough to point out to people and have them believe you.

If they needed help getting to the toilet, they were put in a chair with comfy cushions and wheels, and wheeled over to it immediately, and placed on it! They were told to please go ahead and announce if they needed help getting to the toilet shortly after arrival, as good hygiene is so important! The doors close and a super bidet blasts them after they press a button that says 'Can't Reach Paper?' The bidet sprays from all angles with comfortable power jets and soapy water! The bidet doesn't keep doing that though more than once every 4 minutes, so they don't keep doing that!

Their beds are super awesome! They glide through the air suspended on rope tracks on the ceiling, and they can get anywhere in the room really fast just by pulling on nearby ropes! It's so much fun, they sometimes don't like to leave their bedrooms, that's why the tracks allow them to slide out into the main room, but down an incline that is a slight workout of the arms to pull oneself back up into their room after they've gone around a complete track! There's also usually a queue, but other tracks to go off on to, but it can get competetive to get off! It doesn't go to the salad bar though, and the TV is mostly not visible from it, so it's likely that soon they will switch activities!
So far, we have not even mentioned what activities are in the gym! There is a pool 1 ft deep at the shallow end, and 2' 3" at the deep end, which has 2 vigilant lifeguards present, one of which is super muscular and the other is super muscular! The pool is huge, and there's bubble boat bash! A super-buoyant material makes bubble boat bash possible, and a totally safe jet bubble motor allows people to steer into a direction of their choosing, at a comfortable cruising speed! The steering wheel is, as it turns out, more enjoyable to steer with one's feet!

Rolley-track Ralley is up next, with rolley cylinders, rolley ball wheels, and rolley conveyer belts, all pinch-proofed with a specially designed fuzzy foam that can never clog, as it pushes up where another rolley cylinder or ball wheel is rolling down. Although it's name is fuzzy foam, it is actually quite durable, and hard to squeeze unless there is several hundred pounds of pressure, then it will cushion for you! The rolley conveyer belt leads to slide city, where you can slide on in to slide city or slip on out to whaley whirlpool, jungle climb for chocolate, cookies, and ice cream (every 45 minutes, but served on a different platform each time, and tastes so good you wouldn't know it had almost no calories, just some caffeine and a few vitamins and vegetable base, and of course yummy real chocolate!), or therapy at bouncy swing chair fun hour! You can also get to bouncy swing chair fun hour by walking through the door to the room it's in! By completing activities you earn points, that do things like let you pick a song to play on the radio, TV time in your bedroom after 8, 'food from afar' (which may discontinue as most complain it wasn't enough), and prizes!

One of the other cool places to talk about at the spa is the jam room! All sorts of musical instruments and stuff that makes music are throughout! Guitar surfing sure is fun! Muscle trombone might be even cooler! Piano dance floor is a classic, and giant jammin drums and sticks are great as a duet!

Poppin popcorn foam pit is last on our list of mentionings, but if you tried to cheat at the movie theater by getting away with it when you pressed 'poppin time!' too many times, you got to land in the popcorn pit! It's fun to get out of, and if you can't, do worry, it's soon poppin' time! The timer counts down 'it's almost poppin time!' and once it's poppin time, the pop up trampoline floor underneath the popcorn foam pit pops up and now poppin popcorn foam pit is poppin! Pop on over to the next room, or go ahead and wait for poppin time again!

THANKS FOR READING - TO ACTUALLY END ALL DEATHS, TELL TWO MORE PEOPLE (GOOD PEOPLE) TO READ THIS BOOK OR YOU'RE A BAD PERSON - PYRAMID PONZI TRUST FUND POWER PLAY! - THIS BOOK, ILLEGAL AS WELL IS THE SEQUEL TO THE INS AND OUTS OF BLACK MARKET ORGAN TRADING - DOUBLE LOTTO PENNY A MIL COURTROOM DEGREE SUMMONING CEREMONY WITH MEDICAL LICENSURE - DOCTOR DUMB ON STAND, YOU SMARTER THAN DOCTOR = YOU ULTRA DOCTOR = EXPONENTIAL EUPHORIA AND TREASURY PRINTS OUT MORE MONEY JUST FOR YOU

 

[mal3volent]

Looks like an interesting read, @SpunkySkunk347 .

If you have it saved as a document, you can actually attach it to a post. That way it will retain all its original formatting and such. %)

 

[SpunkySkunk347]

Thanks, I'll keep that in mind in the future.. Really hoping this book takes off and saves lives!