Market Research, Michael Bird [read book .TXT] 📗

Shadowing Mia through the CBD in a nondescript white car, Foster knew exactly why she felt so angry. He knew the exact amount of chemicals that certain parts of her body were producing at that very moment to make her angry. A peddler and self-styled “New Alchemist”, Foster was within a hairs breadth of landing a very lucrative business deal, and Mia was the last piece falling into place. If the mix was right, the fall would be a very, very violent one.

Creeping forward behind an illegally dark tint, Foster reached across to the empty passenger seat and switched on a hand held mini-cam, bringing it up silently and carefully framing the sidewalk. Keeping one eye on the road and holding the cam as steady as he could, Foster allowed himself a small smile. She was starting to twitch.

By the time she reached the top of her street Mia’s legs ached. Parts of her body begged to be rested, but something more insistent compelled her to keep on. She hadn’t walked far; twenty minutes from the Atrophy club at a strong pace, but her whole body burned like she’d been running for hours. If her veins were pumping acid, it was coursing through her brain too. For no real reason, Mia felt violently mad, more than she ever had before. Under the rage, she was quietly aware that something was wrong, but that concern was lost beneath rolling waves of confusion and panic that buffeted her thoughts.

Without realizing she was doing it, Mia began swinging her right arm as she walked, bringing it down violently into her thigh each time her right leg went forward. After passing a few houses like this she looked down quizzically, the pain registering with polite discretion. She brought her hand up to examine it, never breaking stride. Her fingers pulsed red with blood, veins standing out ugly and obvious on her wrist. Losing focus and snapping her head back suddenly, Mia took off and impulsively slammed her fist down into her thigh again, becoming more agitated with each step she took. Foster grew more confident as the crowd outside thinned, bringing his car up closer to Mia as she entered the residential area. He concentrated on holding the camera steady, not wanting to miss a second of his quarry’s spiral.

‘d198’ was Foster’s ticket to the big money. He’d had offers from everywhere for this latest batch, interest from clients rich enough to buy through proxies who’s only job was to be the link between the small-time cooks and rich dealers. Any prospective buyer with that much money was smart enough not to get their hands dirty before they were certain about the product, so hard proof was required before any money changed hands. A barely twenty weekend pill-popper, Mia was the perfect guinea pig for Foster, and she took the bait as well as he could have hoped.

A regular at the Atrophy, Mia had barely raised an eyebrow when a friend offered her ‘some new quicker shit’ he’d picked up earlier. Foster watched from the bar as she faced away from her circle of friends and threw back the tiny red cap stamped ‘198’, sitting poised for a second as though expecting an explosion. When nothing came she turned back, the slow rotation on the clubs signature rust-eaten chair the last graceful move she would ever make. From behind his drink Foster had watched Mia slip gradually under the spell of the cap; clicking her nails on the chipped hardwood table, scuffing her shoe impatiently on the floor and finally announcing that she needed something from home, jumping up and storming out the door. It felt like money on a winning horse to Foster.

At her front door Mia stopped, attempting to calm herself. She focused hard on breathing, holding her body still and planning her trip inside. A bad reaction to Benny’s shit, she thought, something to take me back down and some sleep. I’ll be fine. On the street, Foster’s mini-cam screen showed a girl standing in the shallow alcove of her doorway, pounding her fist on a brick wall and making minute but violent movements with her head from side to side. She gave the wall one last hit, grunted as though giving up on a riddle she’d been turning over in her head and rushed through the door, throwing it back into the wall. Glancing both ways and then hurrying over to follow Mia in, Foster kept his eyes on the mini’s screen. Should get some good close ups now, he thought.

When Mia showed up on screen again, she was glaring into the bathroom mirror, gasping for breath. On the way, the camera panned over a crumpled up hallway rug and several fist-sized holes in the wall. Foster didn’t worry now about being seen. He knew she was too far gone to call the cops, and reacting to am intruder might get him some interesting footage anyway. In any case, she wouldn’t be alive long enough to identify him when any authorities arrived. When Foster rounded the corner into the bathroom, Mia caught sight of him moving behind her own reflection. She whirled around and bared her teeth at him, the way a cornered animal might. Foster stepped back, but before she could advance, Mia turned and rammed her elbow into the mirror.

Reeling back and howling in pain, her arms took on a life of their own, beating the closest wall furiously, seemingly independent of the rest of her body. She drove her left knee into and through the plaster, and when it wouldn’t come loose Mia clawed at it. Blood from where her elbow had hit the mirror flung out in all directions, painting every surface it hit a dull red. On a deeper level Mia knew what she ought to be doing, finding out who this strange man in her house was, but she was just so mad. Nothing else came near the surface but her desire to hit the closest thing.

No part of her body was spared over the next few minutes, and even Foster felt a jab of the hollow sickness that comes with witnessing something horrific. He stayed still and silent while Mia tore herself apart in front of him. Previous strains of ‘d’ had produced a more outward anger, beating on strangers and what a regular client had called the ‘Angry Husband’ effect. But these big-shots with money to throw around, they were always looking for a new extreme hit, something different. Dreamers that were designed to give only the most nightmarish visions, downers that took you so low you became a vegetable, immune to punches in the face and police sirens. Foster knew that there’d be a big market for this new stuff, loaded businessmen desperate to feel anything bouncing around custom-made padded rooms while their dealers counted the cash. It was always big money for something new, and nothing Foster had seen bit like his d198.

When he shut off the camera, Mia lay still on the tiled floor, the room around her destroyed. Scraps of skin sat caked under her nails, bone peeking through in some of the worst places. Her eyes showed a still of the same panic they had earlier, like a horse with its leg caught in a razor wire fence, adrenalized and fearful.
Foster knew he had what he needed, and he knew that if Mia’s mangled body wasn’t traced back to him, he’d make enough cash to take a long holiday, wherever he wanted.

Publication Date: 01-28-2009

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