If you haven't read Chapter one, I highly recommend doing so before
reading part 2. Read it HERE
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| From the UC Davis Human Memory Lab |
Nothing is ever as easy as it first appears. Remember that. Remind me if my memory gets screwed up sometime in the near future. The beauty of blogging is that by the time this posts, it will be the near future. You see, I've scheduled all of my posts out into the future in the event that my 'friend' decides I no longer require specific memories -those about his illicit activities to be precise.
I decided to take the high road and see if I could 'talk him down' from the nonsense. My first conundrum was where to meet him. His lab? No way! If he already has my memory channels mapped walking into his lab would be like wearing an overcoat made of stitched together ribeyes and strolling into a tiger cage.
His home isn't exactly a great choice either. God only knows what he's got lying around in that place. I needed somewhere public to have this conversation so I decided on visiting him at his other job -the one that actually brings in the money. I'd go to the hospital. Foolproof, right? Public, safe, nothing terrible could happen there.
I made my way to his office on the seventh floor. He's got one of those huge offices overlooking the entire city with mahogany everything. In short, he's a big-wig. Don't be fooled by stereotypes. Big-wig's can be idiots too. I took the stairs to avoid prying eyes as well as the possibility of running into my 'friend' on his terms rather than my own.
I'll be the first to admit I have a bit of a weight problem. It isn't a weight problem in the sense that most people think -don't get me wrong, I'm a chubby guy for sure, it's just that because I'm short (5'5") and have a small frame (If I didn't have a weight problem I'd probably tip the scales at around 130 lbs) and my small frame coupled with a few dozen extra pounds makes climbing seven flights of stairs quite a challenge. I thought I was going to have to pull the bright orange CODE lever on the landing of floors five and six. I seriously need to start exercising or something.
By the time I reached seven I could hear the blood whooshing by my ears as my heart attempted to force blood to my lungs, brain and lower extremities through ever-narrowing arteries (I like fast food) and was pretty sure I was going to barf. In fact, I did barf. The closest receptacle I could find was a potted plant just past the entrance to the stairs. Hopefully someone will notice before the entire hall starts to reek.
I found the bathroom, splashed some cold water on my face, straightened my hair and looked myself in the mirror. I seriously need to start exercising. And I need to shave. And a haircut wouldn't hurt either. I'm a slob, what can I say? Onward.
When I reached Dr. Insane-o's office it was empty. Perfect. I sat in his chair and, after finally catching my breath, began rifling through his desk (of course I checked his computer but it was password protected and despite being a video gaming god (I'm theorizing this may have something to do with my current state of health) I am not a hacker.
Nothing of interest in his desk except a handful of what look like tire-pressure gauges.
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| Dermo-jet |
