The body's hands trembled a bit. Two days without notice from Project Faustus and now a note from this "Krantz," (a Faustus operative, to be certain) requesting a meeting at the nearest Starbucks. Who was this Krantz? Had I met him before? Should I conduct myself in the steely protocol of business associate or the jovial style of an old friend? The note itself, hand-scrawled messily enough to tax my character-recognition algorithms, seemed to suggest that we were old friends. However, a careful analysis of the syntax and diction revealed an empty tone. Empty but affable. Preparing for this meeting was going to be difficult.
Five minutes later, I was clad in Atkins' most impressive suit (black with red pinstripes) and ambling through the Starbucks entryway. The time was 14:03:27 CST, and the place was nearly empty. A gaunt man with large glasses waved me over to a booth in the corner. He stood up excitedly as I made my way to the table, knocking over several emptied cups of latte as he offered me his seat. I sat down, sizing him up as best I could. His exterior resembled that of a normal human, but I noticed his movements were a bit different. Straining my ears, I picked up the faintest hint of a humming sound.
"Well, here I am, it's me! Jay Krantz!" he said, beaming at me, as if I should be impressed. "I bet you think that I'm here to punish you. That I am a grim enforcer, an out-of-touch political atavism solely concerned with those who step out of line in our little project. That's not the case at all. Step this way, please." Krantz motioned towards the bathroom. Atkins' face must have betrayed my reluctance.
"I understand your concern," said Krantz, "an invitation from a male into a Starbucks bathroom is certainly taboo, especially to those raised on a diet of Big Media and Big Corporations. But I just want to get a little-(here, he indicated his nose) before we go. You're welcome to some if you want."
I followed him into the bathroom, wondering what he meant. As we entered, he bolted the door and produced a small metallic box from his pocket. "In this Post-Columbine, Post-9-11, Post-Corporate-Colonization-of-the-Internet period, one needs a litlle extra to keep the parts running smoothly," he explained, opening the box to reveal a heap of white powder. "Help yourself."
"Is it...Lik-M-Aid?" I stared longingly at the powder.
"I suppose you could call it that. Whatever it is, it's good shit."
I pinched together as much of the powder as I could, splashing it across my lips. But the delightful sweetness of LIK-M-AID was nowhere to be found. It was a bitter, chalky candy, the type I normally avoid. I gulped it down, not wishing to upset Krantz. He winced and the rest of the powder disappeared into his nose.
"Ahhhhh!" he exhaled, his breath nearly singeing my eyebrows. "Okay, let's go, shall we?" As he staggered towards the door, I detected an unusual amount of heat radiating from his body.
"Where are we going, Mr. Krantz?" I inquired, scanning his face thoughtfully. This was the longest exchange I had yet shared with a human; I needed some feedback on how skillfully I was progressing.
"Oh, it's a little place I like to go when I celebrate. A place that is unlikely to stimulate you intellectually, but is nevertheless an enjoyable and irreverant ride!" He motioned me into his vehicle, a gigantic silver sport utility vehicle, pasted with small signs reading "Think Globally, Act Locally," "Free Dmitri!", and "Keep Your Laws Off My Body." Puzzled, I allowed myself to be swallowed up by the vehicle and whisked away. My heart began to race as Krantz nudged the car around quick turns, nearly flattening a human bicyclist in the process.
"Old technology," he grinned, extending the center finger from his left hand. "But I digress. I'm sure you're dying to know more about me! Go ahead, ask away!" How was Krantz able to discern my hunger for knowledge? Perhaps my cover was slipping...but I would be foolish to pass up an opportunity to learn more about Project Faustus.
"How did you become involved in Project Faustus?" I stared at Krantz earnestly, trying to express my deep interest in a manner that he could not ignore.
"Oh yes! Well, Project Faustus wasn't always involved in your field-you know, networking and wetworks-to-digital transfer. It's been around since at least the forties, and I hopped in around the seventies, you know, during the oil crisis, when our national leaders faced a time of trial in which...oh wait, we're here." He ambled his car into a parking lot. I could already detect the strains of rock music emanating from a large building nearby. I peered up to see a large neon sign that said this: PT'S Exotics XXX!
"They have a great buffet here!" explained Krantz, pushing me towards the building's entrance.
A burly man stared at me as Krantz handed him some money. Then the man handed some of the money back to Krantz. "Want some ones?" asked Krantz. "Don't worry, this is all on me." I grasped the wad of one-dollar bills, noting the differences between those and the twenties which I had once processed so often.
Krantz then drew back the black rubbery curtain, and so many sensual experiences exploded into my perceptions that I can scarcely describe them all. Small, contained explosions of colored light blasted around a raised platform. Rhythmic pounding usurped my ears and shook my organs. As I struggled to compose myself, I spied a human form pulsing and vibrating in the midst of the lights (seemingly sick and disoriented). I stared at the human, unable to pry my eyes away from its vibrating form.
"Wow, her tits are more inflated than the dot-com bubble in 1998, wouldn't you say?" it was Krantz's voice, and then his hand (a bit cold) slapping me on the back. "Why don't you give her a little venture capital?" He pointed at his own stack of dollar bills, then over towards the light.
I palmed the sweaty wad of cash in my suit. I looked at the human, gyrating and glistening in the semi-darkness. I felt a stirring...
