The First Stain

by Dakota Rayne et al.

  For a native of Tokyo, Dr. Lee was surprisingly well-spoken in English. I struck up a conversation with him during the fifteen-minute concession in between lectures at the exposé. We discussed the macroeconomic implications of the Reciprocal Trade Agreements Act and its outrageous tariffs. Dr. Lee was well-read on the subject, and I was absolutely delighted with the conversation. We soon found ourselves at dinner and then cigars afterwards.

  During our first Belvedere and tonic, he told me he had synthesized a new drug for the Japanese military. Methamphetamine. I then knew the universe brought us together for a reason.

  I ordered us another round of highballs and hand-rolled Nat Sherman’s as he indulged me on my feverish questions. What method did he use to apply the hydrogen chloride and what was his source? Did he realize the industry average profit margin of amphetamines in Japan? What was its fair market value per pound? Did he have any Trans–Pacific supply chain partners? Did he want one? I hung on his every word whilst on the edge of my seat, puffing out smoke from my cigar like a steam engine.

  His research and development efforts were sponsored by a large grant from the Japanese military, with the government having a first right of refusal on distribution they could exercise at their discretion. Dr. Lee also told me that the government had not yet exercised this right, so he had a large amount of methamphetamine he was looking to sell. He wished to do this internationally to avoid detection in his home country.

  I then told him about my family.

  The business my parents ran before their untimely demise was in the nerve syrup industry. We owned and operated twelve wagons across Arizona, back when it was a territory. That was until the anti–narcotic act of 1921. It ruined us. Our prosperous business and all the people we employed were now considered outlaws. We lost almost everything. My parents died the next year.

  After our sixth glass of scotch, but before our third cigar, I proposed to Dr. Lee that I could be his distributor for the amphetamine. I could restart the family business with his product.

  And I did.

  I kept correspondence with Dr. Lee, and after a few months of negotiating, our companies executed a single-serving operating agreement. We entered into a new limited liability corporation, both being equal equity participants in its ownership. The flagship product was a nerve syrup which contained a heavy dose of Dr. Lee's synthetic amphetamine as the primary ingredient. Dr. Lee manufactured the drug in Tokyo, and when he shipped it over the Pacific, I took over.

  Physicians mainly prescribed amphetamines as decongestants. From an ethical perspective, I couldn’t go this route and do business with any of these bureaucratic government bodies. Roosevelt had his tendrils in all of them. It was these organizations that ruined my family. There would not be a third time that government entities were the culprit of my downfall.

  Instead, I vertically integrated all production for the nerve syrup and set up for outbound sales in twelve states. I made sure my product went directly to my customers’ door with no doctor’s orders.

  An aggressive marketing campaign was implemented utilizing newspaper and random telegraphing in the states where I attained licensure for direct to consumer sales and solicitation (Alas, the FTC was one government body I had to grease for this). My target market was a cohort of housewives, aged between 22 and 40 years old who lived in rural areas and had a median household income of $5,000 a year. I found that small towns had the highest density of this demographic—America’s heartland so to speak. That was where I flooded the streets with amphetamine-infused nerve syrup. I would have put it in their water supply if I had the means.

  I recruited my sales force from local high schools or universities when available. There was no capital outlay for any kind of sales training. There was no need. After a well-meaning, handsome young boy showed up and gave a housewife her first complimentary spoonful, the product sold itself. They just needed a little taste . . . daresay on both accounts—for I speculate that many a young man discovered their manhood on such sales calls with these wives. I certainly know I did when I was younger.

  But an efficient means of production and an effective sales force can only get a business so far. A good product is the cornerstone of capitalism; otherwise, a company is all flash and no smash. My marketing platform was not built around medical flimflammery, for the bold proclamations were true. The nerve syrup really worked! The effects were immediate. Dr. Lee was truly a master of his craft.

  It cured all that vexed the housewife. No longer did the drag of the day and its existential dread plague her. The inability to choose and prepare the correct meal for her husband vanished upon consumption of the elixir—that woman knew exactly what she was cooking for her man after just a spoonful. No longer did monotonous housework seem so meaningless. Cleaning the carpet became a means in itself. It became the center of her universe.

  I made sure it was my face on the bottles I sold. I fantasized about my customers and how they would adore my hooked nose silhouette with such zeal. I had become their god.

  Drug addiction possesses a certain inertia to it. It wasn’t long until I had entire towns filled with fanatic customers demanding more. I was curing more than their hysteria—for I do not subscribe to altruistic philosophies. I was curing my own madness by growing this business. I began to jog in the mornings and rejoined a boxing gym. I wrote poetry at night. I formally courted women. But most importantly, The Dream disappeared. No longer did the realm of sleep terrorize me. The haunting scream of my subconscious faded to a distant, forgotten murmur in the dark caverns of my mind, and my desire to burn down the world around me subsided.

  I drove top line revenue growth through record sales, which surpassed our forecasted budget by three-fold. After a year we realized a triple-digit profit margin. Dr. Lee was consistent with the quality and quantity of product he would ship. I expanded into new territories. Roosevelt and his bureaucrats were too incompetent for my nimble business model. Never would they catch me. Never.

  But all assets are liabilities, so I made sure to rig all of my production plants with dynamite. If I was ever found out, I could destroy the evidence at a moment’s notice. And the workers. And myself. I would not be left alone, not again. I was a god who desired companionship. The enlightenment I sold across the country made the factory worker more productive, it kept the household scrubbed to a sparkle. My nerve syrup sculpted America’s labor force and their psychology, making them fit to operate in the efficiencies of capitalism. I was the hand that turned the crank that moved the wheels of our nation. I was a true patriot. No one would dare stop me.

  Most importantly, I would not let The Dream return. I was convinced that if this business failed, my slumber would again be haunted with images of fire. It would be the end of me. At the end of the day, life and business are very similar, for we are all in search of an exit strategy and none of us are getting out of here alive.

  By the way, how is your run going?

  One day, Dr. Lee vanished like a ghost. His correspondence had always been timely—he was a very meticulous man—but I hadn’t heard back from him in a month. He hadn’t shipped any of his amphetamine in three weeks. I realized price elasticity to my product as demand increased on the dwindling supply, but the benefits would be inconsequential compared to revenues realized on a long-term strategy. I was due to run out of syrup in a week’s time. My customers needed my product.

  Arrangements were made to take the next flight from San Francisco to Tokyo. I would find Dr. Lee myself. I made the decision to hire a private investigator. The man’s name was Mungazi and he met me right when I exited the DC-3 airliner that flew me across the Pacific.

  “Mr. Mackelbury,” he said in a practiced but uneven English. “The pleasure, of our acquaintance, is mine.”

  Mungazi was a short man with broad shoulders and good posture. He did not afford me the American pleasantries of a handshake or a smile, yet instead he maintained an impressive eye contact as he bowed. The man broiled with a pec
uliar, palatable intensity. I liked the cut of this Mungazi’s jib right away.

  I craned my neck and rotated my shoulders. “After the flight I was just on, yes, the pleasure is surely yours. I am just happy to be off of the steel monstrosity.” I lit a Lucky unfiltered and offered him one from my pack.

  Mungazi raised a hand to his white jacket and pulled out a hard case. “I have my own brand, thank you.” He nodded politely.

  “Ah, I’ll swap you one for one. Let me sample the local wares here, eh?” I took the cigarette out of my mouth and extended it to him, waiting for him to acquiesce.

  Mungazi smiled with another, smaller bow. “Gladly.”

  “Cross-pollination. Now we are talking.” I took the cigarette that was wrapped in dark paper and smelled of spice when I lit it. Tasted like it too. “A friend of a friend tells me you’re the best.”

  Mungazi inhaled and nodded at the cigarette I gave him with approval. “For the services you require. Yes. It is I who is best.”

  “You find people who can’t be found. Ghosts.”

  “Yes,” Mungazi said through a veil of smoke. “Ghosts.”

  I sized him up a bit more. “What makes you the best?”

  “Already, I have found your ghost.” His eyes were steady.

  A scream echoed in my head, the smell of burning flesh filled my nostrils. I winced and dropped my cigarette.

  “Mr. Macklebury, are you ok?”

  I waved him off and picked up my cigarette. “Why yes, yes, yes.” I snapped my fingers in an odd, yet familiar, counter rhythm when I said this. I shook my head side to side, hoping I could physically shake the remnants of the scream out of my ears. I exhaled slowly.

  “Please.” Mungazi turned sideways, revealing a car I recognized immediately.

  With another deep breath, I tried to control the manic thoughts beginning to ping pong around my head. I focused on the car instead.

  “A 1939 Jaguar SS100 convertible.” I took a long pull off the cigarette. “I have two of these at my Tucson Estate.” I took another drag of his spiced cigarette and looked up at Mt. Fuji in contemplation. “Not that I have ever been to that particular estate, but I hear it is nice.”

  “You own house you have never been to?” Mungazi raised his eyebrows.

  I nodded and hopped over the door, into the convertible. “That’s right,” I said with the cigarette between my teeth. “And I’ll tell you what, Mungazi, you find me Dr. Lee, you can have the damned house and the maid that comes with it, eh?”

  “Dr. Lee in Nanjng.” Mungazi started the car.

  “China’s capital?” I asked.

  “Correct. Japan’s military, you tell me he working with, taken him prisoner there.”

  “Prisoner?”

  Mungazi nodded.

  “Damn, man. I just got to Tokyo. Now I have to go to China?”

  The man ignored my frustrated question as he started the car. Not once did his eyes deviate from the airstrip he drove us on. I digested everything he told me while savoring the cigarette, which possessed a particular property. It was windproof. I admired how it burned bright and true despite the wind from the open car. I found myself relating to this particular brand of cigarette. The fire inside of me, my desire to run my business, would not be extinguished either. I, Rufus T. Macklebury, would find a way to prevail.

  Finally, I asked, “If Dr. Lee was working with your military, why would they take him prisoner?”

  “That, I do not know. This, know this, Japan mobilized against China. Three days ago, invasion.”

  “This just got more complicated.” I flicked my cigarette out of the car, the wind from our car ride taking it, pushing back behind us. “Good thing one of those suitcases I brought has a Thompson machine gun and a variety of handguns.” I would take on Japan’s whole army to save my business. I turned towards Mungazi. “Are you a good shot?”

  “Yes, I am, but . . .” Mungazi looked over at me. “I trained in the art of ninjutsu, mother. Father, Ronin, masterless samurai. Those weapons you brought, guns, not necessary. I have other instruments, more effective methods.” He slowed the car to a stop in front of a Japanese transport carrier that I later found out was called an L2D3. It was the largest plane I had ever seen. “I have arranged passage. Military liner.”

  I exited the vehicle and patted him on the shoulder. “Damn, man. We are off to a good start.”

  Mungazi opened the trunk and handed me a set of folded clothing.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Your disguise.”

  I dreamt The Dream on the flight to Nanjing. Blocky shapes of fire consumed all that was around me. I smelled burning flesh as my mother screamed. The world shook. I awoke screaming in the cargo hold of the plane. Mungazi rushed to my side, silencing me with a hand over my mouth lest I blow our cover and alert the crew of the stowaways on their liner.

  I felt ill for the remaining duration of the flight. I became nauseous and vomited when the plane landed in China’s capital. We dressed in the uniforms of Japanese soldiers Mungazi had procured. I was not sure how convincing my disguise was though. I certainly didn’t look Japanese, and the uniform was a size too small, even though it was the largest one manufactured.

  Once changed, we set forth into the city of Nanjing. Even I was shocked by what I laid my eyes upon. It seems inappropriate and unnecessary to tell you the gruesome details that happen during a siege, so I will intentionally omit them, but please understand this tragedy has been referred to “The Rape of Nanjing,” for an appropriate reason. An estimated 300,000 people died during Japanese occupation of the city.

  Nanjing had been sacked and the city lay in shambles. There were no security checkpoints, everything decimated to fiery chaos. On the streets, Japanese troops lingered like flies on a carcass.

  I didn’t remember much of our trip to the hotel, and I was unsure if it was because I repressed the horrific images of the siege into a part of my mind I wish not to venture to, or if it was due to the fact that my vigor suffered from the dream I had on the flight over. Mungazi had to carry me a portion of the way, my arm slung around his shoulder as I limped alongside him like a wounded soldier.

  Mungazi, who was fluent in Chinese, had rented us a hotel room prior to our arrival. I can only imagine the impression we made on the Chinese staff—a Japanese soldier, speaking Chinese, paying for a hotel room as his army sieged their city and a sickly-looking American in a Japanese uniform. Furthermore, we paid in American dollars. They must have thought we were either insane or possessed a very strange sense of humor.

  When we arrived at the penthouse, I collapsed myself on a large chair. I rested for an hour, in which time I drank several glasses of whiskey. I felt better after a moment and made my way to the floor-to-ceiling window in the room. The city below was illuminated by buildings set ablaze. The fire beckoned me, as it always did.

  I now realize I have viewed all of the tragedies in my life from a similar vantage point, figuratively speaking.

  I finished my whiskey tumbler and turned from the city skyline.

  The Japanese military uniform was a woolen military great coat worn over a heavily starched service dress of slacks and a cotton button up. It felt uncomfortable, stiff, and as I mentioned earlier it was a size too small. I readjusted the vest with its brass buttons. I felt the need to do something, anything, instead of staying in this room.

  “This doesn’t suite, nor suit, suits me well,” I told Mungazi. “I am off to procure provisions, mainly whiskey and mustache wax. Perhaps even a hooker.”

  I waved off Mungazi’s protest to not leave alone and jogged down the many flights of stairs.

  I marched through the corpse-covered streets, sipping whiskey straight from the bottle until it was finished, tripping over bodies and talking to myself. I felt my mind fill with mania. I snapped my fingers three times as my left eye twitched involuntarily.

  It was cold on the streets, the red December sun pierced through the haze that hung over
the city. The buildings were dismal and brooding, many burnt to ash and lifeless. The grey walls seemed forgotten; already this city had become a remnant of what it was, just as I was to become. There were dead bodies everywhere, the fetid stench excruciating.

  I was drunk. My blurred vision could not focus on one thing for more than a moment. It was as if one leg was longer than the other when I walked. I realized I had circled the same block a few times now. It was cold outside yet I was sweating. Exhaustion took me, like wading through cement slowly drying. I decided to lay down, to rest my eyes—if only just for a moment—until the world stopped spinning.

  A kick to my stomach woke me. A barrage of rifle barrels, many of them with gleaming bayonets attached, were pointed directly at my eyes, neck and groin. On the other side of these bolt action rifles were a group of Japanese soldiers. It was afternoon now, how long had I been asleep for? Thank god it was dreamless, the whiskey worked.

  The soldiers spoke to each other quickly, moving like insects, twitchy and spastic in their movements. One of them in the back pushed his way to the front of the line. He yelled something to his comrades, which silenced them. He reached into his military great coat and pulled out a bottle.

  Imagine my surprise when I realized it was a bottle of nerve syrup with my picture on the label.

  My entourage of Japanese soldiers escorted me a few blocks east. I was not sure if I was a prisoner or a celebrity in their eyes, perhaps I was something in between, but I was certainly sure that they had all consumed copious amounts of methamphetamine. Traveling amongst the atrocities these soldiers had recently practiced against the Chinese people, I made it a point to walk with a steady gait and refrain from any sudden movements lest I become the victim of such violence myself.

  We approached an unscathed hotel in the midst of the slaughtered city. The entrance had been transformed into a bunker, walled with sandbags that had large caliber machine guns mounted on top of them.