by Darrell King
“Valentino?! What’s up, man?”
“Ain’t shit. ‘Bout ta rev up on these fuckin’ shots and shit, know what I’m sayin’?”
“No doubt,” Dennis said. “No doubt. Check it, lemme holla atcha right quick before you go up in the lab, aiight?”
Valentino reluctantly agreed while letting the scientist know he’d have to keep it brief.
“Aiight, but we gotta make it fast ‘cause I ain’t had a fix o’ that Biomax-O in a minute, dawg, and I’m just now startin’ to feel like a pile o’ shit. We got to make it snappy.”
“Do you know anything about a Jillian Stoppard, or a guy named Seth Corman III?” Dennis asked.
Valentino wrinkled his brow in deep thought, then he suddenly remembered their names.
“Yeah, I know ‘em. They’re sex clients of mine. Why? Wassup?”
“They’re both dying of AIDS as we speak,” Dennis replied.
The pimp folded his arms across his chest while stepping backwards a pace or two.
“And?” he said. “Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen, Dennis?”
“Absolutely . . . just not to people like Mrs. Stoppard and Mr. Corman, that’s all.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ ‘bout? I’m being paid and supplied with Biomax-O to go out here and spread this monsta’ to as many muthafuckas as possible, so I dunno what kinda shit you smokin’, Cuz.”
“Yes,” Dennis said. “You’re partially right, Valentino. You are being paid to infect people on a large scale, but that would be your usual suspects. i.e. ghetto-ass black folks, poor white trash, Jews whenever possible, of course, and any other minority below an upper-middle class income bracket. Get it? You don’t fuck around with the privileged. Ever! Jillian Stoppard was an impressive computer programmer and systems interface specialist for Microsoft. And her husband, who’s still very healthy by the way, makes six figures a year brokering real estate deals for some of southern California’s wealthiest citizens. Oh, yeah, and Mr. Corman? He just happens to have been Jillian’s boss.”
“Nigga, fuck them people!” Valentino said. “I don’t’ give a shit ‘bout none o’ them muthafuckas . . . you might, but I don’t.”
Valentino took a silk handkerchief from his linen trousers and wiped his sweaty forehead.
“You’d better, Valentino . . . Just remember, that it’s because of this scientific community in general and the Sentinels of the Illuminati in particular that you’re being supplied with the very serum that’s keeping you alive, Mr. Valentino. Without Biomax-O you’re going to be more than a little bit under the weather . . . you’re going to die an agonizingly painful death. Now there’s no need for that, is there, Mr. Valentino? Just do your job and we’ll do ours. Is that clear?”
A surge of anger washed over the pimp as he gritted his teeth, seething in silence.
“Whatever, my man . . . you got it. It’s yo’ world.”
“Good man,” Dennis replied. “Now all I need is for you to pass that along to all your skanky streetwalkers out there and all will be well, okay?”
The scientist stopped to check the call on his cell phone, buzzing loudly against his left hip.
“I’ve to get going, but it’s been a pleasure speaking with you today, sir, and please enjoy the rest of your day,” Dennis said while giving Valentino a firm handshake and broad smile. Then he disappeared up the hall and onto an elevator.
Valentino mumbled a few profane words as he turned to leave in a huff down the hall at the opposite end. Slowly he walked past several scientists in white jackets, clustered together and engaged in deep bioterrorism talk. He stopped near a rectangular window overlooking a courtyard below and pondered briefly what Dennis had just said. He looked down quickly at his cell phone at his side again, this time scrolling through the menu to find Rosaria’s number. He dialed, but it was disconnected, which drew beads of perspiration to his warm forehead.
As much as he hated to admit it, he was at the mercy of the Sentinels...He needed Biomax-O and, of course, he was used to the money they allotted him—it gave him a little extra change to blow on weekend fun—but in the end, it was the Biomax-O that he couldn’t live without.
Maybe he should pay for Rosaria to go back to her native Mexico, and then she’d be out of everyone’s hair, or maybe he’d kidnap one of the scientists and flee the country himself, forcing that individual to provide him with the formula for Biomax-O, thus assuring his survival in some faraway land. But no, both ideas were foolish. He really had no intention of living a life on the run anyway. Rosaria was a good earner and had only recently run away from him, due to his mistreatment of her, most likely. But he had every intention of finding her and bringing her back. Without the Biomax-O it would be impossible for her to stay away for too long.
Slowly, he backed away from the window with thoughts of finding his Mexican whore before she infected any more white folks, particularly those with financial worth. By now the virus had probably reduced her to skin and bones, yet there was no telling how many customers she’d slept with before her last Biomax-O shot wore off, changing her look. The more he thought about it, he realized that dozens more would become ill as a result. He had to get to her pronto. His own welfare depended on it.
Meredith Nader met Valentino at the entrance of the laboratory’s front door, greeted and guided him into the room to his usual spot on a narrow leather-bound couch. He underwent a battery of tests just before he was given his injection, as well as a full month’s supply of Biomax-O.
The scientist finished up her care of Valentino and then saw the now energetic pimp to the door before returning to glance at a cage of white rats beside a cryogenic specimen tank. After jotting down a few notes on a worn-looking pad, she went over to Wilhelm, who’d been compiling his own HIV10X data on the opposite side of the lab.
“How’s the research coming along?” she asked.
“Of the ten rodents, only four remained alive after having been exposed to the 10X-strain virus. It only took placebo-fed rats a week to sicken and die, while the Biomax-O-fed rats continued to thrive after copulation. So, I’d consider that to be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for! We still need to perform a few more clinical trials just to be on the safe side,” he said, still alternating peering down the lens of the microscope and tapping away on his computer keyboard.
“No, we don’t have to do any more clinical trials, Wil!” Meredith exclaimed. “I’ve spent the better half of a year testing and retesting the strain. Trust me, this time, it’s legit!”
“There’s too much riding on the proper development of the HIV10X virus, Meredith,” Wilhelm argued. “We just can’t go on ‘feel good’ impulses. As a professional, you know this. We have to present the Illuminati elders with cold, hard facts and—more importantly—a tried and true product of population control.”
“You know what, Wil?” Meredith said. “To be so good looking, you’re a total asshole! Fuck you!”
For what seemed like an eternity, the two bioterrorists simply stared at one another—he with a blank look of cool nonchalance, and she with the stern look of a woman scorned.
“Okay, look, let’s have just one more trial...just one more and I promise I’ll approve it and pitch it to our friends at the World Health Organization, who would gladly pay us handsomely, via the Sentinels of the Illuminati, for immediate results.”
“Was it my whining that changed your mind,” Meredith asked, “or was it the fact that I have a really nice rack? I am giving up a whole lotta cleavage today, don’t you agree?”
Wilhelm smiled broadly and then went right back to his work as before. Meredith meanwhile leaned over, placed a gentle kiss on the German’s forehead and went back across the room to her workspace. She was content to know just how much power she held over Wilhelm with her earthly sexuality. He was putty in her hands to mold as she saw fit.
He, on the other hand, saw Meredith as an interesting, if irrational, personality. She was a truly brilliant biologis
t who’d helped develop the infamous HIV5X, and had the scientific skills to produce an even better bioweapon capable of ridding the U.S.—and eventually the world—of the minorities who he and the Sentinels hated so much. However, on the other hand, she proved often times through her over-sexed and emotional instability to be a liability that might, someday, require disposal.
After a lengthy series of clinical tests he’d try upon the Biomaximus Officinalus #2 Meredith had developed, he approved usage of the serum, which would render a user’s blood and other body fluids ripe with the pathogens to form HIV10X. And Wilhelm himself would collect whatever pricey payout, as well as any accolades forthcoming from Dr. Harrington and the elders of the Sentinels of the Illuminati, not Meredith, whom he deemed unworthy of such high praise and rewards.
Just then, he received an email alert from Meredith that read: Thank you for believing in me! I knew that you of all the people I know can be called ‘friend.’
He smiled slightly and quickly typed out a reply: Meredith, my dear, you know I’ve always believed in you. You can always trust me to do right by you and your scientific work.
Your best friend,
Wilhelm
Upon receiving his email, she looked up from her computer screen and
blew a kiss from across the room. He, in turn, reached up to catch the imaginary smooth in midair, placing it affectionately against his heart while whispering “thank you” to his infatuated coworker.
***
Valentino brushed past a group of prostitutes in skimpy skirts who quickly moved aside as he approached the rail-thin Latina standing up against a brick wall near the curb on Mego Avenue. The bony prostitute screamed out as the pimp stepped up to her, looming large and menacing. She reached into her purse with skeletal fingers, searching for the can of mace she kept for protection. But in her haste to remove it, she fumbled and it fell to the concrete below.
“Please, Papi, don’t hurt me! Please, Papi, help me ‘cause I’m so sick. Help me!”
She pitifully held out her skinny arms toward him, sobbing sorrowfully.
“Girl, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m comin’ out here to take you home and get you well again and cleaned up.”
A heavy-set, fifty-something streetwalker snarled, walking up to the pair from out of the cluster of prostitutes huddled together, watching the drama.
“”That scrawny bitch stole my money last night for dope and she aint’ goin’ nowhere ‘til I get it back,” she told Valentino.
With cat-like reflexes, Valentino smacked the whore forcefully with the back of his left hand, sending her reeling against the brick wall. She slumped against it, placing a hand gingerly against her reddened cheek as a trail of blood seeped from her left nostril. Before she could rise to her feet, Valentino’s thick, ring-covered fingers gripped her throat with unyielding violence.
The prostitute fought wildly to free herself from Valentino’s death grip, but to no avail. Her eyes turned bloodshot and her very life gurgled within her diaphragm. Her arms and legs flailed helplessly as the pimp pinning her to the pavement choked her mercilessly.
“Please, for the love of papa Dios, stop, Papi! She’s not worth it!” Rosaria yelled.
Hearing those words caused him to relax and then, finally, release his hands from around the woman’s neck. The prostitute fell over, gasping desperately for air as several of her friends rushed to her aid. She spattered and dry-heaved on the ground.
Valentino took out a small pistol and fired two shots in the sky above, causing the crowd of curious streetwalkers to scatter like roaches, opening up a path for he and Rosaria to proceed toward his vehicle. Once they climbed in, he allowed her to snort a thin line of coke while he quickly injected her with a syringe filled to the top with the new and improved Biomax-O #2. She winced from the prick of the sharp needle piercing her ashen skin. Then she yelped out a loud and high-pitched cry, a reaction to the burning sensation of the silver-colored Biomax-O coming into contact with her bloodstream. However, the heavenly rush of the blow rapidly eased all sense of displeasure, leaving her loopy with doped-up happiness.
She rode the crest of that coke high all the way to Valentino’s luxury townhouse in upscale Fujita City. In her weakened condition, she would not have survived out on the streets for much longer. Valentino had indeed saved her life.
Rosaria was locked up in the lovely beach front home during her lengthy convalescence, on strict orders by the drug-dealing pimp. Valentino kept armed thugs on the premises at all times to both protect him against possible attacks and to prevent Rosaria from attempting another escape. Three hellish months of Biomax-O shots, force-feeding and cold turkey symptoms due to cocaine deprivation had all but killed her.
Her radiant beauty, as well as her voluptuous shape had slowly returned, although she still yearned to get away from the man she’d once loved. Pack after pack of unopened condoms lined the coffee table in the cozy living room area. For a minute or two, she hated that she’d gone back to her old shapely self, because she realized that sooner or later she’d be forced, once again, to fuck a steady stream of strange men for pay, or risk the same type of abuse that had forced her to escape in the first place.
The home was even more lavishly furnished than before, and the fridge was constantly filled with frozen T.V. dinners and seemingly unending bottles of beer and wine. However much freedom she had to roam about the house and its exterior surroundings, Rosaria was still a prisoner. The grim-faced and silent gunmen watched her like a hawk, monitoring her every move from the far corners of the spacious living room or upon the sand dune-packed beach front beyond the front door.
Just as she’d expected, by the end of March 2002, she’d returned full time to prostitution, servicing no less than eight johns a day. She’d even begun to fiend for cocaine once more; however, she fought that temptation with a tenacity unseen in her before. Yet still, the threat of losing the all-important Biomax-O injections kept her in line and spreading those gorgeous legs once again for Valentino’s big-spending clientele.
***
April 16 11:24a.m
Coventry Laboratories
Wilhelm Von Strecker sat speaking with Lucien Valentino in the sun-drenched courtyard of Lariat’s infamous medical lab. It had rained for most of the week all across southern California, the remnants of a storm front that had come down from the San Francisco area. However, on this particular morning, a Friday, at the springtime sun spread its golden rays far and wide across the land, creating a perfect day to get outside and soak it all up.
Wilhelm, though deeply racist, admired the handsome African American criminal who served as the star player in their population control program. He was extremely intelligent, self-sufficient and fiercely defiant at times—traits Wilhelm attributed to his hero, Adolf Hitler. Tall, robust and often wearing an ugly scowl on his otherwise attractive face, he unnerved many of the other Sentinels of the Illuminati scientists, who refused to work with him and usually avoided his presence at all costs.
“Mr. Valentino, it is always a pleasure to be graced with your presence,” Wilhelm said before raising a cup of black coffee to his thin lips.
The street hustler took a deep drag from a thick Cuban cigar, exhaled and leaned back casually against the back of the wicker folding chair, across the table from the German.
Wilhelm felt something he rarely felt: intimidation...and fear. Few individuals instilled such feelings within him. For it was quite apparent that this man was no ordinary, lazy, shiftless nigger, but an adversary to be reckoned with if the situation at hand ever turned sour for whatever reason. The eyes of his patient spoke volumes of the utter savagery, calculated and precise, in which he was capable of unleashing . . . simply by staring into those eyes could he tell.
“We’ve perfected the Biomax-O formula,” Wilhelm said between sips of joe, attempting to make eye contact without flinching or seeming weak in any way. “You’ll only have to take your shots twice a year now, instead of twice each month
. Isn’t that great?”
Valentino again took several short puffs from the thick stogie hanging loosely out of the corner of his mouth. Wilhelm took another sip of coffee in an effort to hide his uneasiness with Valentino’s silent stare, which grew creepier by the minute. After all, the man was a murderer. Dr. Goddard had documented hours of study on the daily activities of the drug lord during his assignment in Puerto Rico, which had revealed Lucien Valentino to be a ruthless and cold-hearted thug who often left a trail of bullet-riddled bodies throughout the slums of Old San Juan. It was indeed this same information that caused the majority of the Illuminati scientists to shun him.
Finishing up the last of his coffee, the German scientist finally broke the silence, saying, “All right, Mr. Valentino, let’s begin your injections so that your body might build up a tolerance to this new and improved Biomax-O serum. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to get started right away.”
Both the doctor and his patient arose from their seats amidst the colorful, fragrant botanicals of the lush courtyard, making a brisk beeline toward a thick plexi-glass revolving door that allowed them entrance to the great hall of the facility. They walked down the hall to an elevator and boarded one of the four cars. They traveled eight floors up and emerged to enter a modest-sized room, dimly lit by many buzzing and whirring gadgets, whose lights glowed a bright, neon green throughout the room.
“You remember Meredith, don’t you?” Wilhelm asked, walking over to a hospital bed where the female scientist stood preparing to open up a pack of syringes.
Meredith attached a shiny, thin needle to the syringe above a sink near the bed, greeting the drug dealer without so much as looking up from her work.
“Mr. Valentino, how the hell are you?” She said it with an air of cool indifference. Wilhelm wished that he could be as calm in the criminal’s presence as his nonchalant coworker was.
