|
The couple were twisting in passionate, trance-like, embrace. Mouths ravenously devoured body parts and fluids, oblivious to anything else, even each other. He finally impaled her, thrusting deep into her as she opened wide in display for him, and the sound he made was ruthlessly primal. Libidos fired by hidden flames. Driven to copulate. Reason played no part in this love scene. Two strangers, an empty room, save for the table they performed upon.
Sylvester sneered in disgust through the one way window looking into the room. Then laughed in triumph. Finally, he thought. Years and years of secret personal research funded by the proceeds of his past, legitimate, scientific brilliance had brought him to this breakthrough. Soon his life of pain and humiliation would be avenged.
His twisted body, the result of a car crash when he was fourteen, seemed to hunch hideously over the control panel under the one way window to the room. His face was contorted as he watched the man pummel himself into her, her heavy breasts swinging and her arse grinding hungrily in rhythm to his pumping pelvis. He felt himself stiffen at this play of animal sexuality among humans, and a hand unconsciously found itself nursing his erection. His facial display gradually turned into a grimace of disgust. The hand came away from his crotch and he raised it high.
“No-o-o-o-o!” he screamed. The hand became a fist and crashed down onto a button on the control panel. Inside the room the ventilation system started up and before Sylvester had ended his scream the couple were dying, from circulating cyanide devastating their nervous system with astonishing speed. Now he was certain. Now he knew. All his tests had concluded exactly the same way. He had managed to synthetically manufacture the most powerful pheromone on earth.
This was the tenth of ten sealed rooms, each one a test of his discovery. each one a testament to his genius, and to his madness. Now they all contained dead couples, of varying ages from the nubile young adult to the older, lured by the contract of payment of £1,000 in advance of tests for ‘human reaction to strangers.’ Twenty dead bodies, all dying while in the oblivious throes of primal lust. He cared not. By the time they were found, no-one would be able to do anything about it.
Sylvester turned and hobbled along the corridor. The pain stemming from his much operated spine was growing more and more unbearable as the years went by. His mind drifted back to the crash. That stupid bitch!, Pushing a pram in front of him, causing him to swerve and roll off the road, over and over. His face contorted as he felt the pain again, felt the torture of his twisted spine in the mangled wreckage. And it was HIM they had arrested. “You were too young to drive,” he heard the judge say, “you were driving too fast and you nearly killed a woman and her baby.” He escaped punishment because of his age and of the time he spent in hospital, but bitterness became a life sentence.
He was 55 years old now, yet still a virgin. Humiliation, embarrassment, ridicule and taunting had plagued him in his efforts to satisfy his natural sexual desires. Even a brief, vain, and desperate attempt at homosexuality had been disastrous and resulted in a beating at the hands of so called ‘gay bashers.’
His ‘friends’ deserted him, no woman would look at him, but his mind developed at a remarkable rate. He soon became one of the country’s top biologists, a pioneer who shunned credit, refused publicity, locked himself away from the world. They would pay, all of them. All of them and more. Each and every fucking man and woman in the world would pay..
Locking himself away, reclusive for most of his adult years, his brilliance built several amazingly successful pharmaceutical companies. He now, almost single-handedly, virtually controlled the manufacture and distribution of medical supplies and medicines throughout the civilised world and many third world countries.
The money meant nothing to him. Not one of the millions of dollars, pounds, yens or francs held any purpose to him other than the personal mission he had set out for himself. A world of fools, he laughed, had been paying for their own demise.
Throughout his delivery network and stemming from this factory, his centre of operations, everything was now in place. Specially designed remote satellite receivers, customs exempt and strategically located in his own warehouses around the world, lay in readiness for the one signal that would instruct them to trigger the release mechanism on the canisters that contained his deadly stimulant, the ‘parfum’ of Armageddon. Blinded by uncontrollable desire and driven beyond themselves, the subsequent breakdown of authority and reason would destroy mankind. Overpowering even the instinct to feed, all that every person would seek would be the next fuck. Total moral destruction. A species cast back to the dark ages of prima; instincts.
Placing a hand inside his pocket and fingering the device that sat there, Sylvester walked toward his own private quarters where he would watch the world-wide news networks report each ‘outbreak’, the confusion and the chaos, and revel in his own euphoria as the outbreak became an epidemic, before finally watching as each network succumbed to his sexual virus of extinction.
His limp produced an eerie sort of irregular ‘clip’ as he walked down the empty corridor. My own victory march, he thought, a loathsome smile spreading across his mouth. The sound of the door crashing open reverberated along the length of the corridor and for a split second Sylvester wasn’t entirely sure he had heard it until the realisation that something was wrong caused him to turn round to look. Two characters dressed completely in black, with guns aimed squarely at him were advancing slowly upon him.
“Sir, don’t move!” called out one of them.
Sylvester stood still, and while the pair slowly moved closer he saw flashes of past painful memories replay in his mind. All the despair, the sadness, and the hopelessness of his life suddenly came to a focus. Death would be his salvation, revenge his reward. He turned and attempted to run, pulling the trigger device from his pocket as he did so. He could barely raise much more than fast walk.
“Stop!,” came a harsh order, “stop or we shoot!”
Sylvester hobbled comically toward the door, now only several feet away. The first bullet hit him in the base of the spine, instantly paralysing his legs. The second, a fraction of a second later, entered his back close to his heart, inflicting lethal cardiovascular trauma. The exit wound sprayed a colourful abstract that he had no time to fully appreciate as he collapsed to the floor.
He couldn’t breath but when he focused his eyes in these last few seconds of his life he saw the trigger device lying by his hand. His fingers stretched instinctively for the button but a booted foot swiped it away. It slithered along the floor to where it struck the base of a storage unit. With his last breath gurgling in his larynx and a black veil pulling down over his eyes, he heard the tell tale ‘beep-beep’ as the impact activated the switch on the device.
|
