When choosing sides, a weasel will usually do it to save their own hide, or like in most bureaucracies, people politically maneuver to get on top; impressed with their own importance, they don’t realize honor has been replaced by cowardice, and rather than meeting someone on the field of battle, they use poison, not to kill but to defame. Poison is the feminine method, and it’s seldom wrapped in a glass bottle; it’s arsenic on the tongue or cyanide in the mouth.
Gregson lost all respect for Dr. Swanson. Like most men raised by women, they have been trained to act like them. Their method to save the world is to poison everyone in it. If they kill-off those who disagree, there can be no argument; and men like Dr. Swanson can’t stand a world where they are not in control. They have to rig the game before they play; and after years of cheating, they believe it’s the only way to win.
“Contain the virus!” Dr. Swanson shouted. His artery was protruding from his neck like a boa constrictor squeezing the blood into his brain.
“What about your scientists?” Gregson asked.
“They love to do experiments; it’s too bad they were the first one.”
It wasn’t often that Gregson met someone dangerous, someone toxic. He had all the signs of megalomania—perhaps the most telling, was his robot army of women. It was a good choice, but they were created for the wrong reasons.
“Would you fancy a drive in the country?” Gregson asked. “It might clear your head.”
At this point, Dr. Swanson’s brain looked like it was about to pop; it had swelled to enormous size. When a man tries to be god, his ego is stretched so far that his humanity becomes distorted.
“That might be good for me. Say, would you like to make a wager.”
“What kind?” Gregson asked.
“It’s the kind you can’t walk away from.”
“No, Bitcoin. 10 Bitcoins says that I beat you to the bottom.”
“Oh, that’s my retirement.”
“With Bitcoin, you can live in style.”
“I guess you’re right, but that’s not why I’ll race.”
“Someone needs to teach you how to drive.”
The look of anger was the look of envy on Satan’s face when he realized he wasn’t god; he wasn’t god because he was looking at Gregson.
The garage was cut into the mountain, and full of exotics. Gregson sat down in a candy-red Ferrari and scratched his balding head. Maybe he experienced this feeling for the first time, when he started to lose his hair. It was the sense that nothing lasts, not youth, not beauty, not money or fame; the slow approach to death is always happening, or one could drive as fast as possible. Each time Gregson raced to his own death, he was younger. His belly and his balding head were reminders that he had to beat death in life. He had to cross the finish line before his engine died. The worst feeling, Gregson mused, was driving a racecar during rush-hour traffic.
“Are we going to do this, or not?” Dr. Swanson asked. He was driving an Aston Martin Vanquish. The guy thought he was James Bond, but if you take away the style of Bond, all you get is a boring guy in an expensive car.
Gregson revved the engine of the Italian V14, in response.
Girls were everywhere.
It was impossible to know who was real and who was fake. It might be like boobs— if you can’t tell, it doesn’t matter. A girl was wearing a yellow bikini, and it was 25 degrees outside. She was a robot, Gregson thought. She flashed the checkered flag, and the supercars took-off down the mountain.
Gregson past Swanson, and shifted into 4th. In some sections, it was a one-and-a-half lane road, cobbled with stones. In other parts, it opened up, like a woman’s mouth whistling and then yawning. Swanson past Gregson, but before he could re-adjust to the whistle, his car blew through the wall like a butterfly dying in the sun, its wings burned away, falling like a misguided missile.
“The mountains don’t move, even for god,” Gregson said. He drove back to the hanger where the women waited. If anyone noticed the Ferrari, they would’ve thought an old man was driving it. Gregson didn’t need to go fast. How many times had he beaten death in life? He had lost count. When he got there, the women were waiting.
“What’s the Bitcoin password?” Gregson asked.
“I got it; I got it; he had women on the brain. I guess it repeats 16 times.”
Gregson sent Madelyn 500,000 dollars in Bitcoin. “That should keep her at bay for a couple of weeks,” he said.
“Now, who here know how to get to Planet Swanson? I’m in the mood to sip margaritas on an endless shore.”
The girl in the yellow bikini stepped forward. “It’s not hard,” she said.
“At least not yet,” Gregson smiled.
“It’ll take four months to get there,” she said.
“Four months…” Gregson mused. “What will we do with all the time?”