Now
Cliff Ordelling was "late" because he had been jerking off, which is an irony (and a debilitating one) too obnoxious to consider now. It was nighttime: blessed nighttime. He was never in the mood for histrionics (especially not now), so he didn't think about anything auxiliary tucked away in his brain; he just stood up against the brick wall, tapping his foot rapidly. Nervously.
"Okay Okay Okay Okay!"
It was nighttime, the time to feel good, the sidewalk marinating in the forced effervescence of drowning lights and flashy spectacle. This wasn't even the best part of the city, but the lights and the razzle-dazzle cascaded off any reflective surface too stubborn to get out of the way, making all the exterior walls lambent screens for enticing projections.
Fortunately, there were alcoves.
Young twenty-something's walked down this route to get to the clubs and bars. One such beauty walked past a Victoria Secret's ad, whose model was beautiful but ultimately dead, like a pinned butterfly. The dead-eyed, digitally altered advertisement—promoting flesh sultry as burnished copper—was eclipsed by the wholesome, frustrating presence of the sweet-souled genuine article walking down the sidewalk. She looked like such a nice person, strolling about with four friends in tow. She probably was such a nice person, and even if she wasn't, we have a way of excusing and altering the behavior of the wholesomely pretty, a genetic urge to render our most prized and strongest material above the rest of our common rabble.
It would just take a little more time, he was sure of it. Someone would stroll down, someone would stroll down the street, alone, hailing a taxi, walking to the Metro, slinking away from an unwanted advance at some twenty-something bar, her face a vision of twittering teasing, the way all pretty twenty-something girls get when they're festively drunk, the way any kind and warm advance is responded with a hazy-eyed "oh yeah?"
He saw someone like him, he could tell, someone slinky with a motor in his foot keeping time on the wall. He couldn't believe it to be true, he probably saw himself in every guy he met. Fuck it, he should stroll down deeper—it's darker there.
*
Earlier
He flipped through the pictures of the girls. Not women: girls. They looked like girls to him: seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, a little older. It's hard to look at them: they seemed like works of art already. But they can't look like any one of them—the results might be real embarrassing.
It was a rare moment of inactivity in the office. The diagnostics had all gone well and everything had gone off without a hitch, but of course, they opened to no fanfare, no acknowledgement, nothing, just to wait and see how the world reacts to their newest Rorschach test, how some will see security (most, thankfully) and a few others will get a little bit queasy. But they get sick about the specifics, not the intention.
Never about the intention. Not now.
Everyone acknowledges this work is needed.
Even the addicts: the one's up too late, the ones who ignore their families, the ones who try and explain away those massive credit card debts ("Honey, what's WPI Friends?"). Everyone who dabbles—and really, that's everyone— feel a little bit like an addict.
It seemed so silly that it had to come to this. He still never bought into the idea of "addicts." But other people did; it's a way to categorize, and a way to get funding. It's a way to get support.
And people hate these addicts. They hate them because they see part of themselves.
The beautiful girls come scrolling in. Six of them. All between eighteen and twenty-three.
He politely extended his hand to all of them. "I'm Dr. Keith Mooney. It's nice to meet you all."
They responded in kind.
"It's…" began one achingly radiant pixie-haired brunette, "been surreal, for one thing." She smiled moonbeams, her flush skin delicate with pink hue. "It's just amazing how this all works."
"Yes, we can all agree, it's something alright. Any questions?"
A demure, feather-tipped Japanese with platinum blonde streaks:
"When do we get our stipend?"
A quick, jocund huff. "What stipend?"
Laughter.
The effects of wholesomely beautiful girls enjoying themselves is beyond contagious: it doesn't spread, it controls.
Smiles all around.
"Soon.. But if that is the most pressing question on your mind, then things must be going well."
The Japanese girl smiled. Her eyes widened and the room seemed to light up. Mooney felt a soft, persistent hum of intelligence in the girl's face, her eyes, her laugh—just felt it—and just felt so happy she had agreed and that this girl was part of the project.
"I know, just speaking for myself," the pixie went, "I feel this has just been a great experience. Just, all of this, knowing what this is for, and just being able to be a part of it." Everyone concurred.
"From the bottom of my heart, the thanks is all on the…paid side of the office."
Laughter.
Associates were spinning around in their chair, not looking directly at any of the girls, just big grins, maybe hoping one of the girls would turn around and reveal a flit of interest, a wayward, attention-demanding flick of the eye, and at that moment his associates could feel as if they were on the same level with these beauties, deriving joy from the same experience, and that associate could think "maybe she's interested in me."
It reminded Dr. Mooney of the early experiments: foregone conclusions really:
Items are placed on sale in a supermarket. Two fat girls bring the items to the register, but the sales don't ring up. The cashier needs to call management. The items are trivial, like gum. Lines form as the girls hold up the line getting the manager. Gauge the line's reactions, their perception of the two fat girls, how quickly they become intemperate.
Duplicate for pretty girls.
Guess the results.
