What... Why... How?!?!? What's wrong with me? IS it me?!? WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!?, he thought.
He pondered about how could his situation possibly occur, hours after he accepted his predicament. His thoughts drifted across plausible and asinine ideas alike: Maybe it's just a bad dream from all the drinks, or, What if this is Hell? What if I died from all those shots, and this is where I ended up? Later still, he began to think back on what had led to this point.
Again, it was Saturday night. Again, he was in the bar he had always visited. Again, He was downing the shots of brownish liquid. He'd gone through the cycle, and knew that he wouldn't be arrested for being drunk in public; they didn't care what you did as long as you stayed out of their way when they needed you to move.
"Seh ya, Muc," Deckard, or "fish," as the barkeep liked to call him on account of how well he could drink everyone else under the table, bellowed in the bar as he supported himself using the doorframe, whilst trying not to slip in the vomit beneath (and on) his shoes. "Half a guud un!"
"Stupid drunk," Mac, the barkeep, whispered under his breath. There's drunk, can't-stand-up-straight drunk, horrid drunk, dead drunk, than there's him.
A minute or so later, "fish" stumbled out of the bar's doorway and unto the street. He proceeded to pick himself up using a passing woman's leg and thigh, before she quickly countered with a quick punch to his adam's apple, leaving him gasping for breath up against the bar's outside wall. The scream he made rapidly caught the attention of the nearby authorities, but after they saw his position (and his state) and the scowl on the woman's face who was stomping away, the two peacekeepers easily put the pieces together.
"It's Pat again." said one to the other. They both remembered Patrick; parents dead, left with a small fortune, and soon resorted to drinking, snorting, injecting, or inhaling all his money. He was run-of-the-mill at that bar, including tens of others in this town, before he spent all he possessed on debauchery.
"Should we arrest him," the other asked.
"Nah, he'll just pass out in an alley again, as usual."
"Well, with the state he's in, we could just knock him out cold and turn him in for some cash at that one lab place."
"You know, those guys who pay for live specimens, willing or not. I mean, they don't exactly advertise that in the news, but it's subliminal; everyone knows."
"Hmm. Do you know how much they would give us for him?"
"Probably a few hundred dollars."
"You think we could push for a G?"
"I wouldn't push our luck, man, but who knows? The word getting around is that they don't get near as many 'test subjects' as they used to, so the possibility's there, but I don't know..."
"Well, however much they pay us, let's do it. People see us loading him in the squad car, and they'll think we're just arresting him."
"Yeah, let's make some money."
"Hey, Pat!" The one peacekeeper shouted across the 4-way. Pat turned to look in the direction of the voice (ah, how he would miss that voice, or any voice, or truly even any sound) and would've partially recognized one of them as one of those "peacekeeper-guys" who almost got fired for Attempted Kidnapping. He would've known without a shadow of a doubt that that man was guilty, but he'd heard that his dad had some job in which he could pull some strings. Some judge, or something like that. But hey, he was far too drunk to deduce anything beyond "I'm gonna throw up."
Pat didn't reply vocally; he just waved the most crooked wave that those peacekeepers had ever seen. They jay-walked across the street (The benefits of being a peacekeeper one of them thought) and then started to accuse Pat.
"You're under arrest for being drunk in public," Peacekeeper 1 said, "now get in the sqaud car."
Pat howled incomprehensible words, because of his still aching adam's apple (and because he couldn't think of, nor pronounce, the words to say either). Peacekeeper 2 then thrust the butt of his gun against his temple, ("Soft enough to keep 'em alive, but hard enough to keep 'em quite," his instructor has told him).
"He's out," Peacekeeper 1 asked.
"Seems so. You drive, my arm feels like it popped out of joint on that one," Peacekeeper 2 replied.
"Please, that's only your fourth time today."
"Yeah, I know. Maybe I'm getting to old for this kind of thing..."
Silence prevailed for the entire journey there. From the bar on the corner of 59th block north and 33rd block east to the towering skyscraper on 25th block north and 25th block east; smack-dab in the middle of the city.
"We want a G for him," Peacekeeper 1 sternly put.
"Yes, yes, whatever you need. Here," The black-haired man in the white coat handed him the cash in a rolled up wad. The only time he'd ever seen more green taking up such a small space was when they busted some Mafia hideout, with hundreds of $75 bills being rolled up in little hair bands.
"Well? Hurry up and take it, we need to go ahead and put him in. Saves time," the black-haired man said.
Peacekeeper 1 was too busy staring at the man's badge and the words upon it, while Peacekeeper 2 was nervously standing idly by. "Asst. of Dr. B. Galloway" it read. He'd heard of Galloway before. A lot of people who'd been filed as a missing person recently, whether kidnapped in public or something along those lines, had last been seen headed this way. The beginning of those cases parallels the time when Galloway got his gig here up and running. And the guy was paying ridiculously high too. 90% for my silence, he thought. Ultimately, he decided not to ask about why they needed to save time or what they were going to put him in.
"Right, sorry. Pleasure doing business," Peacekeeper 2 said in 1's place while simultaneously retrieving the money. "Come on, man, let's go."
"Y-Yeah, alright." Peacekeeper 1 stuttered.
"I can't believe we got all that money," Peacekeeper 2 said excitedly.
"Yeah...," Peacekeeper 1 replied.
"You okay? You started to really look at that guy and it looked like you had some sort of epiphany back there. An epiphany that might kill you or something."
"Definitely something like that; I'll explain back at the outpost."
"I'll hold you to that."
"Are they in the car yet," the assistant asked.
"Just saw them on the camera. You ready for the switch to be flipped, I take it?" the man over the small microphone-headset replied.
"Yes. Lite up the sky."
Before Peacekeeper 1 could ever hope to hold his word to his partner, both of their bodies were charred beyond recognition in a fiery light. For a moment, it lit up the night so much that it was indistinguishable from day. As soon as the light died and the gas tank of the former peacekeeper's car exploded, the assistant contacted the man on the other side of the microphone.
"Okay, you can clean up now," the assistant spake into the microphone.
"Gotcha, but I gotta ask. Why such a loud exit for them? Why not something quiet or something that can be easily covered up," the guy on the other side asked.
The assistant sighed; not from the question, but from the man's curiosity. Now they'd have to get rid of him too. He would tell him, because he'd get suspicious almost immediately, (being new on the job and all) and, as the quote goes, "dead men tell no tales."
"We do this and make all the correct cover-ups we need to show that we're in control. It helps to create a subliminal thought in the average citizen's mind that shows that we're not to be trifled with in any way, shape, form, or manner. Satisfied?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure."
Good, the assistant thought, that was your "last meal." Hope it was worth it.
Soon, Pat began to awaken from his induced slumber and noticed the different surroundings. However, before he could say a word (or attempt to slur one), he was immediately forcibly redeployed to the realm of the unconscious from being on the receiving end of a somewhat-malleable mallet that was fairly soft.
"I love this thing. Makes the act of knocking one into unconsciousness incredibly easy" the assistant said to himself Well, let's take you up to Cryogenecis, he thought. Two more specimens to go currently, so you'll be Subject 48. Weird; it sounds like a bad omen or something.
How did I do that, Pat questioned himself. How can I remember what I didn't see?!? Is it like my mind is "opening up" or something? What's going on?!?!?
Pat decided to go through all the things related to the memories he could remember. His parents' death, the time he nearly drunk himself to death (Heck, that's almost every night), and all the highlights of his life.
This is unbelievable.