Infinite Will 5.2. Desire Magnitudes
Infinite Will
Episode 5 of 5
Infinite Will Pills
5.2. Desire Magnitudes
The first time I had Infinite Will Power it was decidedly not through the use of Infinite Will Pills. I spent some serious cash for some serious neurosurgery. However, my sweet sweet surgery was forcibly reversed and now I’m seriously missing that ol’ indefatigable inner oomph. I’m a desperate man. I’ve got work to do. Usually, ACREs (=Auto-Cerebral Re-Engineers) like me prefer surgery to pills. Especially when the pills in question employ nootropic nanotech. Doubly especially when said nanotech is extra-terrestrial. But since I’ve been diggin’ big-time on the Time Travel Pills, my attitude has changed a bit. And like I said: Desperate. Work.
I toe-touch the power stud on my ShoeComputers and start toe-typing my order for some Infinite Will Pills over the SpaceInternet. I’m typing while walking and in the time it takes to recapitulate my daily stroll from 8th ave to 5th, my order has been placed, filled, and delivered. The bike courier flashes me a shitty look for my shitty tip. Whatever, dude. I’ve got my Infinite Will Pills.
I duck into Queequegs’. It’s vacant except for the lone barista who disappears into the back after giving me my espresso. Good for her. And as we shall soon see: Good for her and me both.
I tear open my package, and, as is typical for ET merchandise, the accompanying literature is indecipherable trash. Fuck it. I pop a pill and wash it down with some hot sludge. I’m not real sure what to expect, but I’m figuring on an ingestible analogue to my previous surgery. I’m figuring nanobots are going to modify my frontal lobes allowing for the simulation of an indefinite number of ersatz consciousnesses to deal with an indefinite number of annoying distractions. Wrong answer, dude. That is not what this pill does to me at all. Just a few seconds after swallowing, the pill establishes various interfaces with my brain, and I know my way around my cerebrum well enough to know what’s what. The first interface established between the nanoprocessors and my brain is through the visual areas of occipital cortex. A translucent blue rectangle pops into my field of view. White alphanumerics scroll from top to bottom. It’s extraterrestrial at first, but as the pill coordinates the visual processing with the semantic association networks in my left temporal cortex, the text writhes into recognizable English:
I’ve got no fucking idea why it’s IN ALL CAPS but I instinctively answer the question with the first thing that comes to mind: sex. And just as the thought passes through my awareness, the white alphanumerics spell ‘SEX’ right under the question. Ok, then. Now what? The blue rectangle wipes blank and a new question appears. Again, the text starts off extraterrestrial, but it does the hot-fumes squirmy-wriggle dance and morphs into recognizable capitalized English. Another question:
Again, without much thought an answer passes through my mind and is immediately translated into white text on the hovering blue screen:
It takes only a couple of heartbeats for the requisite connections to be established in my limbic system and I am then overwhelmed by an incredible lust. I’m choking on my own hot breath. I must fuck. My knuckles go white as I grip the edges of the table and my vision goes black as I start grinding my crotch on the table’s edge. This table is the first thing I’ve laid eyes on since my UltraLust kicked in and it has become the sexiest fucking table in the entire history of fuckable furniture.
My memory after this point is pretty trashed and I really only know what happens next because I get to watch the surveillance video later. I’m hunched over the table with my teeth clenched making this bellowing scream/growl as flecks of spit spray out. My pelvic thrusting is so forceful that only a few thrusts break it (the table) in half like a pornographic Kung-Fu demonstration. My lust is nowhere near sated and I move on to fuck the next piece of furniture. After only few thrusts into the back of a chair it explodes into splinters like a prop in a bar-room brawl scene. There are a few more tables and chairs. I fuck each one of them in turn. Each one explodes into sticks and sawdust with just a few thrusts before I turn to fuck the next one.
The barista is still in the back and catches a glimpse of my insane actions on the serveillance monitor. She locks the back-room door and calls the cops. I’m dimly aware of the sound of sirens over the sound of my own exertions. Squad cars squeal to a halt. Officers burst into Queequeg’s with their nonlethal glue-guns drawn. More like glue-bazookas, actually. They hose me down with thick white streams of congealing restraining adhesive. Although I’m so horny as to be retarded and although the cops are concentrating on performing their professional duties with precision and care, it’s lost on no one that this is one hell of a money-shot.
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Next: Back In the Hospital