Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium: Part 5

By M. Greene published February 9, 2019
mgreene70@yahoo.com
Summary

Rashawn to the rescue

Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium

**Part 5 **

Curtis Mavour:

“Concentrate on my words, little pussy-bwoy,” I say, staring intently into Rashawn’s eyes. He can’t help but stare back; the effects of the drug I’ve injected into his bloodstream are at their peak now. Every single thing I say is sinking deep into his sub-conscious mind, totally rewiring his pathetically inadequate, thieving, untrustworthy, little brain. “Listen to what I’m saying, Bruv, and listen good…”

We’re in my office at the small warehouse where I often come to get some peace. I’ve got a single bed in here which I use when I want to sleep alone and Rashawn’s lying on top of it propped up by pillows. His brown eyes are wide open, staring glassily up into mine and his jaw is completely slack. His mouth gapes, a trail of drool trickling out from one side of his puffy, spit-flecked lips. He already looks like the dumb fuck puppet I’m turning him into…

“You’re just a pussy-hole, Bruv… Made for men to fuck… Made to suck real men’s dicks… Your ass is a pussy for real men’s cocks… You need cock so bad… You need to feel men’s dicks inside you… Fucking you hard… Penetrating you… Getting fucked is all you want to do… You live to get fucked, Bruv… Getting fucked is your entire life…”

This new drug is amazing. It’s called GMH and has only recently been developed by some criminal scientists in Mexico. I’m lucky to have managed to get hold of a few grains through one of my contacts in that part of the world. Dissolve a tiny grain of GMH in distilled water, inject your victim and for the two hours or so while the drug remains fully active, talk to them and they will do whatever you tell them to do forever. It’s as simple as reformatting the hard-drive of a computer…

“You know me well, Bruv… I’m Curtis Mavour… I’m your Daddy… I’m your Master… I rule you, Bruv… I control you… I own you… I order and you serve… You must obey me… You have to obey me… You live to obey me… Obeying me is your life, Bruv…”

Rashawn’s whole body shudders. He knows that he’s being twisted and changed, but he’s powerless to stop what’s happening to him. He’s the fifth bitch-boy I’ve done this to and the other four are my total slaves. They work tirelessly for me now, like this thieving bastard will once I’ve finished with him. After what he did to me, I can’t help smiling at the prospect. They say, don’t they, that revenge is a dish best served cold? GMH stands for ‘Grievous Mental Harm’ and I expect that soon, when news of this incredible drug becomes general knowledge, there’s gonna be a fucking planet-wide mass panic…

“You work for your Daddy, Bruv… You work for Master Curtis… You work for me, Bruv… You meet men and tell them you want to get fucked… You tell them you want to suck them… You tell them you want to do whatever they tell you… You do as they say… They’re your customers, Bruv… Fucking and sucking for cash is what you do… While these men are with you, they’re your Masters too, Bruv… You obey them… You do as they say… You take their money… You give the money to me… You give the money to your Master… You give it to Curtis Mavour…”

Rashawn whimpers softly, the pathetic sound bubbling up from the back of his throat, but he can’t break eye contact. I know that my words are sinking deep into his brain, branding it like a hot iron. I’m re-writing his mind. I’m re-wiring his personality. Rashawn is mine now and always will be…

Satisfied, I stand up and beckon Rodney over. He’s my personal tattoo artist and has his kit all ready. “I want my mark on his neck,” I say. “You know, ‘Owner: C. Mavour’ in the same font you used on the others…”

“Yes, Boss,” Rodney says, taking my place on the bedside chair and starting up his electric needle.

I cross over to the window and check my Rolex. It’s half three in the morning. After its active phrase is over, GMH knocks the taker into unconsciousness for a few hours. As soon as Rodney’s finished inking him up, we’ll leave Rashawn here to sleep it off so I can get back home to my more comfortable crib. In the morning, I’ll pick him up and take him to the flat to start work alongside my other bitch-boys.

I light up a spliff, inhale the relaxing smoke and stare out at the view. From this top floor of my warehouse I can just make out the flood-lit white dome of St Paul’s to the west; the old cathedral flanked by brilliantly illuminated space-age office-blocks like the Gherkin, the Shard and the Walkie-Talkie. Londoners love nicknames and usually find highly descriptive ones for new buildings. This is my patch, now, I think; my city. For a third-generation immigrant, a poor black kid from Peckham, I’ve done pretty well for myself. I’m Curtis Mavour, the newest Don on the block. Hearing the high-pitched buzz of the tattoo-needle behind me, I smile once again. Some Londoners have a nickname for me too, now… To those who’ve heard of me, I’m known as ‘Cold-Heart’…

Rashawn Charles:

I get the taxi driver to let me out a couple of blocks away from the lock-up and walk the rest of the way, keeping to the shadows where I can. London never really sleeps and even now, in the small hours of the morning, the Mile End Road has quite a few cars and buses swishing along its rain-soaked surface. The side-streets are quieter and I walk through a housing estate and down a narrow alley without seeing any vehicles or pedestrians. The warehouse lies around the next corner and I creep towards it cautiously. Curtis and his crew are all armed and, although I am too, it’s four against one…

Peeping around the corner, I see the ugly, square mass of the warehouse. Curtis took me here a couple of times when I was still living with him. The place was some kind of clothes factory at one time, with basement storage rooms, a massive, high ground floor room where the weaving and sewing machines once were and a suite of offices at the top.

The black BMW is still parked up outside and I can see a light on at the top of the building, so I know they’re still inside. I’m relieved about that, but know it’s going to take me quite a while to find Richard in that rabbit-warren of a place…

I wait for what seems like hours. It’s freezing cold and, although Richard’s cashmere coat is pretty warm, I’ve got no hat and my ears are starting to throb in the wind. To protect my hands, I keep them thrust deep inside my coat pockets, but my toes are starting to go numb and I daren’t stamp my feet because I’m afraid of drawing attention to myself. It’s only the thought that keeping close to Richard is the only way of getting my old body back which prevents me from giving up on this crazy venture and returning to his comfortable Georgian townhouse…

After what seems like an hour, there’s finally some movement. A door on the ground floor opens and Curtis sweeps out with three of his crew in tow. They climb into the BMW and drive away. That means that he’s left Richard behind, presumably guarded by one of his thugs. One against one, I think. That’s much better odds. Keeping a look-out for anyone who might be watching me, I move closer to the building…

I know that the two exterior doors on the ground floor will be locked up tight. They’re both made of reinforced steel and, as Curtis often uses this place to stash valuable merchandise, he’s made sure that they’re almost impossible to break into. My only chance is the old fire escape; a narrow metal staircase which leads right up to the top floor. I walk round to the back of the building to where the rickety-looking structure reaches the ground. The bottom of the staircase is fenced off by a steel cage and the entrance to this has been blocked by a piece of graffiti-daubed hardboard, lashed to the metal-work with stout wire. The wire has been tampered with and broken in places. It looks as though local kids have loosened the wooden barrier so they can squeeze past onto the steps. After a bit of a struggle, I manage to wriggle and push my way inside. The cashmere coat takes a bit of a bashing, but I’m otherwise okay.

It’s still dark, the surrounding streets are deserted and most locals are probably fast asleep in bed. I reckon that I should be able to climb to the top without being seen. I make my way slowly up the metal stairs. Bolts driven into the brick wall of the factory are all that are preventing the whole structure from falling away from the building. Some of these bolts are loose and some are missing altogether, so it shudders and sways slightly as I ascend. I clutch onto the iron balustrade as tightly as I can and don’t dare look down…

As I climb higher, one of the rings I’m wearing begins to pulse like a phone set to vibrate. Richard gave me his jewellery to allay his wife’s suspicions, but I haven’t really thought about these valuable items since. There’s a signet ring on my left pinkie, set with his initials, but it is not this one which is vibrating. It’s one of the rings on my right hand. Not the wedding band on my ring finger, but the eternity ring on my middle one. It’s rather a handsome piece; a chunky gold band set with three flat diamonds. I touch it with my left forefinger. It’s definitely buzzing…

As I stare at my white hands, I realise that it still feels incredibly strange that they are not dark brown. I shrug. My transformed skin-tone is the least of my problems right now… Gritting my teeth, I continue my perilous ascent…

Once I’m at the top of the fire-escape the ring begins vibrating even more strongly. The stairs end in an iron platform with a fire-door at the end of it. The release-bar to this is on the inside, of course, so I search around for a window. Nothing. The nearby walls are all solid brick… Fuck!

Then I look above where I’m standing and see that I can probably get up onto the roof with a little effort. The roof itself is flat and, although I’m not great at climbing, this fire escape platform is shaking so much that I’m sure I’ll be safer up there. Luckily, the building has not been properly maintained for years and badly needs repointing. Enough of the mortar between the bricks has crumbled away to give me some hand and toe-holds and, after a few seconds of excruciating effort, I manage to clamber up. Brushing my coat down with my aching hands, I see that there’s a skylight in the roof which has been cracked open, presumably to provide some ventilation to the top floor…

Closer inspection reveals that the skylight is above a toilet, which has no other windows. This probably explains the need for fresh air, I think. I slowly lever the skylight wide open as noiselessly as possible. The toilet cistern and washbasin make convenient footholds and I’m able to lower myself down without much difficulty. My arms feel as though I’ve been working out at the gym, but I’ve made it. I press my ear against the door for a few seconds. I know it must lead to the main corridor on the top floor. I can’t hear anything, so I open it a crack and continue listening intently, but can hear no sound. Cautiously, I slip onto the landing…

The eternity ring is trembling really urgently now I’m inside the building. The thought suddenly occurs to me that it is perhaps leading me to exactly where Richard is being held. This is crazy and impossible, of course, but everything that has happened in the past thirty-six hours has been crazy and impossible…

As I creep down the dark corridor, the ring vibrates faster and faster until I reach the third door along. I can see light shining dimly through the crack at the bottom. I know that I have to take the risk of confronting the armed guard Curtis left behind. Incredibly slowly, I turn the door knob and crack the door open. I hear no movement. I take Jermaine’s pistol out of my pocket and undo the safety catch. Then, I lean around the door, poking my head inside. It’s a small office. There’s a desk near the window stacked with computer equipment and a table lamp, which the source of the light. Opposite this is a narrow bed with Richard lying on top of it.

I approach the bed and look down at him. He appears to be in a deep sleep. They’ve thrown the leather jacket he was wearing over him as a kind of blanket, but apart from this, his body is uncovered. It seems so bizarre gazing down at my old body lying in front of me… Another strange thing is that as soon as my hand touches Richard’s skin, the eternity ring on my middle finger stops vibrating…

I check Richard’s pulse, and it seems strong and regular. I gently tap him on one cheek, but he does not wake up. My tap becomes a light slap and then an even harder one, but he still won’t stir. He must have been drugged… What the fuck am I going to do now? It will be hard enough to get out of this place with Richard awake, but I’m sure as hell not going to make it past an armed thug with him slung unconscious over one shoulder…

I look around the little room for something to help me wake Richard up. Apart from the PC stuff, the lamp and an ashtray containing the crushed out remains of a joint, the top of the desk is clear. I open the top drawer and find a whole lot of first-aid stuff. There are hypodermic syringes and needles inside plastic packets and a sealed test-tube containing tiny little white crystals. This might be the drug they used on Richard, I think. The next drawer down has some bottles of mineral water in it. Great! I take one of these, open it and dash the entire contents over Richard’s sleeping face. Nothing! He doesn’t stir at all. I frown. It looks as though he’s completely unconscious rather than merely asleep…

Then I hear someone coming towards us down the corridor. It must be the goon Curtis left behind! My heart palpitating, I dart behind the door, my pistol clutched tightly in my trembling hand.

The door pushes against me and the thug enters. He stands with his back to me looking down at Richard. Then, as if he senses that something is wrong, he begins to turn. After only a half-second of hesitation, I smack him as hard as I can with the pistol. The hard metal strikes his right temple a mighty blow and he collapses to the floor with a low moan.

I need to think fast…

I bend over the unconscious thug and rifle through his jacket pockets. He has a wallet and a set of keys, both of which I confiscate, and even better, a phone. To my joy, it’s fully charged. I switch it on. I don’t know his security pin, of course, but that doesn’t matter as I’m making a call to emergency services. I punch in 999 and get through to the ambulance switchboard. I say that my friend has taken an overdose and collapsed unconscious in the street. I give the address of the road next to this one. Knowing that the hospital will be able to help him more effectively if they know which drug he took, I remove the test-tube of crystals and place it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Now I need to get Richard out of here as fast as possible…

It takes me over five minutes to drag his unconscious body down the stairs and across to the exit door, which is bolted from the inside. Propping Richard up against the nearby wall, I push back the bolts and find that the fucking thing is dead-locked too. I fumble with the key ring and try one of them in the lock. It doesn’t fit. I start to worry that the ambulance will get to the place I told them we were before we do. Thankfully, the third key I try works and I finally manage to get the door open. It kills me to do so, but I manage to hoist Richard up over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift and stagger over to the street where I said he had collapsed.

We’re only just in time. Almost as soon as I’ve lowered his body gently down onto the pavement, I see the ambulance turn the corner and rush towards us.

I’ve never ridden in an ambulance before. The streets are still quite busy, so they don’t use the siren very often, but when they do, it feels quite exciting. The paramedics have hooked Richard up to a drip and placed an oxygen mask over his face and I feel a huge sense of relief that he’s probably going to be okay now. The ambulance is much more brightly lit than the warehouse office was. I look down at his unconscious body lying strapped to a gurney and notice for the first time that he’s gotten a fresh tattoo on his neck. I lean forward to examine it more closely. It’s covered in a layer of congealed blood, but the black ink letters still show through clearly enough. They’re in block capital letters nearly half an inch high and read OWNER: C. MAVOUR. I shake my head in sorrow. What a fucking bastard that man is…

We reach the hospital and Richard is wheeled inside. I follow on behind down a wide corridor and through a pair of swing doors until we’re in the Accident and Emergency Department. It’s a hive of activity, with medical staff rushing around attending to patients who lie stretched out on hospital beds and trolleys. A young black man lying nearby is writhing around in agony, his chest covered in blood. I assume he’s yet another victim of the gang-related stabbings this city seems to be plagued by at the moment. A doctor in a white coat intercepts me and interrupts my thoughts.

“Do you know exactly which substance he’s taken?” he asks brusquely, without preamble. He’s a young white guy and looks totally exhausted. He’s probably nearing the end of a very long shift…

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” I reply.

“Very well,” he says. “Please go back out the way you came in and wait in Reception…”

I do as he says, but as I approach the busy waiting room, the thought occurs to me that, as it’s a drug-related incident, they might call the cops. Although I can probably bluff my way through any interview, saying that he’s merely my misguided employee, a feeling of incredible tiredness is starting to sweep over me. I haven’t had any rest since I woke up in the hostel and that was almost exactly twenty-four hours ago. I decide that I’ll go back to Richard’s house, get some rest and then return to the hospital when I’m feeling a little more equal to possible police questioning and I’m not carrying an illegal firearm in my pocket. At least I know where Richard is and that he’s in safe hands…

I turn around, walk away towards the main road and stick out my arm to hail an approaching cab…

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