Fuller glanced in his rear view mirror again. The expensive black Jaguar was still behind him, weaving through the waves of downtown cars like a shark. Fuller knew, he was the bait. He pulled his battered blue Chevy to the curb around the corner from Mazzio's Deli, and watched as the Jaguar glided to a stop behind him. Fuller marched to the rear of his car, and waited like a sentinel while Mr. Gerber exited the Jaguar.
They were an odd couple. Gerber was a handsome gray-haired business executive dressed in a custom made pin-stripped suit. He projected an image of wealth and success. Fuller appeared to be almost the exact opposite. He had dressed down for the occasion in old blue jeans, and a white sweatshirt with bright red letters printed on the front that said 'Stanford University'. This was the attire Fuller had chosen for his role as an unemployed, and disreputable chemistry professor.
Scanning the street for trouble, Fuller carefully popped open the trunks lid on the rusted Chevy. Keeping one hand on the lid to prevent it from flying open, he invited Mr. Gerber to peer inside at ten plastic milk jugs filled with water.
"Is that all?" complained Gerber with undisguised disappointment filling his voice.
"It's not what it seems," Fuller tried to assure him.
"It just looks like water. Pick a bottle," Fuller said. He almost added "any bottle", but caught himself just in time. He did not want to sound like a street hustler promoting a game of 3-Card Monty.
Mr. Gerber pointed to a bottle in the middle. Fuller unscrewed the cap, and made a big display of inserting a small plastic suction bulb into the jug of water and aspirating about 2 cc's of the fluid. Fuller transferred this liquid to a much smaller glass bottle, the size of his little finger, that had once contained clove oil.
"Just 5 drops," Fuller added in way of explanation.
"Is that enough?" questioned Gerber.
"It's good for 3 hours," Fuller re-assured him.
Fuller carefully screwed the cap down on the small clove oil bottle, and placed it in the right front pocket of his jeans. Mr. Gerber glanced skeptically at Fuller, and carefully stepped up onto the curb to avoid getting muddy water on his alligator shoes. Mr. Gerber was far from convinced.
"Let's go," said Fuller slamming the car trunk shut.
Standing at the corner, waiting for the traffic light to change, Fuller stepped back from the curb seconds before a white Lincoln Continental cut in close around the corner splashing dirty water onto Mr. Gerber's pants and shoes.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" yelled Gerber in anger at being sprayed.
Fuller and Gerber watched as the Continental pulled to the curb twenty feet away and the rear door swung open. At first all they could see was a pair of high heeled black shoes attached to a pair of long shapely legs that seemed to go on forever. Sensuously, a beautiful woman emerged, like a butterfly from its cocoon. She discreetly brushed her white business dress back down over her thighs.
Fuller, felt like a fortunate voyeur. It was a rare delight to witness a free reverse strip-tease by an elegant lady. The woman glanced in their direction and gave them both a look of disdain. Her white business dress was molded to the curves of her body. Shoulder- length black hair embraced a pixie doll face. Her red lips pursed together and her forehead wrinkled into a sneer of displeasure at their ogling her exit from the limousine.
In a gesture of disapproval, for their unwanted attention, she flipped her head around in a dismissive rejection and walked off in the opposite direction. Even walking away, their eyes remained riveted to the high-heeled wiggle of her shapely derriere. Her self-assured erect posture accentuated the wiggle with every footstep. She was one of those unapproachable women, with an attitude, who knew she was drop-dead gorgeous.
"I'd like to give that bitch a piece of my mind," muttered Gerber looking down at his expensive mud spattered shoes. "Some women are just born to be bitches, Gerber said.
"Come on," said Fuller urging him to cross the street, "We have more important things to do."
"Some women are born to be bitches," Gerber repeated, clinging to his anger like a mantra until they entered Mazzio's Deli.
They ordered coffee and croissants. The weather was pleasantly warm and sunny so they sat at one of the outside tables. A young tall girl with a blond ponytail served them. She had minor acne inflammation on her chin, but smiled in an attractive flirting way. Fuller guessed that Gerber would probably leave her a generous tip.
After taking a sip of coffee, Mr. Gerber began. "I need an absolute guarantee."
"I understand," said Fuller making a gesture of surrender by holding both his hands in the air as if he were being robbed at gunpoint.
"You'll have to convince me."
"I can do better than that."
"How?"
"I'll let you test it yourself."
"What do I do?"
"First, I need to explain that it's not an aphrodisiac."
"OK. So it doesn't drive women wild."
"Correct."
"That's disappointing."
"It's only an ego suppressant."
"What's that mean?"
"It means the person under the influence will obey any strongly worded commands given by others."
"Not just the person giving them the drug?"
"No. Anyone."
Mr. Gerber took a generous bite of his croissant followed by a sip of coffee, and mulled this over in his mind. He took a napkin, bent over and whipped off his shoes. No one would rush him into making premature decision. Fuller waited patiently. Mr. Gerber tossed the dirty napkin into an empty ash tray. His question for Fuller included his two favorite words, "power and control".
"So, it does give you the power to control women."
"Yes."
"But it doesn't create a Master-Slave Relationship."
Fuller answered the second half of this question carefully. He did not want to disappoint Mr. Gerber with too many realistic limitations.
"Technically, no. But if you arrange to be in isolation with the drug recipient, than you can manipulate the relationship in whatever way you want."
"If there are no outside influences, you mean?"
"Exactly," encouraged Fuller shaking his head vigorously in agreement.
While Fuller was agreeing with Mr. Gerber, the arrogant lady from the Lincoln Continental sat down several tables behind him. She crossed her long legs, slipping one of her high heeled shoes off so it dangled by the toe, and jiggled it impatiently while waiting for the waitress.
"What's the name of this drug?"
"It's a psychoactive Tri-Ethyl Acetilpolymotride."
"Yes, yes," said Gerber impatiently. "But what do you call it?"
"Hard Candy."
"Hard Candy?"
"Once you've used it, you'll realize the name fits."
"When can we test it?"
"Anytime you want."
