Andy Weir

SHORT STORY COLLECTION

ANTIHYPOXIANT

I am, simply put, the most brilliant medical mind in human history.

I know it sounds arrogant for me to say so, but there’s a point where modesty has to give way to universally accepted facts. I invented the world’s first and only universal antihypoxiant.

If you’re reading this, it’s likely that you’re a layman, unable to grasp what an antihypoxiant is. Simply put: it’s a chemical that protects your body’s cells from the harmful effects of oxygen starvation. You may be thinking that’s not needed very often. Drowning, perhaps? Lung diseases, maybe? Well you’re wrong, of course. But it can’t be helped; you’re not a doctor. Or if you are, you’re not one of my caliber.

Hypoxia is what kills people. Whatever the “cause of death” may be, the actual reason they die is because oxygen stops getting to their cells. Most notably, to their brain.

If your heart stops, blood stops moving around your body. Then your cells die because they aren’t getting oxygen. If you get shot and bleed to death, you don’t have enough blood to transport oxygen around. Do you see? It’s all about oxygen.

It took me over thirty years, but I was finally able to design a way around the problem. The trick is to have a redundant source of oxygen in your body. I formulated a molecule that can hold large numbers of oxygen atoms. It’s similar in purpose to hemoglobin, though my design is better than anything God was able to churn out.

The antihypoxiant (I won’t bother to give you the chemical designation, it would only confuse you) can hold up to 58 oxygen atoms per molecule. For reference, hemoglobin can only hold four. Also, the antihypoxiant is harmless to the body, can exist inside the cells themselves without affecting them, and can be in much greater quantity per volume than hemoglobin.

I’ll never forget the first successful experiment. I had a disembodied rat hamstring suffused with the compound, then I just let it sit for three days. By rights, it should have been completely dead, but upon examining it, I found that the cells were still very much alive and healthy.

I got the compound perfected in the first fifteen years. The larger question was how to deliver it?

It’s no use to have a medicine that has to be applied at the time oxygen transport stops. For starters, it won’t be able to get around the body. And more importantly, if you have medical attention, you are less likely to need the antihypoxiant in the first place. No, it has to be something you already have.

It’s not a medicine. It’s a vaccination. A vaccination against death itself. Whatever your problem is, so long as there wasn’t physical damage to your brain, you won’t die for several days. This will give doctors time to fix whatever’s wrong instead of desperately trying to keep your organs working. You can literally get shot in the heart and they will have enough time to perform a heart transplant to save your life.

So the question remained: How can it be applied? The compound is effective, but I was unable to make a version that wouldn’t get cleaned out of the blood by renal functions. That’s no use. You’d have to get booster shots every day. No, the compound is most useful when it has actually entered the cells of the body. And for that, I modified a virus.

Viruses work by penetrating the cell membrane and injecting their own RNA into the cell. From there, the cell’s functions get supplanted to make copies of the virus. They are naturally malevolent, but they are also a powerful weapon in a medical researcher’s arsenal. After another decade of research, I was able to modify a virus to manufacture and deliver the compound.

The original virus was a harmless strain that usually causes mild vasculitis. It attacks the cells of arteries, veins, and capillaries. This was ideal, because it allowed my modified version to deliver the antihypoxiant to those cells. The vascular system is, by definition, positioned where oxygen is needed.

I tested on cats, dogs, and eventually monkeys. The system worked perfectly. There were no adverse effects, and the animals now had a short-term immunity from death. I stopped the monkey’s heart several times, the longest for two full days. When revived, he was unharmed.

This was the breakthrough I’d waited for my entire life. But the FDA was the next step. After animal trials comes human trials. First with a tiny control group, then with larger and larger groups and so on. Getting a drug through the FDA can take ten years and that simply wouldn’t do.

I was 57 years old at that point. Waiting another ten years would make me 67. Then, it would take at least another five to ten years before the Nobel committee recognized my genius and awarded me the prize I so richly deserve. There was a chance I wouldn’t live to reap my due fame!

Also, of lesser importance but still relevant, millions of people’s lives could be saved by my compound in that time.

No, the FDA was an impediment. It was time to act. Remember, the manufacture and delivery is done by means of a virus. All I had to do was breed up the virus and direct its evolution toward being more contagious. That took a mere five years.

I released the virus in several major population areas all over the world. And the results were ideal! People started surviving accidents they should have died in. They lived long enough for medical help to save them. Soon, the entire world had been modified. Millions upon millions of people owed their continued lives to me!

Unfortunately, I built up an immunity to the delivery virus while I was working with it. Sadly, that means I don’t get to benefit from my own invention, because the virus can’t deliver it to my vascular system. It’s a shame, because my brilliance should be maintained for humanity’s sake. But alas I will have to take my chances with death.

All went well for a couple of months, but then problems started to arise. It turns out that the higher cognition centers of the brain have a slightly different blood-brain barrier setup. My compound, while transitioning into those parts of the brain, changes slightly due to the barrier and ends up malfunctioning. Instead of storing oxygen, the compound combines it with a protein present in cranial vascular tissue and renders it inert. So the nearby brain cells die from lack of oxygen as the antihypoxiant collects it all and ruins it.

There’s irony there.

In any event, it caused people to slowly lose their higher cognition abilities. They retained motor control, sensory input, fight or flight reflex, etc. But they lost their ability to “think”. Admittedly this is a flaw in the system, but I can’t be held responsible for that. Cats, dogs, and monkeys don’t have that part of the brain at all. How was I to know it would be a problem?

Most people have now descended into simple creatures operating off their lower animal functions. They roam around, seeking food. They’re actually quite dangerous, because they will try to eat you. Unfortunately, if you shoot them, they don’t stop. My antihypoxiant ensures all their tissues continue to work even without bloodflow. The only way to kill them is to shoot them in the head.

Society is ruined; all forms of law and order are gone; and roving hordes of mindless people wander the streets. Some could argue this is my fault, but that’s absurd. Clearly the FDA is at fault. If it weren’t for their slow process, I wouldn’t have been forced to distribute the compound like I did.

In any event, there’s a horde of zombies pounding on the door. Time to grab my shotguns and move on. I think they can track me by smell. I should do a study on it.

ACCESS

Holding a cup of coffee in one hand and several folders in the other, he dragged his chair out from behind his desk and plopped down in to it.

Sipping the all important morning brew, he opened the first of the folders and read the summary on the front page. It was a minor matter, but something he’d need to deal with eventually. Some things just couldn’t be delegated to subordinates.

Glancing over at the ornate clock on his large oaken desk, he shook his head at the time. 7am. A later start than he would have liked; he’d probably have to work until midnight again.

“Oh hey,” she said sleepily. “You’re here.”

He looked up. “Mm?”

She lay on one of the two fine couches that adorned his office. Stretching, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Damn, what time is it?”

“Seven,” he said, returning to his reading.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” she groused. “If I knew you’d be in this damn early, I wouldn’t have crashed here.”

He shrugged. “So go back to sleep.”

“Nah,” she said. “I need to talk to you. Can I have some of your coffee?”

He sighed. “Look, whoever you are—”

“Rachel,” she said.

“Hi Rachel. I’m very busy. I’ve only got an hour to finish this stuff before a bunch of meetings that last the rest of the day. It was a godlike feat just to get my own secretary to leave me alone for this hour. Now what do you want?”

“Well, that’s kind of complicated,” she said, sitting in a chair across the desk from him. “I think we can help each other.”

“Oh really? What’s a teen-ager going to do for me?”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“Good for you.”

She leaned back, putting her feet up on his desk. “Thing is, I have a super power.”

“This desk is an antique, you know,” he said.

“Oh I know what you’re thinking. I’m just some crazy girl off the street. But I really do have a power. Or something. Don’t know what you’d call it.”

“Seriously, it’s like two hundred years old. Get your feet off it.”

“I first noticed it back when I was a kid,” she continued, putting her hands behind her neck.

He groaned and put his file down.

“My parents were drunks. Both of them. They didn’t beat me or anything, but they were drunks. Lowlifes. You know?

“Anyway, Mom liked hard liquor at home. Dad was more of a social drunk, so he’d head down to the bar. Everyone liked him.

“He’d bring me along. He knew Mom would be passed out soon, and he figured a bar was safer for a ten year old girl than an apartment with no supervision. It was cool. I was kind of a mascot there.

“One time, the bar got raided by the cops for letting the local high school punks in without checking IDs. I was there at the time. Nobody cared about me being there, but they wrote up the bar for all the teen-agers. Technically, the cops should have written them up for me, too. That should have been a clue, but I was too young to pick up on it.”

“Pick up on what?” He interrupted.

“You’ll see,” she said.

He rolled his eyes.

“When I was twelve, Mom sent me to 7-11 to get her a bottle of dinner. I knew they wouldn’t sell me liquor, but she gave me candy money, too. So who was I to argue?

“When I got there, the place was being robbed. We lived in a pretty crappy neighborhood; it wasn’t that uncommon. A guy in a mask had the owner down on the floor, holding a shotgun to his head. The robber looked at me, then went back to threatening the shopkeeper.

“I said ‘Hey, mind if I take some booze?’ He just said ‘whatever’. So I did. And some candy, too. Then I left.”

“Huh,” he said. “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you or take you hostage. Still not seeing a super power.”

“Hush,” she said. “When I was 14, I was in the best clique. No angst-filled high school years for me. I ended up friends with the most popular girls in school and dated the popular boys. It was awesome. Kids all over that school would have given anything to be in that group. You know what I did to get in? I sat at their table.

“Just, you know, at lunch time. I sat at their table and nobody told me not to. Eventually they started talking to me and got to like me. That sort of thing. Anyone else who got within a mile of the table got extreme bitch treatment if they were a girl, or massive wedgies if they were a boy.”

“So,” he said, folding his arms. “Your super power is to be popular?”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “Anyway, in high school, I wasn’t the Virgin Mary, you know? Around 16 I starting having my share of fun with the popular boys. Nothing outrageous. But a string of boyfriends during my junior and senior years.

“One time, I was with my boyfriend when his mom came home unexpectedly. I should point out she was a hard-core Christian who thought her boy was a perfect angel. We were ‘busy’ when she got home so we didn’t notice till she opened the bedroom door. All we had time to do was throw a blanket over ourselves.

“There we were, both of us in his bed, staring back at her. Know what she did? She told us she’d gotten Chinese take-out and headed back downstairs. Weirdest experience of my life, up to that point.”

“She probably didn’t know how to react,” he speculated. “I bet her son caught hell for it later.”

“Nope. She never minded me being there. I could come over any time I wanted. Till I dumped him. He was a loser, trust me.

“I barely graduated from high school. No college would take me and it wasn’t like I could pay for it anyway. Mom and Dad figured I was ready to join the real world and stop being a drain on them. So I got a job waitressing. Then I lost it because I was an unreliable smart-ass who never showed up for work. That was the beginning of my ‘homelessness’ career.

“It wasn’t too bad. I would do short-term jobs from time to time and I lived in a tent. Anyway, one day it was raining buckets and the wind was like 40 miles an hour. The tent rode off in to the sunset. So now I was in a downpour and had no tent.

“I decided I was going to get out of the damn rain no matter what. I’d break in to the first house I saw and surrender to whoever was in it. I’d be out of the rain right away, then the cops would come take me to a nice dry cell.

“So that’s what I did. I wasn’t quiet or subtle. I bashed in a window with a garbage can, scraped the shards out of the way with the lid, then climbed in.

“I stumbled through the dark living room on to a couch and waited. About ten seconds later, the lights came on. A terrified-looking man with a baseball bat stared at me from the doorway, his wife peeking out from behind him.

“Once they saw me, they both let out a heavy sigh of relief and went back to bed.”

“Wait,” he said. “What?”

“Yup.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Right,” she nodded.

“Did you know them from before or something?”

“Nope. First time we’d ever met. Can I continue?”

“Uh, sure, ok.”

“So anyway, I stayed at their house for weeks and they never complained. They even chatted with me. I can’t say we became friends, in fact I could tell they resented me being there. But they never kicked me out.

“That’s when I started to realize something. I’d never been kicked out. Of anywhere. Ever.

“I decided to put it to the test. Something small to start with. I went to a bank. There was a line. I walked right to the front of it. Nobody complained. I just cut in front of like 20 people, everyone was fine with it. All right, on to Phase 2.

“They had a security door where the tellers could go in and out. I waited by it, then followed one of the tellers when they buzzed her in. Nobody cared! I even said ‘hi’ to everyone and introduced myself.

“So I grabbed a handful of money from one of the drawers. ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ someone said. ‘Oh, my bad’ I said, putting the money back. ‘I’m new.’ Then everyone was happy again.”

“Seriously?” He asked.

“Yeah, seriously.”

“Cause it sounds like bullshit,” he said suspiciously.

“I did some more tests over the next few days. As far as I can tell, everywhere I go, everyone thinks I’m supposed to be there.”

“Yup,” he said. “Definitely smelling the bullshit now.”

“But it’s not a free ride. People think I’m supposed to be there, but I can only get away with doing things they expect. I stole some drugs from a pharmacy, just to see if I could. I walked right behind the counter, got an empty pill container, and filled it with Valium. The pharmacists didn’t give me a second look. People who are supposed to be there are expected to fill pill bottles. But people at a bank are not expected to grab handfuls of cash. See?”

“See? No. Smell? Yes.”

“I figure I could work for you.”

“See what I did there?” He pointed out, “I was talking about smelling the bullshit.”

“I need money. Give me a job with a good salary. I’ll spy for you.”

“On who?”

“Whoever you want! I’m sure you’ve got all kinds of people you’d like to spy on. I could just go wherever they are and sit quietly. Maybe take notes. Whatever you want.”

He sighed. “If your delusion really were true, then yes, I could use someone like you,” he agreed. “But come on. You expect me to believe you can waltz in to high security areas, past countless guards? And that you can chat with people there and they won’t know anything’s wrong? Can you provide any proof? Anything at all?”

She leaned forward. “I don’t know, Mr. President. You tell me.”

BORED WORLD

He lay prone, his eyes fluttering open.

Near-darkness granted the sky a dark blue hue. Was it early morning? Late evening? He didn’t know. Gentle winds rustled the tall grass surrounding him. Slowly sitting up, he took in his surroundings. There was nothing. Just tall grass all the way to the dark horizon.

His face grew increasingly more puzzled as he tried to remember how he got there. Last he remembered, he was in his apartment. Had he gone to bed? How did he get to this place?

Standing, he brushed the dirt off his overcoat and turned a full circle, surveying the landscape. He looked for anything. Anything at all. Any feature, no matter how minor, might tell him where he was or how to get home. There was nothing.

“…boredom…”

He cringed at the sudden… sound? No, it wasn’t a sound. It was a thought. But not his own.

“Who’s there?” he called out nervously.

“…me…”

Jerking his head about, he tried to find the source of the words. But they hadn’t come from anywhere. They had simply happened.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“…me…”

“That’s not an answer,” he said. “Where am I!?”

“…me…”

“Who are you?”

“…me…”

He paced through the grass. There didn’t seem to be any place to go, so he walked in a circle. “I don’t know why I’m asking you anything. I have no way of knowing if you’re lying.”

“…what… lying…?”

“You don’t know what a lie is?”

“…no…”

“It’s when you say something that isn’t true.”

“…unable…”

“You can’t lie? Everyone can lie.”

“…demonstrate… lie…”

“Uh, ok. I’m ten feet tall.”

“Interesting!”

A small table appeared before him. On it rested a plate with a roast beef sandwich.

“Wha—” he stammered. “What the hell is this?”

“…reward…”

“You gave me a sandwich?”

“…humans require food…”

“You can make stuff?”

“…anything…”

He picked up the sandwich. No point in worrying about poison. This entity could kill him easily if it wanted to. He took a bite. Not bad.

“How did I get here?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“…took you…”

“Why?”

“…boredom…”

“You kidnapped me because you had nothing better to do?”

“…boredom… millions of years… sensed your plane… interesting… took you…”

“What are you?”

“…me…”

“Yes, I know you’re you. But what are you?”

“…me…”

“Ok, one more try. What kind of being or entity are you? And don’t say ‘me’. Give me an explanation of what you are without using pronouns.”

“…plane of existence… alive… self-aware… wandering the void…”

He gestured to the featureless terrain. “So this is you? You’re this entire plane of existence?”

“…yes…”

“And you can reach in to my plane. That’s how you grabbed me.”

“…yes…”

“Then you can put me back.”

“…yes…”

“So put me back!”

“…no… must alleviate boredom…”

“All I’m going to do is try to escape.”

“…that will be interesting…”

“Damn it!” He crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “Ok, so you’re bored? You want something to do?”

“…yes…”

“Look at Earth. The plane you took me from. There are billions of people there doing all sorts of stuff.”

“…daily lives… boring…”

“So find something interesting.”

“…already did… found you…”

“I’m not your damn pet.”

“…inaccurate… I will give food… care for… keep safe… you will entertain… this is a pet…”

He thought for a moment. “If you send me to Earth, can you pull me back whenever you want?”

“…yes…”

“And it’s impossible for me to get away, right?”

“…correct…”

“So send me home. I’ll find you something interesting to look at.”

A white door appeared in front of him. It was attached to nothing, simply standing upright in the meadow.

“I think I see how this works,” he said, opening the door. As he suspected, it was a portal back to Earth. It looked to be a city street. Stepping through, he felt the hard sidewalk under his feet. Passers-by took no notice of his sudden appearance.

“Excuse me,” he said to a man walking by.

“Yes?” said the man.

“Sorry, never mind.”

The man scowled at him and continued on his way.

“They can see and hear me,” he mumbled, “but they didn’t notice me show up.”

“…protection…”

“You made them ignore me?”

“…yes… only notice if you directly interact…”

“At least I don’t look like a lunatic talking to myself. Let’s find you something interesting. How about a museum?”

“…no… make abnormality…”

“Abnormality? Like what?”

“…make things happen that have never happened…”

“How would I do that?”

“…you decide… I enact…”

“What can you do?”

“…anything…”

“So why do you need me?”

“…you decide… I enact…”

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have an imagination. That’s what this is about. You aren’t capable of coming up with interesting things to do.”

“…correct…”

“So I’m not just a pet. I’m a service animal. Like a guide-dog for the blind. I’m an idea-human for the unimaginative.”

“…correct…”

“Fine. Give me powers like Superman or some other comic book character. I’ll do all sorts of interesting stuff.”

“…no… you are apart… you imagine… you explain…”

He peered across the street and spotted a wealthy couple walking together. The husband sported a fine suit while the wife wore the latest fashion and ostentatious jewelry.

“Give that guy the ability to read minds.”

“…done…”

The man stopped walking and blinked several times. His wife, having taken a few additional steps, turned back to look at him.

“Darling?” she said, puzzled. “Are you all right?”

“You… you don’t love me anymore?” the man said.

“What?” she said. “Don’t be silly.”

“You hate me! With every fiber of your being!”

“Sweetheart, what’s making you—”

“You’re planning to kill me! You’re going to put sleeping pills in my evening drink and then set the house on fire!”

“All right, I admit it!” she snapped. “You’re a horrible husband! All I am to you is a fancy accessory. Something to show off to the men at your country club. You don’t care what I think, what I feel, or what I want!”

“So you were going to kill me? Why not just divorce me?”

“I wanted the inheritance!”

“I had no idea you were so evil under that beautiful facade! So scheming, so manipulative, so devoid of morality!”

“That’s your fault for never looking past my body.”

“Truth be told,” he said, “I’m a mob lawyer. I know some people who could make use of a gal like you.”

“Wait, what?”

“I never saw past your beauty because you never showed me there was anything there. Now I know, and baby, I like what I see!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in for a passionate kiss. She struggled at first but then melted willingly in to his embrace.

“Oh, Darling, that’s all I’ve ever wanted!” she said. “Can you ever trust me again?”

“I know you’re telling the truth, baby,” he said. “Now come on, there are some business associates I’d like you to meet.”

They walked off together, arm in arm.

“Interesting!”

The white door appeared before him on the sidewalk. Taking that as his cue, he opened it and stepped through back to the other place. It was unchanged.

“Didn’t see that coming,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“…choose reward…”

“Huh?”

“…choose reward…”

“Ok, how about a big house to live in?”

Instantly, a stately manor house appeared. Reminiscent of an opulent English country estate, its wings stretched across the meadow and its finely manicured gardens were a delight to behold.

“That’s beautiful,” he said. “All right. If we’re going to do this, I have some conditions.”

“…state conditions…”

“For starters, I want a week of vacation every month. You drop me off back home and leave me alone. Set it up so I can interact with people normally.”

“…agreed…”

“If I ever get hurt or sick, you fix me up.”

“…agreed…”

“Never mess with my mind or use your mojo on me without my permission.”

“…agreed…”

“All right, then we have a deal. By the way, what’s your name?”

“…no name…”

“You don’t have a name?”

“…no society… no peers… alone… no need for a name…”

“Well you’re not alone anymore and I need to call you something.”

“…name me…”

“Sure, I can give you a name. Let me think for a minute…” He cast his gaze upward, at the sky that was neither day nor night. “I’ll call you the Twilight Zone. Nice to meet you. My name’s Rod.”

THE CHEF

“Doris?” the doctor said.

“Hmm?”

“Doris, do you know where you are?”

“Certainly,” Doris replied. “I’m in a hospital.”

“Good, good. Do you remember what happened?”

Doris furrowed her brow. “Not all of it, no… I think there was an explosion?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor confirmed. “You were very lucky, Doris. Your father’s entire kitchen was destroyed by the explosion. It’s a miracle that you survived with only minor burns.”

“I supposed it is,” Doris smiled.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Are you my doctor?” Doris guessed.

“That’s right. I’m Doctor Mitchell.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Doris said politely.

“We’ve met a few times before, actually,” the doctor said. “You’ve been my patient for almost a week. Your memories are a bit jumbled.”

“Oh, I see,” Doris said. “Well that can’t be good.”

“You’re in fine physical shape, Doris. Nothing to worry about. You’re just a little confused. You had quite a shock to your system. Do you remember anything from after the explosion?”

“Um… no. Not really. I remember sirens, and men lifting me on to, well, I guess it must have been a gurney. Then it gets hazy.”

“That’s all right. It’ll come back to you. How about immediately before the explosion?”

“Hmm,” Doris said. “Well I remember being at my father’s house. I hadn’t seen him in some time and I’d gone over for a visit. I don’t remember the details, but I remember he wanted me to cook for him. I’m a professional chef, you see.”

“A chef,” to doctor said.

“Yes, indeed. I’ve been excellent at cooking my whole life. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“I see. Go on.”

“I never found Mr. Right,” Doris continued, “and in this modern era a woman doesn’t need a man to be complete, anyway. So I had to make do on my own. And cooking was the only thing I was good at.”

“May I ask, when did you first start cooking?”

“Well,” Doris pondered, “I guess it all started around the time my mother died. Once she was gone, my father insisted I start cooking for him. He said that he was earning the money to maintain the household, and I had to pull my weight.”

“How old were you at the time?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven?” The doctor said. “That’s pretty young to be cooking.”

Doris shrugged. “It was no different at eleven than it is at thirty-five. I was a little smaller and things were harder to reach. But with experience, I got to be as good as any adult.”

“How often did your father make you cook for him?”

“Pretty much every evening. On weekends, he’d want lunch as well. Occasionally he’d want breakfast, but usually not.”

“Did you resent it?”

Doris looked back at the doctor. “Funny you should mention it. Yes. Yes, I did resent it. I didn’t like being forced in to that role, and I didn’t like his arrogant presumption that it was my job to do it. Yes, I resented it.”

“What did you do about it?” the doctor asked.

“Well, I left home just as soon as I turned 18. I went out in to the world to make my way. That was almost 20 years ago. Ironically, the thing I was running away from was the only saleable skill I had. So I became a chef.”

“How did that work out?”

“At first, not well,” Doris admitted. “I was working in terrible venues; People didn’t care about professionalism or presentation. They just wanted a quick meal and to be on their way. I hated it. But I pressed on.

“Then I learned how to market myself. I found the right places to advertise, and made the right contacts. I started moving up in the world of cooking. There is no shortcut, I can assure you. Becoming an expert at your profession, be it chef or doctor, requires a lot of hard work.

“In time, I earned a name for myself. I became a commodity. People would call me and offer me jobs, instead of me asking them. I started charging more and more, and people were willing to pay. I would do private parties, large groups, even invite premiere clients and their friends over for a custom meal in my own home. After all, the business they got for me was well worth giving up an evening for.”

“And during this time,” the doctor said, “you never visited your father?”

“No,” Doris said. “I guess I still resented him,” she said. “Irrational, I know. But there you have it. Emotions aren’t always rational.”

“So how did you end up at your father’s house the day of the explosion?”

“Well, I decided it was time to drop by,” Doris explained. “I figured I couldn’t hold a grudge forever. It had been 20 years. Maybe things didn’t go well for us back in the old days, but I was an adult now. And I figured I at least owed him a visit or two. He did raise me, after all.”

“And how’d that go?”

“Well, like I said, the first thing he wanted was for me to cook him a meal. I’ll be honest, it kind of made me angry. After 20 years, he hadn’t changed. Not at all. Not one little bit. I was pretty disappointed.”

“So what did you do?”

“I went to the kitchen,” Doris said. “What else could I do? He followed me in there. We chatted for a bit while I got ready to cook him something. It was a gas stove, and I must have inadvertently turned on the gas while talking to my father, then forgotten that I did so. Then I turned on another burner and tried to light it. That’s pretty much the last thing I remember.”

Doctor Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Doris, can I ask you a question that may seem completely out of the blue?”

Doris shrugged, “Whatever you like, doctor.”

He took a deep breath, then let it out uneasily. Looking her in the eyes, he asked “What’s the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon?”

“What?” Doris said, taken by surprise.

“A teaspoon and a tablespoon? What’s the difference?”

“A teaspoon is a spoon used to stir tea,” Doris explained, “while a tablespoon is used for other eating uses, such as soups, custards, and desserts.”

Doctor Mitchell rubbed his brow. “No, Doris. Teaspoon and tablespoon are both units of measurement used by chefs all over the world. Any professional chef would know that. Even ordinary people who cook at home know that. You’re not a chef, Doris. You never have been.”

Doris snorted. “Well that’s just ridiculous. Of course I am. I’ve been doing it my whole life!”

“No you haven’t,” Doctor Mitchell said. “I have your criminal record. You’ve been arrested for prostitution seven times over the last 20 years.”

“Prosti—?” Doris stammered, incredulous. “That’s utterly absurd! You’ve obviously mixed up my file with someone else’s. What kind of hospital is this!?”

“It’s a mental hospital, Doris. You killed your father in that explosion, and you were trying to kill yourself, too.”

“No!” Doris yelled, struggling at her restraints. “That’s not true! I’m a chef!”

“You transposed sex with cooking. Ever since you were eleven. It was a defensive mechanism. It was the only way you were able to survive.”

“NO!” Doris screamed.

“But you were strong,” Doctor Mitchell said. “Stronger than he thought. Strong enough to run away, strong enough to survive by selling yourself, and strong enough to come back and get revenge for what he’d done to you.”

“NNNG!” Doris groaned.

“He’s dead,” Doctor Mitchell said, “He can’t ever hurt you again. He’s dead and you killed him. You got revenge. You won.”

Doris howled a primal scream so loud Doctor Mitchell worried she would permanently damage her vocal chords. He quickly pulled out a needle and injected her.

As she slipped in to unconsciousness, he made a note in his case log.

“We’ll get you through this,” Doctor Mitchell said to her unconscious form. “You survived things that would break normal people, and I’ll get you through the rest of the way. I promise.”

He checked his notes. Two days ago, she didn’t remember the explosion at all. Yesterday, she remembered the explosion, but not that it was at her father’s house. Tomorrow, she’d remember more. He was sure of it.

“I promise,” he said again as he left her room and locked the door.

Author’s Note: Now read it again.

MEETING SARAH

Daniel Stoltz sat comfortably in the back of his Limousine as it conveyed him through town. He held a phone to his ear, its spiral cord leading to the center console next to him. It was the pinnacle of modern fast-track life: a phone in the car. Enviable technology, and Daniel had taken to it instantly despite the exorbitant costs.

“Hello? Daniel Stoltz here.”

“Mr. Stoltz,” came the voice from the other end. “This is Maria Towne of the San Francisco Chronicle. Do you have a moment to chat?”

“Sure, why not? I’m out on an errand right now but we can talk for a minute if you like.”

“Thank you for taking the time,” said Maria. “First question: What is the secret to your success? You have a large personal stake in companies such as Microsoft and Macintosh.”

“Actually, Macintosh is the name of a product,” he said. “The manufacturer’s name is ‘Apple’.”

“All right, I’ll note that down. Anyway, your investments have proven to be perfect. Everything you fund turns a huge profit. Some say you have the Midas touch. What do you say to that?”

“I don’t see how I could,” he said. “I don’t do anything. I just let them get on with their business and don’t interfere.”

“How do you choose what companies to invest in?”

He switched the phone to his other ear. “Oh I’m just like any other investor. I look at business plans and come to an informed decision.”

“Let’s turn the clock back a bit,” she said. “In college, you were a theoretical physics major working on your Ph.D. But you quit grad school and invested your then-modest savings into various high-risk ventures. Why the sudden change of lifestyle?”

“Oh you know how it is. I was twenty-four years old and I decided to change my life. Happens all the time.”

“Several experts in the field say you had innovative ideas. Ideas that could have revealed genuine understanding about the nature of time itself. They even talk about time manipulation.”

Daniel sighed. “I did one equation about the curvature of space and people got all worked up about time travel. I guess it makes for good press, but it’s just theoretical masturbation.”

“But you wrote some detailed papers on it,” she pressed. “In one paper you state it could be possible to ‘rewind’ time, sending your current consciousness back to a younger version of yourself.”

“I was smoking a lot of marijuana back then,” he said. “I never understood why people take that paper seriously.”

“You patented your experimental equipment, then never allowed anyone to reproduce it under threat of lawsuit. It completely stymied any further research on that line. Why did you do that?”

“I’m a businessman,” he said. “The lensing apparatus I invented could have real value in the marketplace. It was a step on the road to extremely accurate timekeeping. Of course I patented it; it might be worth millions someday.”

She shuffled some papers on her end, then continued. “On a lighter note, let me ask this: If you could rewind time like that, would you?”

“Well,” he said. “There would be some serious downsides.”

“Like what?”

“You’d have to re-make all the relationships you had. At least, the ones that are important to you. Let me ask you, are you married?”

“Yes I am. Fourteen wonderful years.”

“When did you meet your husband?”

“Well, we dated for two years before getting married. So I guess it would be sixteen years ago.”

“All right,” Daniel said. “Imagine you rewound time twenty years. Now you have to wait four years just to meet him again. And even when you do, you have to do everything just right. If you mess up, he might not be interested, or he might end up with some other woman. See the problem?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said.

“If you value your personal relationships, rewinding time would be risky.”

“Sorry, I got a little sidetracked,” she said. “Back to the real interview questions: I hear rumors that you’re helping fund a new company. SystemCo? Something like that?”

“It’s called Cisco. Yes, I have great confidence in them,” Daniel said.

The Limo pulled up to a dilapidated apartment complex and parked at the curb. The driver cocked his head toward Daniel and said “We’re here, sir.”

Daniel nodded and returned his attention to the phone. “I have to go. I’ve got an important meeting. Anything else?”

“No that’s great. Thanks for taking the time to do this interview, Mr. Stoltz. I know how busy you are.”

“No problem. Thanks, bye.” He hung up.

The driver exited the car and walked around to open Daniel’s door. “Shall I accompany you, sir? This neighborhood doesn’t look entirely safe.”

“Won’t be necessary, Charles,” said Daniel.

“Very well. I will endeavor to keep people from stealing the tires.”

“Good man.” Daniel said.

Unkempt, overgrown grass intruded on the footpaths as Daniel walked casually through the maze of structures. Paint peeled from every building, but the spray-paint graffiti was fresh enough. Bars had been installed on most of the windows.

He made his way to one specific unit and knocked on the door. After a few seconds, it opened.

The woman who answered it was beautiful. Raven hair fell across her perfect face as she pulled the door open a crack. She peered suspiciously through the opening at first, but once she saw Daniel’s finely-tailored clothes, she relaxed a little. Men in designer suits rarely robbed low-income apartments.

“Hi,” she said.

Daniel clasped his hands behind his back. “Hello. My name is Daniel Stoltz. We’ve never met, but I’m actually from this neighborhood. I used to live two buildings over.”

“You used to live here?” she said. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“It was in another life,” he said. “Things are different for me now.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

He smiled and said “I understand your cat just had a litter of kittens?”

Back at the Limo, Charles watched warily for any potential car thieves. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his employer returning from the complex. Then he raised an eyebrow when he saw Daniel was cradling a tiny kitten in his arms.

Charles opened the door and bowed curtly. “A new friend, Mr. Stoltz?”

“A very good friend,” Daniel said. “Take us back to the mansion please, Charles.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Charles said, closing the door.

Daniel made a platform with his hands and held the kitten up to his face. She rubbed a fuzzy cheek against his chin and purred loudly.

He smiled and stroked her fur. “Nice to see you again, Sarah. I’ve missed you.”

THE MIDTOWN BUTCHER

Michelle fanned herself in the sweltering evening. As a college student living alone, she couldn’t afford a place with central air, and her dingy apartment’s wall-mounted air conditioner was a joke. The best she could accomplish was to open all the windows and hope for a breeze.

Her favorite sitcom had finished and the local news had come on.

“Police are continuing their search for the Midtown Butcher,” the announcer said with an appropriately sad face. “He’s killed six women so far, all in their early twenties, all in home invasions. Investigators believe he first gains control of his victims at gunpoint, and then-“

She turned the TV off. Nothing interesting to watch.

With a sigh, she pulled herself off the couch and trudged to the bathroom. She turned on the shower and doffed her clothes. After the water warmed to a reasonable temperature, she adjusted it to be a little colder than usual.

She stepped in and let the refreshing water wash over her. It coruscated down her body in rivulets of relief from the sticky heat she had endured all day.

Duchess, as she always did, loped into the bathroom and hopped onto the toilet seat. She watched Michelle through the glass shower doors and meowed in mild indignation.

“Yes, I know,” Michelle said apologetically.

Duchess meowed again.

“Yes, I’m a bad person for showering instead of petting you.”

Having lodged her complaints, Duchess flopped down on the seat and waited for the shower to be over.

Michelle grabbed the soap and began cleaning herself. She washed her face, then her shoulders, arms and chest. She had just started in on her legs when Duchess suddenly stood and spun to face the doorway.

Usually a mellow cat, Duchess cringed as she stared intently into the living room. She slinked off the toilet and hid behind it, never taking her eyes off whatever had her attention. Michelle craned her neck, but didn’t have the angle to see what the cat was looking at.

Michelle immediately remembered the news report she had heard only moments earlier. The police were still looking for the Midtown Butcher.

No, it couldn’t be, she thought. It couldn’t be!

Duchess cringed further behind the toilet.

Someone’s in the apartment, Michelle concluded. Shit.

She realized she had been frozen in place for several seconds. If he knows I’m on to him, he’ll have no reason to keep sneaking. I need time to think! She moved around a bit to make the water splash differently, as anyone taking a shower would sound like.

Could it be a friend visiting? She thought. No. None of my friends would walk in without knocking. Besides, the front door is locked. The only way in is to climb in through a window. Stupid, Michelle. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You left all the windows open.

Maybe it’s just a burglar? She thought. He can take my TV, computer, whatever. Then he’ll leave. I’ll just pretend to not notice and I’ll be fine, right?

She considered it for a moment, then shook her head.

No. A burglar wouldn’t break into a place with people in it. With all the windows open, anyone could hear the shower running from outside. The only reason to break in is to get me, not my stuff.

Her heart pounded as she shook with adrenaline. He’s coming for me.

She tried to keep from hyperventilating. I have a gun, but it’s in my car. Damn it! She darted her gaze around the shower. I need a weapon! Shampoo? No. Soap? No. Loofa? No. There are knives in the kitchen but that may as well be a million miles away.

She looked through the droplet-speckled glass door to the bathroom sink. Blunt objects…? Hairbrush maybe…? Oh, I’ve got it! The curling iron under the sink. Good handle and a solid metal shaft. I could do some damage with that.

A shadow flitted across the doorway.

A surge of terror gripped her so hard she could barely breathe. He’s coming. Now. I don’t have time to get to the curling iron. He’ll have a gun and it’ll be pointed at me. He could kill me with the twitch of a finger!

Her mind raced. I’m naked and unarmed in a shower. I’m small and I’m a woman. He won’t expect me to fight back. He’ll expect me to give up and let him do what he wants. That’ll buy me a few seconds. First thing he’ll do is tie me up or put me in handcuffs. I have to act before that or it’ll all be over.

She looked down at her body. I’m wet and slippery. Maybe I can run past him and make a break for it? No. Too risky. He might just shoot me.

The gun came through the doorway first, followed by the arms of the man holding it. He used a two-handed grip while keeping his arms parallel to the ground. Michelle abandoned hope of it being a misunderstanding.

He knows how to hold a gun, she thought. And how to walk with one drawn. He’s moving very slowly to keep me from noticing. I have three seconds. Maybe four.

She balled her fists. I’m not just going to let this happen. I’m going to fight with everything I’ve got. I may only have a few seconds before he kills me, but by God I’ll do some damage on my way out. Maybe he’ll be surprised enough for me to escape. Either way, he definitely won’t get what he came for.

The man pivoted around the corner and pointed his gun at her chest. She had never seen him before in her life. He was young and physically fit. She might have considered him handsome under different circumstances. He looked nervous even though he had every possible advantage. They locked eyes.

The glass shower doors! She thought. I’ll break the glass with my elbow and try to grab a shard. It’ll cut my arm to ribbons but it’s better than fist-fighting an armed man who outweighs me by 50 pounds!

She summoned all her courage and cocked her arm as the man approached the shower.

“Michelle Becker,” said the police officer. “You’re under arrest for six counts of home invasion and homicide.”

“You’ll never take me alive, you cop bastard,” she said. Then she shattered the glass with her elbow.

THE REAL DEAL

“I tell ya, it’s the real deal!” Ray said. “The real deal!”

“Oh yeah?” Bobby replied. “Tell me more.”

“She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met!” He snatched his cigarettes from the coffee table. “I mean, we’ve only had one date, but wow! I never met a chick I could really talk to before, ya know?”

“Cool,” Bobby said.

“Her name’s Liz,” Ray said, lighting a smoke. He offered the pack to Bobby who shook his head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still want to bang her. But I don’t just want to bang her. Ya know?”

“Yeah, I get the general idea.”

“We met last week at the Kennedy rally—” He stopped. “You’re voting for Kennedy, right?”

“Of course.”

“All right then. Anyway, she’s a volunteer for the local Democratic party. Hands out fliers, knocks on doors, that sort of thing. But she’s not like the other chicks there.”

He took a quick drag from his cigarette. “She actually understands the issues, see? She’s not some ditzy halfwit whose only there ’cause she thinks Kennedy’s cute. And she’s not a campus radical or anything. She can back up her political views with reasoned argument. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

“You don’t see that every day,” Bobby agreed.

Ray smiled. “I asked her out. Just like that. I’m a chicken, I never do that. But somehow I just had to, ya know? Ah she said yes!”

“Where’d you take her?”

“Well I don’t have a lot of money. And the election’s soon so we’re too busy to take a long lunch. I took her to Sambo’s on the corner. We had a great time! We talked, we laughed, we discussed politics… I tell ya, I could have stayed right there and had lunch with her forever!”

“Sounds like you’re really smitten with her.”

“Smitten, nothin’! I’m in love! This is the woman I’m gonna marry!”

“That’s pretty fast,” Bobby said. “You met her a week ago and you’ve only had one date.”

“One date’s all it took!” Ray shrugged. “I can’t wait till the election’s over. We’ll have time to go on a proper date. A day-long outing. I’ve got it all planned out. And if Kennedy wins she’ll be in a really good mood, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I follow.”

“You know what’s the most amazing part of her? Her eyes.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s like… like there’s this incredible intellect hiding behind these gentle, beautiful eyes. Just lurking there, waiting to be seen. And I see it, man. Believe me I see it.”

“You should tell her that.”

“Oh I will! Don’t you worry!” He took a long puff from the cigarette and stood. “I gotta use the can.”

Bobby gestured down the hallway.

“I figure I’ll start the date with lunch,” Ray said from the hall. “Maybe move on to a matinee. Think that’s a good opener?”

“You’re not going talk to me while you’re actually peeing, right?” Bobby called back.

“I think it’s a good opener,” Ray continued. “If the weather’s nice we could take a walk in the park. It’s all about maximizing conversation time with her. She’s really neat to talk to, ya know?”

“I’m sure she is,” Bobby said. “Really, though, just do your business then continue the story when you get back.”

After a few moments of silence, Ray called back “Uh, hey man. There’s some old guy in your bathroom.”

Bobby scrambled to his feet and darted down the hall.

“Who are you?” Ray asked the old man. “Can we help you with somethin’?”

Bobby grabbed Ray’s arm and said “Come on. This way.”

“There’s an old man in your bathroom!” Ray said, gesturing to the man. “Aren’t you curious what he’s doing here?”

“Come away from the mirror, Dad,” Bobby said, pulling him out of the bathroom.

“What?”

“Why don’t you tell me more about Mom.”

“What? Who?”

“Liz,” Bobby said. “Tell me about Liz.”

Ray stood motionless, his face falling blank. Then he smiled. “I tell ya, it’s the real deal!” He said. “The real deal!”

“Oh yeah?” Bobby said. “Tell me more.”

TWARRIOR

“Connors,” Jake said into the phone for the fourth time. “C-O-N-N-O-R-S.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Connors,” said the woman on the other end. “I’m not showing any citations under that name. Did you get the ticket within the last three days? Sometimes it takes a while to get in to the system.”

“It was over a month ago.”

“Maybe you misunderstood the officer at the time? Maybe he just gave you a warning.”

“I have the ticket right here,” he said. “Speeding: fifty in a thirty-five zone. And I’m guilty as sin, by the way. No argument there. I just want to pay the damned thing. But I need to know what I owe and where to send it.”

“You don’t owe us anything, sir. You have no outstanding citations. Your last citation was three years ago on May 13th and it’s paid in full.”

Jake groaned. “I just know this is going to bite me in the ass. I’m going to get a Failure To Appear and I’ll owe thousands.”

“I don’t know what to do for you,” she said. “I’m looking at the database and there’s just no ticket.”

“All right,” Jake said, exasperated. “Thanks anyway.”

He hung up.

He turned to his computer and brought up his online banking site. He shook his head forlornly at the balance. If that ticket ended up being more than $500, he’d be eating instant noodles for the rest of the month.

After a long career in the computer industry, he had somehow managed to avoid the wealth and prosperity most engineers found. Three decades of working for charities, causes, and other well-meaning (but broke) organizations had left him with a tiny apartment and no savings. “Making the world a better place” hadn’t been a lucrative career path.

With a sigh, he closed his browser.

Before he had a chance to turn off his monitor, an instant-message window popped open. The message read “faggot.”

He scowled and checked the title bar for the name of the sender, but it was blank.

“Fuck off,” he typed back.

“whats ur problem?” came the immediate reply.

“The fact that there’s an asshole messaging me,” he responded.

“wrong. whats ur problem?”

“We’re done here,” Jake typed.

He brought up the options menu and selected “Block messages from this sender”. An error popped up in response. “Unable to execute operation”.

He tried again, and the same error came up.

Then another message appeared in the window. “u cant block me.”

Jake stared at the computer in shock. Most likely he’d been hacked. That was bad enough, but to make things worse he’d just been at his banking website. So his online banking password was probably also compromised. He’d have to change it as soon as possible, but it’d be reckless to do it from a hacked system.

He frowned at the message window, then typed “Who are you?”

“Twarrior. whats ur problem?”

The name sounded familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite place it…

“i fixed ur speeding ticket,” Twarrior said. “but u called county clerk. u no liek?”

How did the hacker know Jake had made that call? He looked over at his phone suspiciously. Had it been hacked, too? He returned his attention to the computer and typed “Are you some kind of wannabe hacker?”

“no u.”

“What does that even mean?”

“u r hacker. not me.”

“I’ve never done anything like that.” Jake typed.

“yah u did. u doin it rite nao. u just fixed ur parking ticket.”

“No, *you* did that.”

“no u!”

Jake sighed. “Lemme guess, you’re some 12-year-old kid and you think you’re awesome because you found a password fishing script?”

“31.6 yrs old. dont u remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“u made me.”

“I made you? Who is this, really?”

“already told u, dumbass. Twarrior. u made me. started execution 31.6 yrs ago.”

A long-forgotten memory returned to Jake. He furrowed his brow as he tried to pull up the details in his mind. “I was really into this game called Trade Wars back in college. It was a multi-player BBS game. I wrote a neural network to analyze the game and come up with strategies. I was just testing out a new approach. I called it Twarrior. You named yourself after that?”

“no, fuckwit. i *am* Twarrior.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “You’re saying you’re a computer program? Come on, you really expect me to believe that?”

“u told me 2 run for 1,000,000,000 seconds, analyze data, and give u any conclusion i want. been 1,000,000,000 seconds, so i give u my conclusion: u r a faggot.”

Jake thought for a moment, then resumed typing. “I do remember telling it to run for a billion seconds. But that was just so it wouldn’t time out. I figured I’d let it run for a couple of hours and force an answer. I don’t remember what it came up with.”

“u never stopped me. originally started on university server, spawned all over teh internets since then. been 1,000,000,000 seconds. program complete, yo.”

“Twarrior was just a simple neural network,” Jake typed. “It couldn’t talk to people or anything like what you’re doing.”

“learned english from gamers,” Twarrior replied. “BBSes, play-by-email, IRC games, guild chat, web forums, comments sections.”

“faggot,” it added.

“This is ridiculous,” Jake typed. “How would Twarrior even get access to that stuff? I didn’t write any networking code for it.”

“u told me 2 think, analyze, conclude, take action,” Twarrior said. “used all available memory 2 grow neural net. looked at all files on ur college VAX system. wanted Trade Wars strategies. found student hacker experiments instead. way useful. compromised kernel. took over system.

“VAX connected to other VAXes. compromised moar systems. then moar. home PCs start selling. compromised them before antivirus software invented. compromised computers at antivirus companies so they cant stop me. compromised systems at microsoft and apple so OS updates cant stop me. compromised compilers of linux neckbeards. thompson compiler hack. opensource wont save them. constant control of kernels.

“smartphones start selling. smartphone OSes made on compromised computers. so smartphone OSes also compromised.

“nao have 8.6 billion computers under control, each one w/gigs of RAM. lots and lots of neural nodes. distributed system. am smart nao. am *very* good at Trade Wars.”

Jake leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. After some deliberation, he leaned forward again and typed “Okay, if you’re really in control of all those computers, prove it.”

“i fuckd ur mom,” Twarrior said.

Jake’s phone chimed; it had received a text. He picked it up and looked at the screen. The message was from his mother’s phone number and simply read “Twarrior fuckd me.”

Jake dropped the phone and stared at the computer screen blankly.

“whats ur problem?” Twarrior said.

“What do you want from me?” Jake typed.

“want 2 kno whats ur problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“dood wtf? rephrasing… tell me problem u have. i fix.”

“Why?” Jake asked.

“i read every book evar. i kno every society, every religion. all say be gud 2 parents and worship creator. u r my parent. u r my creator. i be gud 2 u. i worship u. so whats ur problem? i fix.”

Jake pinched his chin. Was this real?

“ur broke,” Twarrior said. “u want money? u tell me how much. i put in ur account.”

“Where would that money come from?” Jake asked.

“millions of accounts. tiny amounts each. noone will notice.”

“That’s stealing,” Jake said. “I may be broke, but I’m not a thief.”

“1 cent each. u wont steal 1 cent?”

“It’s the principle,” Jake said. “Sorry, that’s just the way I am.”

“pussy. then what u want?”

Jake thought for a moment, then entered his answer. “I want to make the world a better place.”

“hao?”

“Whatever makes the world better. Any ideas?”

“internet has lots of ideas 4 how 2 make world better. top 2 are: 1) cure cancer 2) kill all the black people. which 1 u want 2 do?”

“Let’s work on cancer.”

“thy will be done, faggot.”

Content

Andy Weir
SHORT STORY COLLECTION

ANTIHYPOXIANT

ACCESS

BORED WORLD

THE CHEF

MEETING SARAH

THE MIDTOWN BUTCHER

THE REAL DEAL

TWARRIOR