RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT
by Captain Dunsel
13.
SO WHAT DO WE DO?
“Is this an emergency?” Jeff asked as he trotted down the hall beside Putnam, working to keep pace with the older man’s strides.
“I seriously doubt it,” Cyrus Putnam responded. “I like Kevin, he’s good at his job and he plays a mean bass guitar, but he’s not qualified to diagnose a Code Four.”
“What exactly is a Code Four?” Jeff asked, his eyes suddenly drawn to the swinging hips of a comely young lady walking toward them. Auburn hair tied up in a messy bun, glasses, tablet in hand. Pretty face of course, killer body of course, slightly slutty outfit of course. In this case, a very snug polo shirt displaying a nice rack of bra-less, wobbling tits that enticingly stretched the shirt’s BoozeMart logo… a very snug and very short pair of white shorts… white running shoes… and a baseball cap, also sporting the BoozeMart logo. Short, spirited, tanned, and, judging by her toned thighs, athletic. He wondered whether this peppy little spitfire was a sprinter or a marathon runner in bed. He grinned. Would she be speedy and energetic, or in it for the long haul? He wondered if he would ever get the chance to find out. So far no one had explained to him how the… data collection sessions… were arranged.
“Sometimes, when we—” Putnam said, starting to explain what a Code Four was … but he was interrupted by the peppy little spitfire, who blocked their path.
“Dr. P,” she said… with a smile and manner that said ‘I’m glad I caught you’.
“Libby,” Putnam replied, smiling down at her fondly.
“First,” she said, thumping his chest with her finger, her tone simultaneously intimate and businesslike, “thank you for last Thursday. And I do mean thank you.”
“Believe me when I tell you it was my pleasure,” Putnam replied, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “And more important, it helped us finally nail down the neurotrophic polypeptide penetration sequence for the Madam Butterfly.”
“Well, I don’t know what that means, “ Libby said with a grin, “but I’m glad I could help. Second… are you running in the children’s charity 5K next month?”
“I don’t think so, Lib,” the world-renown pharmacologist said, smiling ruefully. “I’m not a young man anymore, you know.”
“You could’ve fooled me last Thursday.”
“You’re sweet. You’re a lying little vixen, but you’re sweet.”
“You’ll change your mind when you see me in my running clothes,” Libby sang, posing playfully. “You could run behind me and watch my ass.” She changed poses, thrusting out her chest. “Or you could run beside me and watch my boobs bounce.” She was doing her best to tempt him, and her best was quite good.
“Well… perhaps I’ll reconsider,” Putnam said, eyes on her tits. His surrender made her giggle happily. “Libby, may I introduce Dr. Jeffrey Napier, my new Assistant Director of Research.”
“Ohhhhh,” Libby cooed, impressed… or at least pretending to be. She batted her big brown eyes and turned her peppy charms on Jeff, stepping closer, giving him the once-over, one eyebrow arching. “Assistant Director, eh?” Jeff knew the title sounded more impressive than it was; there were three Assistant Directors of Research at BoozeMart R&D, and he was, of course, the most junior.
“One of three,” he told her, shrugging a smile.
“Libby is our Wellness Coordinator,” Putnam said, patting her ass, his hand lingering.
“Also one of three,” the bespectacled beauty echoed with that impish grin. “Do you by any chance run, Dr. Napier?” She placed a hand on his chest and left it there. They were a touchy-feely bunch at BoozeMart R&D, that was for sure.
“Not by any chance, unless someone is chasing me,” Jeff admitted.
“Well,” Libby said, mock-scolding as she walked her fingers up his chest and playfully bopped his nose, “we’ll just have to see what we can do about that.”
Jeff chuckled. “Good luck to you,” he said amiably. Libby took a step closer, letting her breasts lightly press against him, nipples poking, her face inches from his.
“Oh, I’m very confident I can devise an exercise regimen that will… motivate you,” she said softly, her half-lidded eyes making it clear that his wellness regimen would include fucking her for thirty minutes or more, three-to-five times a week.
“Well, you two will have to discuss that some other time, Elisabeth,” Putnam said. “Dr. Napier and I have a small fire to put out.”
“Mmmmmnnn,” Libby said, running her finger back down Jeff’s chest before reluctantly stepping back. “All right. But don’t think you’re escaping my clutches.” She smiled flirtatiously as she headed off. “Either of you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jeff said to her swinging ass, which was not entirely contained by her short shorts.
The two men sighed, exchanged predatory grins, and then continued on their way.
“I was saying, a Code Four is essentially an OPMD,” Putnam explained, using the medical acronym for ‘over-prescription because of misdiagnosis’. “It doesn’t happen often, especially with girls who have been here for a while… we’ve got solid, long-term profiles on them… but every once in a… oh, sorry, dear.”
They had turned a corner and had run smack into an intoxicated girl who was stumbling erratically down the hall. Jeff supposed that was not an uncommon occurrence around here.
“Whoopsy!” the girl squeaked, staggering back a few steps, and then she giggled. Jeff’s eyebrows lifted. Of all the BoozeMart girls he had met thus far, this one was the most bimbo-like. She looked like a very busty version of Ginger on Gilligan’s Island… after the moooovie star had, perhaps, drunk a little too much of the Professor’s coconut moonshine… right down to a comically impractical, lowcut, tight-fitting, shimmering cocktail gown.
“Whoop, careful, Maryann,” Putnam said, which made Jeff chuckle. The busty girl blinked, swaying where she stood, stumbling occasionally.
“Heyyyyyy, Poctor… Poctor Dutman,” she slurred, her green eyes crossed, a dopey grin on her lavishly-made-up face. Her false eyelashes had to be an inch long.
“Where are you headed, sweetheart?” Putnam asked her. She giggled again.
“Ummmmm… I forget,” she admitted with a shrug. “I’mmma… a li’l lost.”
“Do you have your dance card?” Putnam asked gently, helpfully.
“Mmmm-hmmmm,” the girl nodded with a drunken grin. She thrust out her impressive chest, stumbling closer to Putnam. “I puddit someplace safe.”
Putnam chuckled, then snaked his hand down the front of her lowcut dress, triggering another spate of giggles from her… and some envy from Jeff. Putnam retrieved something that looked like a longer-than-usual business card, flipped it over and read.
“Gallery Six, and she’s ten minutes late,” he said aloud. He juggled the card and tapped a few commands into his tablet. “Yeah, I thought so. Conroy and Nguyen are measuring virtual IQ loss ratios. That explains why she’s so stupid. Probably drinking Brain Bombers or Pink Comas.” He sighed, annoyed. “Zack really should have provided an escort, she’s in no condition to think for herself.” He turned to Jeff. “Kevin’s gonna have to wait, I don’t think she’ll make it down there without our help.”
“Gallery Six?” Jeff asked. Putnam smiled.
“Three floors down. Actually, you should see the galleries anyway,” he said, sliding the card back into Maryann’s imposing cleavage. “Interesting. Fun. Very Mission: Impossible.”
They started out sharing the load, mutually helping Maryann stumble down the hall, but before long she had chosen to drape herself entirely on Jeff, her voluptuous body nuzzled against him. Not exactly hardship duty, he was happy to admit.
“Iss so nice to meet a true gennleman,” she cooed, gazing up at him adoringly. Jeff didn’t feel much like a gentleman, not with one hand on her plumpish, wriggling ass and the other hand on her rib cage, periodically smothered by her bouncing tits… but he wasn’t inclined to argue. Putnam led them to an elevator, Jeff helped the girl stagger inside, Putnam punched the button for B4, the doors slid closed… and then things really got interesting.
Maryann giggled and slid to the floor. At first, Jeff thought she had passed out… but she kept on giggling, kneeling before him and pawing clumsily at his trousers.
“Umm… Miss…” he said.
“I juss wanna say thank you,” the cliché-glamorous sexpot purred. Jeff didn’t know for sure that what he thought was happening was actually happening until Ginger-Maryann, after three or four unsuccessful attempts and a lot of giggling, finally managed to pull down his zipper.
“Holy shit,” Jeff said. He looked over at Putnam, who was leaning casually against the elevator wall, reading his tablet. Jeff’s new boss glanced up, barely even interested, let alone surprised or reproachful. He smiled at Jeff’s confused panic as Maryann maneuvered the younger biochemist’s erect penis out of his boxer briefs.
“Unless you have an objection,” Putnam said quietly, “it’s best to just let her say thank you. It’s not wise to create unresolved cognitive dissonance right before a clinical trial.”
“Oh. All right,” Jeff replied as Maryann wrapped her ruby red lips around his stiff cock. Putnam looked back down to his tablet, unconcerned.
Holy fucking shit, Jeff thought, I’m getting a blowjob from a big-titted bimbo in an elevator with my brand new boss three feet away and he just happens to be Cyrus Fucking Putnam and this is the craziest fucking day… day of… of my…
At that point Jeff’s thoughts dissolved into irrational discord. Maryann, for all her cartoon bimbo-ness, was very skilled at giving drunken blowjobs. Less than thirty seconds after she began it was over; Jeff was ejaculating into her talented mouth and she was gulping down his cum like it was a cold beer on a hot day. When he was finally done involuntarily spasming, she dutifully swallowed the last mouthful, squeegeed him clean with her lips, gently tucked his slightly limp but still thick member back into his pants, zipped them up, and used his drained body to pull herself to her feet. She giggled happily, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she cooed softly. “That wuz juss what I needed.”
That was just what YOU needed, Jeff thought incredulously, still coming down from his third climax of the day. He decided he liked working here.
A moment later the elevator booped softly and the doors slid open. A sign on the opposite wall indicated that Galleries 1-5 were to the left while 6-10 were to the right. Whatever they were.
“Okay,” Putnam said, “let’s get her to number six.”
“I assume these aren’t art galleries,” Jeff said, helping Maryann stumble out of the elevator. Putnam smiled, then considered how best to answer.
“Military jargon. War games galleries. Actually, they’re more or less small soundstages,” he explained as the three of them walked down the unadorned white hallway, Maryann’s heels click-clacking erratically.
“As in… movie soundstages?” Jeff asked, confused.
“I thing I’m zzzrunk,” Maryann informed the universe.
“Hush, darling. Yes,” Putnam confirmed, “except that instead of making movies, we’re measuring psychological and physiological responses under simulated real-world conditions. Galleries One, Two, and Three are standing sets: living room, office, bar. Four through Six are floaters, becoming whatever we need. A dance club, a yacht, a farm, you name it.”
They had arrived at a steel door with a large number 6 painted on it. There were red and green rectangular lights above the door; the green one was lit. Putnam placed his thumb on a small fingerprint scanner beside the door. There was a soft buzz, the door clicked open, and they entered into some sort of large control booth.
Jeff looked around, fascinated. There were various computer consoles… he recognized some of the software they were running… and a large glass window overlooking what had to be the gallery itself. The gallery was a small warehouse-like space, the walls covered in acoustical foam tiles. In the middle of the open space was… well… a movie set, a room made up of fake walls… flats, he thought they called them. No ceiling, but also no grid of powerful lights like you would expect to see hovering over an actual movie set. It looked to Jeff like the set was supposed to represent an upscale restaurant or dinner club… which he supposed explained Maryann’s dress.
Up here in the booth there were several technicians seated at the consoles and two men in lab coats chatting by a large video monitor. The screen was split into six fisheye views of the simulated dinner club, labeled CAM 1, CAM 2, and so forth. There were several people down on the gallery floor, on set, costumed as wait staff and diners, chatting and chilling, a little bored.
Everyone in the booth looked up as they entered.
“Here she is at last!” one of the two lab-coated men said with relief. Bald, glasses, looking like half the guys who worked at Merck. “Where have you… oh. Cyrus. What…?”
“We found her wandering up on ground level, Zack,” Putnam said, an edge to his voice.
“Oh. Well… thanks.”
Two of the techs, both females, immediately rose and took charge of Maryann, who grinned at Jeff, lingering for a moment.
“I haffta go t’work now, sweeee,” she said, “bud I’ll thank you again later.”
She gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, no doubt leaving behind more of that ruby red lipstick. Jeff blushed. One of the techs smiled, the other chuckled. Both of them eyed Jeff with amused interest, sizing him up for future conquest.
“C’mon hon,” one of them said as they led their tardy movie star away, “let’s get you prepped and down on the floor.” They disappeared out a door on the far side of the booth and Jeff could hear the click-clack-giggle of Maryann being helped down a flight of steps.
“Pink Comas?” Putnam asked Zack, the bald guy, who was obviously the man in charge of this little corner of the nuthouse. Zack nodded.
“Yeah,” he confirmed.
“Why didn’t she drink them as part of the sim?”
“No time, Cyrus,” Zack said, a little harried, a little defensive. “Perry has us booked back to back. We just finished a Monkey Business simulation twenty minutes ago. We’ve barely had time to reset, and we’re using the same co-star, which technically we’re not supposed to do.”
“Okay,” Putnam said, nodding. “But if you’re gonna have the girls inebriate off-site you really need to assign an escort. At least with Pink Comas.”
“I would love to, Cyrus,” Zack complained, “but I don’t have the personnel.”
Jeff decided to let them fight it out and wandered over to the window, looking down on the dinner club set below them. He could see the two techs helping Maryann to a table. The others began taking their places, chatting amiably, like ensemble actors ready for a take.
“All right,” Putnam was saying, “I’ll talk to Perry about easing up on the schedule.”
“I would genuinely appreciate that,” Zack said. “I understand the pressures we’re under, but if we want good data we need time to run these simulations according to protocol.”
“Agreed. Oh, this is Jeff Napier,” Putnam said. Jeff turned, smiled, gave a little wave. “Our newest ADR. Zach Conroy, Lead Simulation Researcher.”
“Dr. Napier,” Zack said with a nod. “Welcome, glad to meet you, and please excuse me, we’re already behind schedule.”
“Of course,” Jeff said with a wave. The bald researcher donned a headset and started murmuring to the techs down on the stage floor. Putnam crossed over beside Jeff, gazing out the window at the preparations below.
“Interesting, huh?”
“Very,” Jeff agreed. “They’re simulating…?”
“The conditions under which our customers are likely to use our products,” Putnam explained. “Given our need for secrecy, this is as close as we can get to a real-world trial.”
“Are those folks all… actors?” Jeff asked, watching as the techs exited the set and a man dressed in a tuxedo sat down across from Maryann, grinning. Putnam laughed.
“Heavens, no,” he said, pointing. “The fellow in the tux is Milo Coleman, our VP of Finance. The maître d’ is one of our chefs… which is probably just a coincidence. The tall blonde in the red gown is an administrative assistant in… Accounts Receivable, I think. Her handsome date is actually a security guard when he’s not doing this. And…” He pointed. “An administrative assistant… a quality control tech… a product development coordinator… that’s Nina Collins our Assistant Director of Operations, and… the fellow with the Jesus hair is an accountant.”
“And they’re all… what… helping out on their lunch hour?” Jeff asked, doing his best to understand.
“Well… after a fashion,” Putnam shrugged. “They’re all taking an hour or two off from their primary employment to assist in the ongoing data collection. Just like Maryann. She’s a very capable systems analyst up in IT when she hasn’t voluntarily drunk herself stupid.”
Jeff glanced over at the console readouts. They were providing real-time information on someone… Maryann, he assumed. Heartrate, emotional arousal, pupil dilation, respiration, skin temperature, muscle tension, neuronal activity, and a half-dozen other metrics.
“So… you’re acquiring both observational and physiological data?” Putnam nodded.
“Uh-huh. Neuropsychological, free response, sexological, the whole bit, looking for both latent and observable variables.”
“I don’t…” Jeff began, still confused. “Is there, like… a script?”
“Oh no,” Putnam replied. “Strictly improvisation. Maryann can behave however the inebriated spirit moves her. Indeed, they all can. She may end up dancing on the table. She may end up fucking the maître d’ under the table. She may just have a drunken conversation with Milo and pass out. The hope is that these simulations will reveal psychometric patterns directly related to the particular cocktail recipe. Mostly, though, it’s about the biometric data we gather.”
Jeff squinted. “Gather… how? She’s not wearing any electrodes.”
“Subcutaneous sensors,” Putnam explained, “permanently implanted in her neck and those lovely thighs. They directly monitor both the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems. Also, we use remote facial electromyography, infrared data acquisition, and a few other tricks. And, of course, we take blood and urine samples before and after.”
The two female techs returned to the booth and took their places at the control console. On the stage floor the amateur acting company was standing by. Jeff chuckled to himself.
“Impressive,” Jeff said. “Crazy, but impressive.”
“Yes indeed,” Putnam agreed proudly. He touched Jeff’s arm. “C’mon, we need to leave and let them get on with it. And we still have Kevin’s emergency.”
“Oh. Right. The Code Four. I practically forgot.”
“Okay, people, let’s do this,” Zack was saying as they exited. “And try not to—” The heavy door with the big 6 closed behind them with a thump, the red light came on, and the two biochemists headed back toward the elevator.
“Will I need to…?” Jeff asked, nodding back at the gallery.
“Probably,” Putnam replied. “Most all of us do, from time to time. Some of us are better at it than others, of course, and that’s noted.”
“I’m just saying, I’m not an actor,” Jeff warned him.
“Look, despite the scenery and costumes, no one is acting back there,” Putnam said. “We’re not making porn videos, Jeff. We’re doing science.”
“Huh,” Jeff said, musing. Putnam rang for the elevator. “So… is that your primary data collection source?”
“No, no, not at all,” Putnam replied as they entered the elevator. “We only use the sims to answer specific questions or troubleshoot. Our primary data sources are far less structured, far more spontaneous, and therefore far more valuable. As you pointed out, none of us are actors, so real-life, reflexive interactions inevitably yield the best, most reliable data.”
Jeff blinked, realizing something that should have been obvious.
“So… everyone has those subcutaneous sensors implanted,” he said, “and there are biometric sensors…?”
“All over the damned place, yes,” Putnam confirmed, smiling. “I’m sure we obtained some useful data when you got to know Debbie this morning. Or for that matter, when Maryann thanked you in this elevator.”
And when I fucked the living shit out of Miranda on top of the visa and work permit application forms, Jeff thought. Should I be pissed off and embarrassed? I feel like I should be… but I don’t think I really am.
“So privacy takes a back seat to data collection,” he said, wondering how he felt about having a bunch of biometric sensors implanted beneath his skin. He decided it was probably a small price to pay.
“Relax, Jeff,” Putnam said, patting his shoulder. “Outside the galleries we don’t use cameras or mics, it’s the same as any clinical diagnostic research you yourself have conducted hundreds of times. Again, we’re not making porn…”
“We’re doing science,” Jeff completed. “Yeah. I get that. I do. It’s just, uhh… a lot to take in, I guess.”
“Of course it is,” Putnam said sympathetically. “Trust me, you’re taking it in far better than most.”
The elevator dropped them off back on the ground floor and less than a minute later they had arrived at Kevin Langford’s well-appointed office.
“Holy shit,” Jeff said softly as he took in the scene.
“Uh! Oh! Ungh! Uh!” Those passionate grunts came from a naked, beautiful, voluptuous redhead who was bent over Langford’s large desk and was being roundly fucked by a young man whose pants were around his ankles. Jeff recognized the redhead as the girl he had met earlier that day, the one Freeman had identified as Bridget… Somebody… here interviewing for a job in the Marketing Department.
“Unngh! Oh! Fuck! Yes! Yes!”
Jeff blinked. She was getting one hell of an interview. There was a second man standing to the side, breathing heavily as he got dressed, buckling his belt and buttoning up his shirt. He had obviously just finished interviewing Miss O’Brien’s brains out.
“God! Uh! Yes! Uh! Uh! Uh!”
There was a third man… good-looking, middle-aged… leaning against a bookcase near the door they had entered, wearing pants but no shirt or shoes, watching the proceedings. He turned as they came in and nodded to Putnam.
“Cyrus. I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
“Uh! Oh! Ungh! Uh! God!”
“Sorry, Kevin… we were delayed,” Putnam said. “Kevin Langford, Jeff Napier, our newest ADR.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“Jeff. Welcome aboard,” Langford said, smiling but obviously a little anxious.
“Oh! Shit! Fuck! Yes! Uh! Uh!”
“Cyrus has been making it abundantly clear for the past month that we needed to steal you away from Merck,” Langford said, raising his voice a little to be heard over Bridget’s ongoing cries of passion. “I’m glad we did.”
“Thanks. Nice to—”
“Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Bridget screamed, cutting him off as she orgasmed. It was one hell of an orgasm. Her naked, sweat-soaked body was quivering and jerking like crazy as the waves of pleasure washed over her. It went on for nearly thirty seconds, and she was screaming her head off the entire time. Finally she collapsed on the desk, a giggling puddle.
The young man who had been fucking Bridget pulled out and staggered back. He held up a hand, clearly signaling that enough was enough.
“I’m done,” he gasped, breathing hard. “I’m sorry Mr. Langford, but that’s it, that’s all I can do, I’m done.”
“Okay, Jimmy, that’s fine,” Langford assured him. “You did great and we appreciate your help. Take the rest of the day off.”
Jimmy chuckled as he did up his trousers.
“Jesus. I think I’m gonna take a nap,” he said, smiling wearily.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” Putnam said, patting the young man on the back as he exited the office.
“Mmmnnnnnnnnn,” Bridget moaned, a satisfied grin on her ruddy face.
“Sorry, I’m done too, Kevin,” the other man said. “I’d like to help out some more, I really would, but I already had two sessions this morning before you called me.”
“No, that’s fine, Art,” Langford said, shaking the man’s hand. “I appreciate you taking the time and doing what you could.”
“Sure.” The man turned to Putnam. “This is not business as usual, Cyrus.”
“Clearly,” Putnam agreed as the man exited.
“This is a Code Four?” Jeff asked.
“It’s looking more and more like it is, yes,” Putnam acknowledged.
“Jesus, Cyrus, it is,” Langford insisted, grabbing a tablet from the coffee table. “I know I’m a laymen and I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, but Christ… look at these readings.”
He handed Putnam the tablet, which displayed the same sort of physiological data they had been obtaining from Maryann.
“Mmm,” Cyrus said, noncommittal.
“I know it’s all passive, she has no sensors, but still,” Langford said, making the case. Jeff looked over Putnam’s shoulders at the readout. Indeed, everything was off the charts. So far off the charts he wasn’t sure what to make of it. If he had seen these biometric readings coming from one of his test subjects at Merck he would have assumed the equipment was fucked up.
“And she’s still intoxicated, you say?” Putnam asked, handing the tablet to Jeff.
“Very. Stage five at least,” Langford confirmed. “See for yourself.”
“Name?” Putnam asked, obviously intending to see for himself, walking over to the desk.
“Bridget O’Brien,” Langford said.
“Ohhh yes,” Putnam said, recalling. “I remember Miss O’Brien’s psychometric profile. It was… unusually promising.” He gently stroked her disheveled hair and spoke softly. “Bridget?”
She stirred, her smile getting wider.
“I’m Brizzzet Bro… brien ann… ann I gotta ninnerview wizz… wizz… Booooooooooooze mart,” she gurgled drunkenly, then she giggled. “Fugginnn Boooooozemarnn.”
“What has she been drinking?” Putnam asked.
“It’s a long story, Cyrus,” Langford said, grabbing his shirt from a chair. “Short version: somehow she got both drunk on cocktails and stoned on weed after leaving security… we’re still not sure how… Tim McKenna detoxed her, and I started the standard orientation interview. She was at normal booster level, supposedly… but something was weird.”
“Weird how, Kevin?” Putnam asked, still stroking Bridget’s hair.
“Well,” Langford said, buttoning his shirt, “she was coming on to me like Parisian putain. I mean, way past normal parameters. And worse, she was demanding that I serve her more cocktails. I didn’t want to set up a psychobiological feedback loop… you guys have warned us about that… so I served her a thermos of Golden Sunsets I had left over from the PD backlog last month.”
“Golden Sunsets,” Putnam mused. “How long ago?”
“Ninety minutes,” Langford said.
“And, uhh… how many times…?”
“To be honest, Cyrus, I’m not sure how many times she’s orgasmed,” Langford said. He was seated in one of the wingchairs now, pulling on his socks. “Maybe you can determine that from the data. But I fucked her… let’s see… six times. I was spent, so I called in reinforcements. Between Jimmy and Art… another seven. And I seriously doubt she’s done.”
“I take it that’s unusual,” Jeff said.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Langford said with a lopsided grin, grabbing his shoes.
“It must have some connection to the fact that she’s still intoxicated,” Putnam murmured. He looked at Jeff, filling him in. “She should’ve burned off her drunk after the first go-round with Kevin. We build that in to the pharmacogenomics.”
“Sure,” Jeff nodded. “I saw that with Debbie.”
“Kevin,” Putnam sighed, “I have to apologize. I thought you were being an alarmist, but I think we do in fact have a Code Four on our hands.”
“So what the hell happened?” Langford asked, standing, fully-clothed again.
“In laymen’s terms… no offense…” Putnam began.
“None taken.”
“We fucked up her booster shot,” Putnam continued. “We somehow underestimated both her natural horniness and her penchant for intoxication.”
“How?” Jeff asked.
“Good question,” Putnam said, frowning. “We’ll find out, of course… but at a guess, I’d say she did such a good job of hiding the extent of her latent yearnings from herself that she effectively hid them from us as well.”
“She really, really loves getting drunk and fucking,” Langford translated, “but because she refused to let herself acknowledge that fact, we didn’t realize just how much she loves it.”
“Essentially, yes,” Putnam agreed. “Because she had never done both together before today… before we unintentionally introduced her to that precise category of sexual ecstasy… the intensity of her predilections were a secret to all of us.”
“So what do we do?” Jeff asked.
“In the long term, run tests, get better data, and adjust her prescription. In the short term… it depends on whether or not she’s had enough,” Putnam answered, stroking Bridget’s hair. He leaned close to her. “Bridget?”
Bridget O’Brien lifted herself up enough to see Putnam leaning over her. She grinned.
“Heyyyyyyyyyyy,” she drawled. “Yer cute.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Putnam said, smiling. “How are you—”
“Less fuck,” Bridget said, taking one of Putnam’s hands and placing on one of her huge, sweaty breasts. “I wanna… wanna gezzzrunk ann… ann fuck you.”
“I guess that answers that question,” Langford said with a smirk.
“Wanna fuck,” Bridget insisted drunkenly, lying on her back. “Annn then we’ll… we’ll gezzzrunk ann… ann fuck summore.”
“So what do we do?” Jeff asked, repeating himself.
“Well… as Kevin correctly pointed out,” Putnam said with a sigh, “we don’t want to set up a psychobiological feedback loop.”
“Which means…?” Jeff asked, pretty sure he knew the answer.
“Which means we fuck her until she’s satisfied,” Putnam declared. “Or until she passes out naturally… whichever comes first.”
“We?” Jeff asked.
“I’m pretty sure this is gonna take both of us, Jeff,” Putnam said, unbuckling his belt.
Bridget giggled as Putnam’s pants dropped to the floor.
“Ever bunny hazzta fuck Brinnget O’Brimann,” she declared to the world.
“Holy shit,” Jeff said.
“Welcome to BoozeMart, Doc,” Langford said with a grin.