Misc. Erotica The Problem With Immortality

The Necessity of Pain

"There's something wrong with you," Jessica observed, as she lounged on the hotel room bed in a bra and panties. Her hand was inside her panties, casually masturbating, as she often did in front of him.

"What do you mean?" said Anson, studying his datapad.

"Ever since you came back from the doubleblind, you've been silent. Absolutely silent."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"Almost absolutely silent." She leaned forward. "And now you're going to submit yourself to the sadists who inflict pain."

"Mild discomfort, not pain."

"Whatever. Do you really think Francisco Odour is going to let people Inflict pain on him? You've gone way, way off profile this time, Anson. This isn't about Odour at all, is it?"

Anson didn't reply.

"What happened to you, Anson? What really happened during those six hours, those six long hours in that hotel room with that mystery woman? What did she say to you, Anson? What did she do to you?"

"Nothing," said Anson.

Jessica lifted his head so she could see his eyes. "It was her, wasn't it, Anson?"

"Who?"

"You treat me like a fool, but I'm not," said Jessica. "I did a little research on Carl, the guy I was having sex with while you were with your mystery woman--and by the way, before I forget, Carl is simply tremendous in bed! His penis is amazing, and his testicles! They make this wonderful banging sound when they--anyway, I digress. I did a little digging on Carl, and his associations, and do you know what name I came up with?"

Anson didn't reply.

"That's right. Jennifer. Your ex-wife. She was there, with you, in your hotel room. What did the two of you do for six hours?"

"We had sex," said Anson woodenly.

"For six hours? Did your parts wear off?" She looked closely at Anson. "What did she do to you, Anson? What did she say?"

"Nothing," said Anson.

"And now you're going to do this, this... seeking out pain. Well, I'm not with you on this, Anson, you're on your own on this one."

"Fine," said Anson.

No one would say that Jabil Morrison had led a charmed life. When he was nine, he saw his younger brother run over by an air car.

His mother was killed by a mechanical grape picker on his family farm when he was 12.

His father was killed by a robotic steamroller that malfunctioned when he was 13.

Jabil was raised by his grandparents, who were trampled to death by a runaway hoarde of giraffes from the Omaha Zoo when he was 15.

That was bound to have an effect on young Jabil. At first, Jabil coped by cutting himself. He was institutionalized and drugged. When he was judged rehabilitated, he was released. He returned to school and eventually went to medical school and pursued a career in pain management. With a particular emphasis on how to cause pain.

With the population increasingly depressed by the prospect of eternal life, with more and more people killing themselves with Weed, or killing themselves by rotting away in the Dreamscape, or killing themselves in Soylent Green Centers, or just plain old killing themselves, there was a demand for panaceas for the restlessness of immortality.

And Jabil Morrison saw a need he could fill. He created a Pain Management Center, where people's nerves could be stimulated so they could feel mild charges of discomfort in different parts of their bodies. That pain, while totally harmless, could turn people's lives around and give them meaning, the way pain gave Jabil's life meaning after his parents died.

Anson was desperate enough to try almost anything at this point. He had been extremely traumatized by his experience with Jennifer. Not by the sex--the sex had been wonderful. It had been afterwards, realizing that he still loved Jennifer, and that Jennifer still loved him, but he could never, ever have her. It was too much for him to bear.

Anson sulked for a long two weeks after his encounter with her. He seriously contemplated killing himself. Oh, not through going to a Soylent Green Center or by getting hooked on Synthetic Weed; that wasn't his style at all. He toyed with the idea of plugging himself into the Dreamscape. His body would rot away in a few years, but he could spend all that time thinking of Jennifer.

The more rational part of him still ruled, however, but needed something to end the pain, the obsessiveness of his near-constant thoughts of Jennifer. Perhaps these mild pain treatments could be the shock to his system he would be needing. At this point he was no longer even pretending to be helping Francisco Odour; this was all about helping himself.

"So how much pain are we talking about, exactly?"

"It's not really even pain," said the Jabil. His bald head shined brightly in the light of his office. His black goatee would have made him look sinister, if he weren't so soft spoken. "It is more a sensation than pain. Calling it mild discomfort would be much more accurate."

"And this... discomfort... helps people? How?"

"In two ways. Have you ever been in discomfort, Mr. Ford?"

"Frequently," Ford smiled grimly.

"By that I mean a stomach ache, a toothache, a headache?"

"Of course."

"And when you suffered these maladies, did the other things that bothered you life trouble you?"

"Of course not. I was focused on the pain."

"Exactly." Jabil's eyes were shining.

"But you can't keep me in pain full time."

"Of course not. The actual interval of discomfort is not more than a moment or two. But after the discomfort is removed, that's when the healing begins. You feel so good to be free of discomfort, that your mind adjusts. Instead of focusing on your problems, you feel happy to be the way you are."

"Free of discomfort."

"Precisely," said Ford.

"And... I can discontinue treatment at any time? Even in the middle of a treatment?"

"Of course. You are always in charge. That is my pledge to all my clients," said Jabil.

Ford took a deep breath. "All right. I'll give it a try."

"Excellent! Just sign here, and here, and here, and here and here...."

After Anson filled out the necessary electronic forms, and made the even more necessary payment, he was processed into the clinic, given a room, and a white robe to wear. All the clients wore white robes here. The medical staff wore white pants and white shirts. Those were the only two kinds of clothes in this place.

Anson was assigned to a waiting room to await his first treatment. He found a depressed looking sandy haired fellow sitting next to him, and found himself striking up a conversation.

His name was Charlie Ransom. He was the owner of a company which produced a special kind of lubricating oil used extensively by robots and other mechanicals. He was quite wealthy. He lived with his wife, Jeanny, and had four children, nine grandchildren, and many more great grandchildren beyond that.

"So why are you here?" Anson asked.

"This has been my life for over 200 years. I go to work, I make money, but I don't feel anything. I go to dinner with my wife, I make love to my wife, I don't feel anything. I see my kids, my grandkids, I don't feel anything. It's all the same thing. Too much of the exact same thing," said Ransom. "I need to be able to feel again. To feel anything."

"Even pain?"

"Even pain," said Ransom. "It makes me feel alive again. After a treatment, I find myself grateful not to be in pain. For a time I can even feel happy, a little, and talk to my wife, my children, with some genuine joy in my heart."

"I guess that's something," said Anson. He realized Ransom's situation was much different than his. Anson was trying to distract himself from his own pain. Ransom felt no pain; Ransom felt nothing. For a moment, Anson wondered who was worse off.

And then, Anson was called into the next room.

He was met by a bald man with a black goatee who could have been a duplicate of Jabil Morrison. But this was a different person. He introduced himself as Mr. Walker. "So nice to meet you, Mr. Ford. If you'll lie down on the table, please."

Anson saw a padded table, with something above it that looked like a giant laser. He nodded, and lay down on the table with some trepidation.

Mr. Walker, whistling as he worked, secured clamps on Anson's arms, legs, and finally his head. "What are these for?"Anson asked.

"Just a safety precaution. To make sure you don't shift position while the beam is in operation. We don't want you to get seriously injured, Mr. Ford. Safety is our top priority," said Mr. Walker, smiling at him.

Anson noticed that the room was almost empty, except for the table he was on and the control panel behind him. But one wall of the room was different from the rest--it was all reflective, like a giant mirror. He wondered why it had been made that way.

Mr. Walker went over to his control panel. "Are you ready?"

Anson paused. "I guess."

"There's nothing to fear," said Mr. Walker. "This will only be an introductory level one treatment. My grandmother could handle a level one treatment."

"It's funny that grandmothers are never around when people say things like that."

Mr. Walker chuckled. "I admire your sense of humor, Mr. Ford. Let us begin, shall we?"

He waved his hands over his virtual control panel. The machinery that looked like a giant laser gun started to glow. It moved on a track in the ceiling, slowly repositioning itself until it was over his left hand.

There was a loud hum, and a beam of light struck out from the giant laser. It struck Anson's hand, and---

He felt nothing.

At first.

Then he felt a... warmth.

Then the warmth became stronger. His hand started to tingle.

And then he felt the slightest edge of discomfort. The discomfort built, ever so slightly, and stayed that way for a moment, then two minutes, and then a third minute. Anson was about to ask what was going on when the beam shut off, and so did the discomfort.

Anson felt the restraints retracting into the table.

"How do you feel, Mr. Ford?" said Mr. Walker, walking up to him with a smile.

Anson looked at his hand. The mild discomfort was gone, but the memory of it remained. "I feel... fine. No different."

"This was, of course, the test setting. Designed more to acclimate yourself with the procedure rather than to actually treat you. But now you understand what we do, you will hopefully approach the next treatment without apprehension."

Anson nodded.

Mr. Walker clapped him on the back. "Get some rest. I'll see you after lunch for your next treatment."

Anson walked out of the room, numb. He felt no different. Would this treatment really work?

At lunch he found himself thinking about Jennifer. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she in Carl's arms? Obviously, Anson was still obsessed with her. But he had just begun the treatments. He looked around at the other patients. They ate their lunches quietly. Some of them were in a daze. He didn't see Charlie Ransom, the man he had met before.

After lunch, Anson sat once again in the waiting room. This time the waiting room was empty. But suddenly, he heard a scream from one of the treatment rooms. First there was one scream, and then another, and then a third, louder than the next. It sounded like it was coming from the third treatment room on the right. Anson went up and went to the door and was about to try and open it-

When Mr. Walker came out of the first door.

"Someone's screaming in here," said Anson, indicating the third door.

Mr. Walker stood still, listening. "I don't hear anything."

Anson listened as well. The screaming had stopped. "I heard it before."

"I don't think so, Mr. Ford."

"Let's go inside and make sure everything's all right," said Anson.

He felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ford, but interfering with another patient's treatment is strictly forbidden, for privacy and ethical reasons."

Anson looked at the door, and back at Mr. Walker, and thought about it. The screams had not resumed.

Nodding reluctantly, he followed Mr. Walker into the other treatment room.

"Please remove your clothes, Mr. Ford."

"Why?" Anson asked.

"It's necessary for treatment."

"It wasn't necessary last time."

"Last time we tested your hand. We may treat other areas of your body that we need unobstructed access to. Please remove your clothes, Mr. Ford."

Anson reluctantly removed his white robe.

"All your clothes, Mr. Ford."

Anson removed his underwear, wondering why this was necessary.

"Now please lie down on the treatment table, Mr. Ford," said Mr. Walker pleasantly.

Anson paused. He thought about the screaming at the other room. But then he looked at Mr. Walker's innocent face. The bald goateed man smiled pleasantly at him. He had already put himself under his power once before.

Anson reluctantly lay down. This time instead of securing the restraints manually they came out of table and curved around him.

And then Mr. Walker started to walk out of the room.

"Where are you going?"

"Strictly speaking, my job is only to prepare patients for treatment. Mr. Wheeler will be in shortly to conduct your session." He saw the look of anxiety on Anson's face. "Don't worry. He's very gentle."

Anson lay there, strapped to the table, for an interminable period of time. Then he heard footsteps, and a new person entered the room.

It could have been a clone of Mr. Walker. Like Mr. Walker, and like Jabil Morrison, he was totally bald, with a black goatee, but his cheekbone structure and nose was different. That was the only way Anson could tell him apart, because everyone seemed to dress alike here.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ford," said the newcomer, in a deeper voice than Mr. Walker. "My name is Mr. Wheeler, and I will be conducting your session." He casually walked by the table where Anson was strapped down. Anson was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was strapped down to a table, totally naked, with his legs spread, in a very vulnerable position. Anything could be done to him. Anything.

Mr. Wheeler smiled, as if he were telepathic and could read Anson's thoughts. Or maybe Anson's facial expression conveyed his latent fear.

Mr. Wheeler rested a casual arm on Anson, and then pulled at one of the circular cuffs. "You're all nice and restrained, I see," he said, smiling again, and somehow his smile gave Anson chills.

Mr. Wheeler went to his virtual control panel, and started to operate it. The giant laser device moved so that it was over his left arm. It started to hum with power.

"You may feel a slight pinprick, Mr. Ford," said Mr. Wheeler.

And then the beam shot out, and Anson felt discomfort on his left arm. And then discomfort turned to pain.

Real pain. Not searing hot pain, but throbbing, insistent pain. Anson gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. He stared at the mirrored wall across from the table. The throbbing continued, and it intensified. Suddenly he realized it was too much. He was going to scream out for it to stop.

But just as he opened his mouth, the laser device stopped, and the pain vanished.

The restraints retracted themselves. Anson cautiously got up.

"How do you feel, Mr. Ford?" Mr. Wheeler asked.

Anson cautiously touched his arm. There was no sign of injury.

"As you can see, you were never really harmed. All that happened is that your nerve endings were a little... overstimulated," said Mr. Wheeler. "Now why don't you go and relax until dinner and we'll have another session in the morning?"

Anson left the room, feeling a little confused. He had been in pain, that much was clear. But now the pain was gone. And how did he feel?

Relieved. Good, even. He felt good not being in pain. He sat in a lounge, with other people recovering from treatments, and just sat there, staring at a wall. No stimulation was needed. It felt good just not to be in pain. This is what Jabil Morrison meant. He was seeing first hand the benefit of the treatments. He wasn't thinking about Jennifer. He wasn't thinking about the utter futility of life.

All he was thinking about was how wonderful it was to be free of pain.

Anson saw Charlie Ransom at dinner that night and sat next to him. "How was your treatment?" he asked.

"Fine," said Charlie. "I actually felt so good afterwards that I called my grandkids. Being in discomfort, and now free of discomfort, gives me a whole new appreciation of life."

"You mean, being free of pain, right?" said Anson. "I just had my second treatment, and it was pretty painful."

"No, it was just discomfort, nothing more," said Charlie, looking at him oddly.

And as Charlie talked some more Anson realized that Charlie's voice was the same voice he had heard screaming, earlier in the day. He was almost sure of it.

But talking to Charlie now, he seemed completely normal. He wouldn't even admit that he had been in pain. He told Charlie what had happened to him.

"...if you have a problem with the treatment talk to one of the staff. There's Mr. Walker, right there," said Charlie, pointing with his spoon.

"Thanks, I will," said Anson.

He got up and went over to Mr. Walker, who was sitting and eating dinner at a staff table. He smiled and greeted Anson. Anson indicated he wanted to talk privately and they went into another room together. Anson explained his experience with Mr. Wheeler, and how painful it had been.

"Painful, Anson? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"The treatments are not supposed to be painful. Merely uncomfortable," said Walker. He appeared to think about it. "I'll have a word with Mr. Wheeler. I'll tell him to make extra sure that you're being treated on the lowest setting."

"Thanks, I greatly appreciate it."

"You're most welcome, Mr. Ford," Mr. Walker smiled at him.

As Anson stripped off his clothes and lay back on the treatment table, Mr. Walker smiled at him. "I had a talk with Mr. Wheeler. He promised to take extra good care of you."

"Good," said Anson, watching the restraints close around his arms and legs.

As soon as Mr. Walker saw he was secure, he left the room.

A few moments later, Mr. Wheeler entered.

"Hello, Mr. Ford. So good to see you again," said Mr. Wheeler, looking at Anson's naked, bound, and spreadlegged form.

"Hello, Mr. Wheeler," said Anson, for some reason feeling apprehension.

Mr. Wheeler, humming a merry tune, went to his virtual control panel and started to operate it. The laser above Anson moved until it was pointing at his right thigh.

"Are we ready to proceed, Mr. Ford?"

"Yes," said Anson, his voice heavy with apprehension.

The laser above him hummed, and then lashed out. Anson started to feel discomfort in his thigh. Discomfort quickly turned into mild pain. Mild pain turned into throbbing pain. Throbbing pain turned into-

"Stop!" Anson screamed. "Stop it! It hurts! It hurts!"

But the beam continued. He felt the stabbing pain extend from his thigh, down his leg, up into his body. The pain was spreading. Anson screamed. "Stoppppp!" he yelled.

And then the beam stopped.

The restraints drew back.

"Are you all right, Mr. Ford?" said Mr. Wheeler.

"Why didn't you stop when I asked you to?"

"But I did, Mr. Ford. Immediately."

Anson looked at him warily. "It was painful. Extremely painful."

"But Mr. Ford, I was only using the second setting. That's the lowest setting, right after the test setting. It would be impossible for you to experience pain."

Anson looked at Mr. Wheeler. He looked so sincere, so earnest. "Well, I felt pain."

"I'll have the equipment checked from top to bottom. We'll get to the bottom of this, before your next session, I promise," said Mr. Wheeler.

Anson got dressed and left without saying another word. But when he saw Mr. Walker at lunch, he immediately went over to him and told him what happened.

"Mr. Wheeler gave you intense pain? And then, he continued treatment even as you were screaming in pain?" Mr. Walker looked incredulous.

"Yes. It happened."

"Mr. Ford! I am so sorry. I am going to get Mr. Morrison involved at once. Immediately! I am going to report back to you. Don't go for any more treatments until you hear back from me!"

"Don't worry, I won't," said Anson. He sat in the lunchroom, slowly eating his food. Mr. Wheeler had seemed so sincere. Could it be possible the equipment merely malfunctioned?

An hour later he had the answer. Mr. Walker returned and sat down next to him. "I've done some investigating and reviewed the session logs. Everything you've said is entirely correct. Mr. Wheeler used the level 7 pain setting, which is entirely inappropriate except under the most unusual circumstances."

"He did?"

"He did," said Mr. Walker. "Mr. Wheeler no longer works for Integrative Pain Management. He has been let go. You have my sincerest apologies, Mr. Ford."

Anson looked at Mr. Walker. So he hadn't imagined it. He had just fallen in the hands of a bad actor. "All right," he said slowly. "There's no harm done. No permanent harm, anyway."

"Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Ford. And if you're ready for your next treatment, I want you to know that I myself will be handling it."

Anson gave a sigh of relief. "That would make me very happy, Mr. Walker."

"Then let's go to the treatment room and get you started, shall we?"

Mr. Walker escorted Anson to a treatment room. This time Anson took off his clothes without hesitation and lay back on the treatment table. He trusted Mr. Walker.

Mr. Walker made sure all the restraints were secure, then he said, "Oh! I forgot one tiny thing. I will be right back, Mr. Ford!"

And he left the room.

Anson lay there, naked, strapped to the table, and looked around the large room. That large mirrored wall nagged at him. Why would they have a wall with giant mirrors? It made no sense.

A moment turned into two minutes which turned into five minutes, and then Anson heard footsteps coming into the room. "Oh, I was wondering what had happened to-" he looked up, and saw that it wasn't Mr. Walker.

It was Mr. Wheeler.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Ford. Are you ready to start your next treatment?" Mr. Wheeler asked.

"No... no, you were fired," said Anson.

"You're mistaken, Mr. Ford," said Mr. Wheeler, smiling as he looked at Anson's nude, bound body. He ran a hand along Anson's arm. "I am a senior pain technician at the Institute. This is my job."

He casually went over to his virtual console. "Are you ready for treatment, Mr. Ford?"

"No! No! I refuse treatment! Let me go! Let me go!" Anson cried.

"Then let's begin," said Mr. Wheeler.

The laser device hummed, and this time it struck out, at his left arm, but it was immediately extremely painful. It felt like his flesh had been burned.

"That was only an 8 setting, Mr. Ford. Would you like to try a 9?"

"No! No! Let me go!" said Anson.

Mr. Wheeler laughed, and a beam struck out again, searing his right arm. Anson screamed in pain.

"Are you enjoying your therapy, Mr. Ford?"

"No!" said Anson, struggling against his bonds. "Stop this! I want Mr. Walker!"

"You want Mr. Walker?" Mr. Wheeler asked.

"Yes! Yes! Get me Mr. Walker!"

"Then it's Mr. Walker you shall have."

And Mr. Wheeler walked up to Anson, still bound to the table, and then Mr. Wheeler stared down at him, and then he put a hand up to his own face, and started to pull on it. His nose, his cheeks, and his chin started to fall off. In moments they were gone, and underneath it was...

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Ford," said Mr. Walker.

"You... you're both the same people?"

"Quite right," said Mr. Walker, smiling at him.

"Why.... Why?" Anson asked.

"I think others are better equipped to explain that."

And suddenly the mirrored wall became clear, like glass, and Anson saw Jabil Morrison there, as well as several other men. And women. They were all bald. And they were all naked, lying on couches.

Facing him.

"What's going on here?"

Anson heard Jabil's voice over a wireless comm system, from the other room. "You are to provide our entertainment this afternoon, Mr. Ford," said Jabil.

"Entertainment?"

"Your pain will be our pleasure."

And then Anson looked at the naked men, rubbing the naked women, and then he understood. "You... you get sexually excited from watching other people in pain?"

"That's correct, Mr. Ford. My Institute actually caters to two distinct sets of clients. Those who like to receive pain, and those who like to watch it."

"But... why?"

"How much do you know about my background, Mr. Ford?" Jabil asked.

"I did some research... you lost your entire family, in tragic circumstances."

"Yes, very tragic. My mother, killed by a mechanical grape picker. A grape picker which I sabotaged. My father run over by a robotic steamroller, after I drugged him and lay him in front of it. My grandparents were killed by escaped animals from the zoo. I can't tell you how hard that was to arrange."

"You... murdered all of them?" Anson said.

"At a young age I learned that for me, others' pain was my pleasure. It really is a zero sum game, I'm afraid. So I set up this Institute, for people like me, to... enjoy themselves."

"But... how come no one has ever reported you?"

"Simply because no one who leaves the institute is ever unhappy. Once your treatments reach a certain level, you are given an amnesia mist which wipes out your short term memory and leaves you susceptible to suggestion. All you remember is that you had a refreshing treatment."

"No..." said Anson. He suddenly realized he was tied down and in the hands of professional sadists.

"I can't tell you how happy I was that a man of your caliber fell into our hands. We are really going to enjoy ourselves with you, Mr. Ford."

"No!" said Anson, struggling against his bonds. But they held him tight.

"You may proceed, Mr. Walker."

Mr. Walker moved his hands over the virtual control panel. A beam of light stabbed out, hitting Anson in the chest. He screamed in pain.

"No!" Anson cried.

"Is the pain level too high for you, Mr. Ford?" said Jabil, fondling a woman with one hand.

"Yes!" Anson cried.

"Very well. We wouldn't want you to be in too much discomfort. Mr. Walker, reduce the pain setting to 4."

"Yes sir."

"And aim directly for Mr. Ford's penis."

"No!" Anson cried.

The beam shot out, and Anson felt an excruciating pain in his cock and balls. There was no actual damage being done, but the nerve endings felt like they were being peeled off his skin.

He was tortured for the longest time, in all different parts of his body, in all different intensities. Part of the torture was not knowing how painful the next beam would be. It felt like he was tortured for hours, but was probably much less than that. But the pain was intense. Every time he screamed, he looked to the windowed wall, he saw Jabil, and his male companions, watching him, fondling their women. Some of them actually had vaginal intercourse, getting off on the sounds of his screams. They could hear him, but he could also hear them, giving off different kinds of moans as, one by one, they ejaculated into their women.

And then, when the last one had come, Jabil said, "That's enough for now, Mr. Walker." and the device was deactivated.

"How are you holding up, Mr. Ford?"

Anson's throat was sore from screaming. Every inch of his body had been bursting in pain. Had been. The pain was mysteriously gone. But the memory of it, of the intensity of it, was still alive in his brain.

"You bastard."

"You were quite exciting. I don't think I've ejaculated inside of Irena quite so vigorously in some time. I cannot wait until tomorrow when we do limb extraction."

"Limb extraction?"

"We cut off one of your limbs, without anesthesia, I'm afraid, and then we listen to you scream for several minutes before reattaching it."

"No!"

"Don't worry, we start off with a finger or two first, to let you get used to it."

"No, I won't let you."

A mist started to fall from the ceiling. "I'm afraid you won't be remembering very much from our conversation, other than that you had such a productive and refreshing session."

"No.... no... no...." But then Anson's mind started to fog, and everything went black.

Gradually, Anson found himself eating dinner in the dining hall. How had he gotten here? He had had some kind of session... a session, with Mr. Walker.... He tried to remember what had happened, but couldn't.

He looked over at the other diners. They seemed dazed, just staring out into space. Maybe the treatments did that to them. Maybe that's what the treatments were supposed to do, to distract them from the problems in their life.

But Anson was sorely confused. Then Mr. Walker dropped by to say hello. "Hey, Mr. Ford, how are you doing?"

"Fine," said Anson, not really sure.

"Are you enjoying your sessions?" Mr. Walker asked.

"I think so," said Anson.

"Good," said Mr. Walker. "I think you're progressing well. Tomorrow morning we're going to take you to the next step."

"The next step?"

Mr. Walker smiled. "It will feel like... being broken down into little pieces, but then put back together, even better than new. Trust me, you'll love it." His smile seemed so sincere, so genuine, that Anson felt no choice but to smile back.

That night when Anson went to bed, he felt troubled, but he didn't know why. He dreamed of Master Pho, from the Ju Chi Monastery. Master Pho was trying to tell him something, but when Master Pho opened his mouth to speak, Anson couldn't hear the words.

The next morning Anson reported to the treatment room. He stripped off his clothes and lay down on the table.

"That's good, Mr. Ford. You know the routine quite well," said Mr. Walker soothingly, as the restraints slowly slid into place.

The restraints.

Anson had a sudden flash of struggling against the restraints. Had he? Or had it been just a dream?

He looked at the mirrored wall. Something was wrong with it. And then it was no longer a mirror, but a viewscreen, and Anson saw a story play out on it. A story of decadent bald men, having sex. Having sex amid screams.

His screams.

And then, suddenly, he remembered.

"Are you ready for treatment, Mr. Ford?" said Mr. Walker pleasantly.

"No!" Anson cried. "Mr. Walker. Mr. Wheeler, whatever your name is!"

"He remembers," said Mr. Walker, surprise in his voice. "How much do you remember, Mr. Ford?"

"Everything," said Anson. "Release me from here!"

The mirrored wall became clear again, and Anson saw Jabil, naked, along with other men and women. "So you remember, Mr. Ford! Very good! Now I won't have to explain everything again! I get so tired of doing that. It's such a pity your memory only returned after you submitted yourself to restraint. But don't worry, after this session we'll give you a double dose of the amnesia gas, so there will be no chance of you remembering anything at all."

"No!" said Anson. "Let me go!" He struggled against his bonds. But they held him tight.

Jabil laughed. "Mr. Ford, those bonds were made to hold a much stronger man than you."

He was back at the Monastery.

There had just been a terrible storm the night before in Northern Tibet. A giant tree trunk had fallen in Master Pho's favorite lily pond. Anson watched in awe as Master Pho lifted the trunk and tossed it aside as if it were a twig.

"How strong are you, Master Pho?" said Anson.

"As strong as I wish to be, Chipmunk," said Master Pho.

"But Master, are there not physical limits on what the body can do?"

"There are limits, but the human body is not accustomed to even approaching them," said Master Pho. "Evolution has given us strong minds and strong bodies, but we still tap only a tiny amount of our potential. Our arms are only a certain strength because we believe that they are of a certain strength. When you stop believing in your limitations, you can achieve almost anything."

"But how do you do that, Master? How do you tell your body to stop being limited?"

Master Pho laughed. "How does the sparrow fly, Chipmunk? Or the robin sing? Each does according to its own. Each according to its own will."

"Let's have some appetizer pain before we get to the main course," said Jabil. "His left foot, please."

A beam shot out and hit his left foot. Anson screamed in pain.

"Oh yes, that sounds so good, Mr. Ford," said Jabil, fondling a bald woman's large breasts. "Now his other foot."

Anson screamed again as the next beam hit him.

The bald woman whispered something in Jabil's ear. "What? There? Why not! Walker, shoot him in the penis. It was so entertaining yesterday. But this time, give him an 8 setting." The woman fondling Jabil tittered.

"No!" Anson cried.

Time slowed down to a standstill. Anson had been struggling against his bonds furiously. They were made of a thick plastic that was not at all yielding. But then he remembered Master Pho speaking, and now he heard the words, and the words coming out of those lips were, "Need. Chipmunk. Need drives all abilities."

And then something in Anson's brain clicked, and he looked at his right arm in a new light, and with barely any exertion he lifted it up, and the restraints snapped off as if they were made of paper. And then Anson looked at his left arm, and he did the same, and then he ripped the restraint off his throat, and off his legs.

All this had taken less than three seconds. He was up and off the couch even as the beam was stabbing out to where his penis had been.

Time speeded up and Mr. Walker was running towards him, a stun rod of some kind in his hand. Anson brushed his hand holding the device aside and punched Mr. Walker in the gut. The punch sent him flying across the room. Then Anson ran to the glass wall, and punched so hard that the glass shattered. Suddenly, there was open air between him, and several very surprised looking naked people.

"Greetings," said Anson, his face grim, his right hand dripping blood. He smacked his fist into his palm. "Greetings, from the land of beatings."

The naked bald people recoiled and drew back, horror etched on their face. They could have easily overwhelmed him with superior numbers, but somehow the sight of a grim faced bleeding naked man, staring at them with death in his eyes, was more than they could bear. They trembled as he slowly approached them, a small smile set on his lips.