Experiments: Pharmacological Research Gone Berserk James W. Nelson

ISBN: 9781460987490

Published: March 21st 2011


308 pages


Experiments: Pharmacological Research Gone Berserk  by  James W. Nelson

Experiments: Pharmacological Research Gone Berserk by James W. Nelson
March 21st 2011 | Paperback | PDF, EPUB, FB2, DjVu, audiobook, mp3, ZIP | 308 pages | ISBN: 9781460987490 | 9.79 Mb

SHEA MCTORY, 31, is down on his luck, way down. His short photography career fell to the alcohol-saturated party scene. For a few years hes been on the street, scratching from job to job. He gets more than bargained for when he answers the ad:MoreSHEA MCTORY, 31, is down on his luck, way down. His short photography career fell to the alcohol-saturated party scene.

For a few years hes been on the street, scratching from job to job. He gets more than bargained for when he answers the ad: VOLUNTEERS WANTED, FREE FOOD, PAY.... All he wanted was a roof over his head, to earn some money, maybe get some good food.What the ad didnt say: That the food would not be...tasty- that, among other more benign men, he would be locked up with an adolescent-minded ex-sailor, and a psychopath- that he would be chosen to lead an assault on another volunteer- that he would stumble across secret, illegal, and dangerous miracle drug research- that he would write an expose article and provide photographs- and that he would meet NATALIE, the love of his life.EXPERIMENTS delves into human nutritional research and the psychological trials faced by the live-in male volunteers.

The Metabolism & Excretion Analysis Laboratory, MEAL, Drammenberg, North Dakota, has provided Shea a temporary home. Its easy and relaxing, but when he does not get what he wants, impatience and immaturity can become nearly overwhelming.

For fellow human beings he shows little compassion, gives, but grudgingly.Story begins in November, four months into a six-month study. Shea wants a cigarette, syrupy pancakes, a woman, and in that order, but no foreign substances allowed. He is told what and when to eat, how to go to the bathroom, and goes nowhere outside their living quarters without a chaperone to guarantee absolute adherence to the rules.

The volunteers job is to eat, defecate in the bag, urinate in the bottle. No exceptions.Private rooms are provided. Everything else must be shared. The volunteers must be patient, cooperate, entertain themselves, and accept their research roles.Frustrations build, tempers flare, love affairs, friendships, hatreds, develop.Excerpt from Chapter 8 Lord CigaretteShea was smoking his last cigarette as he entered MEAL for the first time...months later he still wants a cigarette, and has just spied one that a former volunteer must have left just for him to find.Sheas hopeful new outlook devastated, he was too flabbergasted to answer and just stared at Ballard.

How could MEAL do that to him? How could they? He wanted a cigarette. Bad. Worse than ever. Nothing in the world was so dependable as Cigarette!And suddenly he saw one. In his peripheral vision. Just a long thin thing of purest white at the bottom of the east brick wall under the overhang. He tore his eyes away, forced himself to look just at Ballard, forced himself to think the white thing was not there, was a figment of his imagination.He knew cigarettes would make a difference in the study, for Churchill had said right after his first underwater weighing, ‘Smoker, huh?’ Or was it after his first physical work capacity?Did not make a damn.

Churchill had known and would know again. The important thing: Shea would know.Well, see you later, Shea. Ballard again started away, Thanks again for your help.Sure, dont mention it. Sure. Swell! But who helped him? Who lent the understanding ear to him?

Who cared? He again looked at that white thing, and then heard the hatch close. Ballard was gone. Nobody would know. That floaty feeling jabbed his head, causing an instant headache. But he stared hard at that white thing, thinking of how he would feel if he lit up. And he had matches. He had hidden one book. Just in case.The floaty feeling engulfed him. Dizziness tore his temples. He pushed himself up, mashing his little finger on sharp gravel, Fuck! lost his balance and mashed it worse, “Fuck!” then grabbed the towel and threw himself to his feet. The dizzy spell persisted. His head whirled.

He hung onto the ventilation port, subconsciously wishing the nicotine desire would pass, but consciously wanting it more right then than anything in the world.He grabbed his book and pushed away from the port, staggered once, then made it to the hatch, forced himself to lift it quietly. He hung the sunglasses on the belt loop, then slipped onto the ladder, closed and locked the hatch quietly.

He moved with the stealth of a hunter now, the quarry his old friend Cigarette! He reached the bottom, squatted, grasped the third rung, from the bottom, dropped the three feet and landed silently. He opened the door.Nobody there.Through the exercise room he sped, feet flying calmly but deliberately, down the hall.

His room. He turned the knob, entered quickly, closed the door quickly and quietly, tossed the book and towel to land on his bed. No stopping or thinking. No anything! He jerked open the fold-down desk, pulled a tiny drawer completely out—completely out!

It hit the floor with a crash, spraying paper clips, coins, a tiny shiny flag, other personal odds and ends.For one second he stared at the small disaster.Then he leaned and gaped into the cubbyhole.The matches lay flat against the back wall of the drawer space. With no more hesitation he grabbed a pen and dug them out, crammed them into his pocket, made a wide step over the disaster area, flew to the door. He edged it open. Nobody in the hall. Out the door, feet flying again.

A door opening ahead. The janitors room.He willed his feet to fly faster. He would get past that person silently. He would not cause even a stir of air. White smock. Nurse. He held his breath, stretched his legs, go, Go, GO! GO!The nurse stepped backward into the hall while closing the door.

Isabel! The womans gray hair perched on her head in new permanent curls. It looked nice. He should compliment her. She would be hurt, terribly hurt, if she knew what he planned. So he didnt think about it, nothing to think about.

He was going to smoke! Her face was still turned away. He could get by. Go. Go! She turned.Shea, her face brightened, Where are you going in such a hurry? Then her smile faded as he passed without even slowing, the matches burning right into his leg.Got to get some sun, Isabel. Talk to you later. Yeah, right.

If he got caught there wouldnt be any later. Around the corner he sprinted, his mind racing ahead of him. Through the exercise room. Through the No Admittance door, onto the landing. He grabbed the ladder, hoisted himself, climbed. The hatch. He pushed. It would not budge. He pushed harder, and harder, and harder! The nicotine desire was now gone. Now it was solely in his head that he would smoke! He would reclaim his friendship with Lord Cigarette!He leaned his back and shoulder into the hatch, straining, groaning, about to cry out. Finally, finally he saw the latch in place and remembered securing it.

Stupid! With a muffled cry he threw it free and popped the hatch. He no longer cared if he got caught. He left it open, flew to the brick wall where he had seen that white thing.And there it lay. Tight against the wall. Sheltered from the elements for who knew how long? He did not care. Probably left there by some long past volunteer just for Shea to find.An unused, unfiltered, Camel.

Lord of all Cigarettes!His breath came in an anguished gasp. He put his sunglasses back on, then knelt and picked the cigarette up, ran it past his nose. Ah, the delicious aroma of even dry, very dry, tobacco. His heart pounded, slow-beating loudly now in anticipation.

Sweat beaded on his head, all over his body. The high, floaty feeling returned in a near-orgasm of delight. He would explode if he didnt light up. He placed it between his lips, just to the right of center, and let it hang, coolly.He would smoke. He was going to SMOKE!The matches.

He stood, calm now, cool now, yet felt his head throbbing. He placed his hand in his pocket, touched the book of matches, ever so slightly moist from his splurge of emotion and haste. He drew them out, held the book in his hand. He stared hard at the demanding advertisement.Smoke’em!His head throbbed impatiently.He opened the book and ripped out a match. And hesitated. Pain slashed his stomach. That pain would go away as soon as he inhaled that first rich drag, as soon as he smoked! He moaned. Barely a sound.

He struck the match. It flamed with a roar and a burst of sulphurish smoke, then burned brightly, brilliantly, beautifully, down to his fingers. He dropped it.Enough time had passed.

Enter the sum

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