The M1 Theory - Brian Hesse (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📗

of a rotting corpse, pushing through the cold dirt of a forgotten grave, memories of his childhood wormed their way to the light of his conscious mind. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and felt nothing as the sharp corner of the steel gurney bit into his smooth hands, causing a trickle of blood to smear the gleaming surface of the table. He remembered countless days of a Father belittling his son. Endless nights of a husband beating his wife. A Christmas came to mind. A Christmas Eve when the comfort of a warm dimly lit room filled with presents and the smell of freshly baked cookies, was shattered by a man with nothing but hatred in his heart, and alcohol on his breath. That night, when he was just six years old, his Father decided on a grand finale to his drunken performance. Thomas Lorey Senior, beat his wife into unconsciousness, just before throwing the Christmas tree into the back yard. Thomas slowly opened his eyes and viewed the stolen instruments surrounding the operating table, now smeared with long streaks of drying blood. He felt his despair stifled and replaced with the energizing surge of hope, the more efficient cousin of happiness. His hope sprouted from the seed of superiority. I am smarter than all the others, he thought. I am going to change the world, and all other things in life are mere trivialities. Thomas decided that his Father would be his first test subject, because he had a desire to cure the man who brought him into this dark lonely world. For there is no stronger love than the love that springs from hatred, because when we lose the object of our hatred, we suffer the most terrible feelings of loss.

 Thomas breathed a deep sigh of relief as he listened to the eerie silence from above. He had no doubts, based on many years of experience with his Father’s binges, that he spent all his energy and passed out on the living room floor. He set to work preparing the drug cocktail that, he was confident, would produce the desired effects. His test subjects must be made unaware of the surgical implantation of his electrical transmitter device. Despite his towering arrogance that reached heights barely achieved by any human throughout history, Thomas knew his limitations. He was not a pharmacologist, a practiced surgeon, or even an electrician, for that matter, so his progress would be gauged by trial and error.

 Thomas mixed, what he hoped, was the necessary mixture of Diazepam and Propranolol, based on his Father’s weight. He paused several times during the process of crushing the tablets, replaying in his mind his lessons from a hazy neuropharmacology lecture he attended several months ago. He closed his eyes during each of the brief pauses, attempting to focus his mind’s vision on the blurred projection screen chart, the chart that detailed the precise ratio of various medications according to a person’s body weight.

 “Oh, how I wish I would have sat closer to the front, he laughed quietly, to mask his inner nervousness at this stage of his preparations. Too little of a dosage will cause drowsiness, but without the desired effect of drug induced amnesia. Too much of the drug combination will cause death or coma and, certain detection by the authorities. After several hours of uncertainty, and preparing several different batches, he settled on two milligrams of Diazepam, twelve milligrams of Triazolam, and four milligrams of Propranolol. Each drug, taken by his Mother when she was alive, and suffering with husband induced depression, anxiety, and symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, were heavy sedatives, with the desired side effect of short term memory loss. In combination, and in the right amounts, Thomas believed that the test subject would have no recollection of events immediately prior to the surgery. Thomas considered the drug cocktails interactions within the subject’s brain. Based on his research, he decided on the Triazolam, for its chloride releasing properties upon the pain centers of the brain. This, he knew, would aid in providing negligible post-surgery pain and discomfort. The laparoscopic hole caused by the thin drill bit would barely be noticeable, and the drugs pain masking effects would help keep the small incision concealed. The Propranolol assisted his Mother with memory suppression. He recalled, with heavy sadness, his Mother popping the drug like candy M and M’s, after a particularly bad night with Father. He remembered seeing her facial expression change, within minutes, from a frightened abused animal, to a smiling Mary Poppins, happily unaware of the bruises that covered her once smooth unblemished skin. The Diazepam, he considered, is a powerful sedative when, given in the proper proportions, will induce the same operative effects of anesthesia.

 With ambitious thoughts of future glory and prestige, he poured the finely powdered white and yellow mixture into a saline filled IV bag, and watched as the mixture slowly dissolved. Each particle of the powder dissolved, to him, was another painful memory lost to the irrelevance of time past. After an hour of joyfully watching his troubled past melt away in a saline sea, he produced a twenty-milliliter hypodermic syringe, punctured the bag, and carefully pulled back the orange plunger until seventeen milliliters of the clear liquid rushed through the plastic tube.

An Inconvenient Romance

  “Hello, this is Sandra.” she exclaimed, as she nervously answered her cell. She felt nervous because she did not recognize the number displayed menacingly across the screen. Sandra normally ignored such phantom numbers. After several incidents of half hazard answering of her phone without looking at the caller ID, she realized that such bravery usually ended up badly, with a collection agency hounding her for past due credit card payments, and her ending the conversation with a big Fuck You.

 As if reading her mind, a deep masculine voice stated over the other end, “I’m glad you didn’t ignore the unknown number.”

 Sandra felt a brief wave of conflicting emotion race through her head. On one hand, she felt annoyed at any man having the audacity to call her in the middle of the afternoon, particularly on one of her rare days off the clock. On the other hand, the one squeezing the phone tightly, she felt, what she could only embarrassingly describe as adolescent expectation.

 Not now, not now, not now, she thought, but only with a hint at real frustration. A part of her, deeply buried for many years, longed to continue the conversation.

  “Who is this?” she replied, knowing well who this was.

 “My name is Eric. We were with each other the other night. You know, the night you kicked me off the bed,” he stated with a playful laugh that signaled more enjoyment with the encounter than anger.

“Ok, so I guess I really did give you my number.” She continued with her most theatric interpretation of sarcasm she could muster, “So, I guess your wife is out of town, and you want to come back for some more.”

 There was a brief pause after her sarcastic comment. She quickly began to become concerned as the silence continued. She began to hope, deep down, that her sarcastic sense of humor did not scare him away, as it has done so many times in the past.

  “Actually, I’m not married. I never was married. I just thought we had much in common, and I think you are one of the most interesting women I have ever met.”

 Sandra was no stranger to fake flattery. The kind of flattery guys always use just to lure a woman to bed. But this compliment seemed sincere, and something happened that hasn’t happened in a long time for Sandra. She felt the need to see Eric just one more time.

  Or maybe a few more times, she considered.

 “Ok, Eric the single guy. Let’s meet for dinner this Friday evening. Be here at my place by seven. Oh, and bring wine, or your cute little ass doesn’t even get in the door.”

  She pushed the red button on her phone, laid back on her satin sheets, and wondered why the hell she just did what she did.

Basement Surgery

  The once dank and dusty basement of the Lorey residence received a complete transformation since his leaving the University just three months past. Since his less than ideal review of his M1 theory dissertation by Professor Richardson, Thomas busied himself with cleaning his Father’s cellar. At one time, many years ago, when his Mother was still alive, his Father used the space first as a woodshop, later as another quiet place to indulge in his relentless thirst for alcohol. He started first with selling the various drills, saws, chisels, and some of the actual art work that would sell. He marveled at the smooth cherry stained rocking horses, chairs, and end tables his Father produced, during the sober years, the good years. With a touch of sadness, he cleared the basement of the last remaining artifacts of more pleasant days. The days filled with family picnics on the banks of the Susquehanna, and bike rides along the winding paths of Wilkerson Park were gone. Those days were overshadowed by the black tarry sea of addiction. Thomas spent those months since the University, scrubbing the moss-covered walls and varnish stained cement floor with gallons of bleach to ensure as close to a hospital setting as possible. As a further precaution, he firmly pasted plastic on all four walls and the floor, to prevent any dust from entering the small incision through the skull, causing infection and, as he realized, an unwanted variable from being injected into the experiment. His final task, the riskiest of all, was to steal the necessary equipment needed for the procedure. Returning to the Neuroscience lab, just twice each week for one month, he managed to transport the more delicate equipment within the deep inside pocket of his crimson ski jacket. Luckily, he considered, his requirements were surprisingly few for such a complicated procedure. Fiber optic cables with attached miniature camera, endoscopes to provide the image of the prefrontal cortex, and a specialized stainless-steel drill for the one-half inch hole drilled into the proper location of the M1 pathway. He already secured outside assistance from an acquaintance from the University. With the proceeds he generated from the sale of his Fathers ancient wood working equipment, he paid a brilliant young engineering student, Ronald Dorfman, to produce the necessary transmitter.

  “What do you need that for?” asked Ronald.

  “I’m just working on a project. Look, here is a thousand dollars for now, maybe more if I need your assistance later.”

  “Ok, one miniature four hundred thirty-three Megahertz transmitter coming right up.”

   Ronald never asked any more questions after receiving ten one hundred-dollar bills. As a student trying to live off student loans and, the occasional meager stipend from his parents, he had no problems keeping his questions to a bare minimum.

#

  “Ok, here we go!” exclaimed Thomas to the brightly lit plastic covered walls.

   Thomas ran his fingers through his Fathers greasy black hair, just a few centimeters from the midline of the skull, marked by the scalp. He slowly ran his fingers approximately one inch toward the front of the heavy breathing man, lying on the stainless-steel morgue table. Satisfied that he was directly above the Broadman area 46 of the prefrontal cortex, he made another slight adjustment with his finger, approximately one eight of an inch to his left. This was the spot, as he believed, to be the exact location of the dormant M1 pathway, soon to be responsible for the complete regulation of human aggression. His M1 pathway, as he detailed in his thesis, lies between the dorsal prefrontal cortex and the ventral prefrontal cortex. One controlling cognition, and the other controlling emotion, respectively.

 Thomas raised the Dewalt twenty Volt stainless steel drill and with steady hands, placed the half inch disinfected drill bit to the precise location of his mark. He calculated that he must not drill further than three