Fluid Chapter 1 Bartholomew Color and smell. These are the two techniques used by laymen. Taste is also a dead giveaway, but I don't recommend it. Whoever said making money is hard was a fucking idiot. If the place is really busy, saliva is by far the most popular. On slow nights, you'll find that semen jumps in the rankings. It just doesn't take as much time to hock a good loogie, even with the thick smell of pubescent hormones infecting the air. Fecal matter rates stay pretty constant, but surprisingly, I've only heard of one urine incident. In real life, I mean. Happens all the time in movies. And that's about the extent of the creative rebellious mind. Maybe a little scab or something, but rarely actual blood. People just don't care enough to go that far. Sigh...apathy. “Jesus fuck, could you hurry up in there?” I yell, and then roll up the window. If you want to be absolutely sure (necessary for court cases, extremely helpful for blackmail), there are easy ways of confirmation. Semen carries a couple signature proteins that, even mixed with mayonnaise, will still show up in a simple OTC test. Prostatic protein (p30) or acid phosphatase (AP)–either of these show up, you just discovered yourself a gold mine. A short–cut for urine or feces, surprisingly, is caffeine. The human body metabolizes all but about 3% of consumed caffeine, and hamburgers usually maintain around 0% caffeine, so if you find trace amounts, you can be pretty sure someone shat on your patty. If you want stronger proof, you can get an OTC Berthelot urea test for around twenty bucks. An e–coli test will run a little steeper, but both will definitely pay for themselves, no doubt. I roll the window down again and inch forward. “Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?” This is the part where I just sit, silently. Usually, I figure out what would piss me off, and then do that times ten. “Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?” Usually, they assume the equipment is malfunctioning. I wait for the third greeting. “Hello? May I take your order?” A little testy this time. Good. “I'm not fucking ready yet, dipshit. Hold on for a second or get a real job. Jesus.” I roll up the window before I hear the reply, which may or may not be icy silence. Depends. A giveaway for the presence of saliva, which is your number one silent attacker, is an enzyme called amylase. It's very stable, even when left overnight. Very reliable. Easy to test for. That's what makes this so freakin easy. Amylase on a bun equals Benjamins in the wallet. I count to forty–five in my head. Serology is the study of bodily fluids. I guess you could call me a serologist. College doesn't teach you where the real money is. I honk the horn three times in quick succession. Coprophagia is the practice of eating feces. More of us are coprophagiacs than we'd like to assume. The window squeaks as it goes down, but my barrage covers up the noise. “Hello? Can I get some goddamn service here? What are you doing in there, dinking your sister? Hello?” The poor sap on the receiving end of the speaker tries to say something, but I barrel forward. “What kind of asshole are you? You get a fucking minimum wage job where all you have to do is take an order and punch it into a computer, and apparently that's too goddamn difficult for you. Let me guess–Down Syndrome, am I right?” “Listen–” It's important not to go too far. Too far, and you shoot your load before the drive–thru window. This is not what you want. I interrupt again. “Can I just get a plain hamburger with lettuce and cheese only? You understand that, retard?” There's a long pause, and I try to picture what's going on in there. I like to imagine that two or three kids are now on the line, listening and getting steamed up something fierce. Mad enough to do something about it. But you've already figured this out. “Please drive around,” comes the carefully controlled voice, and I know I've got him. I ease the car up to the window, excited to see the kid who's about to provide my next payday. Cheese and lettuce is the perfect combination. You don't really want mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup–these things can interfere with getting a solid reading. It's still possible, of course, but I hate getting my fingers messy. You have to put cheese on there, so it gives them some place to hide the deed. A plain hamburger will usually be just that–plain, and that's no good at all. Cheese and lettuce have plenty of hiding spots, and they're not too messy. Perfect. I always keep equipment in the car, but bluffing usually works just as well. It's not that difficult to tell if someone has just tried to fuck you. I'm surprised more people don’t notice. I think that probably applies to life, not just fast food, but I'm not ready to commit. Why generalize and risk being wrong, especially when you're so sure about the details? A recent study showed that over 38% of fast food employees have done their part in creating unwilling coprophagiacs, piss–drinkers, or spit–swappers. The bullet–proof glass is shut when I pull up, and I don't see anyone. As a general rule, the longer the food takes, the better. I start honking my horn, just a few times, just a nudge in case there was any fence-sitting or wavering. I check out the drinks in the soda machine and shudder at the thought of raspberry iced tea made from syrup. After a few seconds, a boy arrives at the window and I turn my head, planning on ignoring him for at least a minute... but I can't help myself, and I lean back to take a closer look. It's a man. A young man, sure, but definitely not a boy. His eyes are sharp, and he's almost...I was going to say too good looking to work at the Burger King. Not that there's an attractiveness quota at most fast food joints these days, just that he seems out of place somehow. Lost. A twinge of regret fights its way up my esophagus, and I swallow, keeping my sneer locked firmly in place. Forget him. He’s nothing. “Just a few seconds, sir,” says the man with a rush of false sincerity. His cheeks are the same color as the apple pie containers, and his hands fidget nervously as he tries not to make eye contact with me. Jackpot. In the old days, people thought the golden color of urine actually came from gold. Alchemists were literally pissing themselves in mad attempts to find wealth. It was the ultimate male dream–using your pecker to get rich. My mind flits to the hamburger itself and I wonder what today's special sauce will be. A prize in every meal. I sneer wider and say, “You mind hurrying it up, kid? Unlike you, I have a life to get back to.” His eyes widen. “I'll see what I can do,” he says tightly, and turns away. I honk the horn again, just for effect, and slide my bodily fluid kit under my seat. I'm not going to need it today, I'm running this one purely by instinct. In the background, I see a flurry of activity. I'm the only one in line, and there aren't many cars in the parking lot (I checked before I drove up), so I assume the conspiratorial whispers amongst the staff aren't related to golden crispy fries. The crowd inches forward as the drive-thru manager returns to the window. I've mentally upgraded his status to manager, because I can't imagine someone so old and sharp-looking is actually flipping burgers for minimum wage. If I'm honest, I upgraded him because he reminds me of someone I would know, and I can't have that. I would never know a burger–flipper. I lean out of my car with my fist clenched, and release a handful of change, exactly $1.47 in nickels, dimes, and pennies, onto the raised ledge. Two Lincolns slide off and fall inside. “A dollar forty–seven,” says the chump, staring at me. “What are you, Rain man?” I say. “I know what it is. I'm the one fucking paying, remember? You wanna count it?” “Yes,” he says, not breaking eye contact with me. “Yes, I would. Would you mind?” This surprises me, but I did ask. What are you gonna do? “Of course I mind, dipshit. The customer's always right. You callin' me a liar?” He starts counting the nickels very slowly, and now I'm stuck. I want to drive away, but I need my burger and I don't want to give them a reason to call the cops on me. If they have any legitimate grievances, I don't have a case. I'm pretty sure the change is right, but I've begun to second guess myself. If it's even a penny off...well, that's just embarrassing. Especially with all the post-pubescent teens staring at me from behind the drive-thru station. Their angry stares make it abundantly clear that they'd be just fine openly mocking me if my counting didn't quite match up. This, I absolutely cannot have. “Forty–five, fifty, sixty,” drones the man, and I get the point. Hell, I can't even really fault him for it. But I have to hold on, because until I have that burger in my hand, I don't have anything. Besides a shitload of bad karma. “Should you get the rest of your retard friends to help you out?” I yell in a loud voice, hoping to speed the process along. “I bet they can count realll good. Probably how they got this cushy job with all the other retards.” The staff just stare at me and, as I scan the line, I notice with much satisfaction that two of the guys are trying to hold back growing smirks. Double jackpot. This, in my mind, rules out semen as an option. First off, even factoring the hyperactive teenage libido, the food didn't take that long. Secondly, I doubt the whole staff would be gathered around if I was about to sink my teeth into a cum-burger. Just a hunch. “Ninety–five, a dollar.” The man pushes the first pile of change over to the side, and starts on the rest–all pennies. This could take a while. I quickly weigh my options as the man slowwwwly picks up one penny at a time. Asshole. But clever. I reach into my wallet, pull out a one dollar bill, crumple it up, and throw it at his face. Naturally, the wind chooses that moment to act up, and the bill floats away from the window, onto the oiled ground of the drive-thru. The staff start giggling and one young redhead even yells, “Nice throw,” but not too loudly. “You missed the dollar,” I say to no one in particular, and honk my horn again. It's important not to lose too much face, because that just makes the bargaining portion of the exchange that much harder. I pull another dollar out, lean over, and slap it on the counter. “Can I have my goddamn lunch, you fuckin' assholes?” “No problem,” says one of the smirkers from the background, and holds up a brown folded Burger King bag. “Thirty–seven, thirty–eight,” says the man who may or may not be in charge of this fine establishment. “I gave you an extra dollar, give me my fucking lunch!” I growl, with as much authority as I can muster. This asshole has the nerve to look me dead in the eye and say, “I want to make sure you get your change back, sir.” Now, he's fucking with me, and this I can't stand. Shit on my patty, cum on my bun, piss on my cheese, but don't give me fucking lip. Is that too much to ask? I do have to admire his gumption though, especially at this late stage. It’s a clever move. “Hold on,” he says, “I lost count.” One of the girls in the back adjusts her Burger Crown and tries to turn a giggle into a cough. “This is fucking ridiculous,” I say. “Here's your food,” says the smirker, and holds it out to me. I just stare at him blankly. The grin wavers on his face like a tightrope about to jettison its walker. “Here it is,” he says again, with a little less confidence. I don't even blink. The only sound now is the clanking of pennies, and the drone of “thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...” “D–don't you want your food, sir?” Oh man, do I have this in the bag. “Of course I do. Why do you think I ordered it, you fucking moron?” He blushes furiously, and I see him fighting not to turn around. Anger is what he opts for, which I find interesting. “Well then, why don't you fucking take it!” I smile, and the bravado hovers for a moment before falling off his face onto the oil–spattered concrete. “Because you didn't take my order,” I say, and turn my head towards the penny counter. Without looking, the man takes the bag from the boy and thrusts it toward me, still counting the diminishing pile of pennies with his left hand. “Thanks, dipshit,” I say, as the transfer is made. That's all I needed. I start to roll up the window, now with a huge smile on my face, and the man in the window looks up in mock confusion. “Don't you want your change?” We lock eyes for a second and I feel something–a pull, a jolt. I wonder briefly if his confusion is an act. I wonder why this man seems so familiar to me. Like I said, I would never frequent with burger flippers. It's not my M.O. “Keep it,” I say to him, as the window squeaks shut. “Keep it.” I drive to the corner of the parking lot and sit for a second, rattled. I haven't done this many times, but enough to be calm about it. The action itself has never bothered me, but this man...I can't quite place him. Never run a scam on someone you know. That’s just common sense. I check the rear view mirror, and see a cluster of bangs and pimples staring back. Shaking my head, I unwrap the sandwich and look it over. This is the part where my blood starts pumping. Now, I know for a fact that there is something untoward about this burger, but I have to admit it looks tasty. This is how they get you...when something is this processed and formulated, there isn't much you can do to make it not look delectable. Fast food joints are the perfect breeding ground for coprophagiacs. I don't bother to put on rubber gloves, and lift the bun straight off. Immediately, the smell of overcooked meat mingles with some other, unidentifiable smell. This probably means that it's shit. Typically, saliva and semen don't have a noticeable odor, so if you smell anything at all, you’re probably dealing with someone's ass droppings. I don't see the dump, so I carefully lift the wilted lettuce leaf and peer under it. Nothing. Hmmm. The cheese is not nearly melted enough over the patty, so I'm able to lift that up and peer underneath. Jackpot. I almost gag a little with the sight. Amateurs. Nestled between the patty and the cheese, where you'd never find it unless you were looking, is a large dollop of semen. The pasty whiteness offsets the neon yellow and dull brown surrounding it, and the quivering looks like an unsuccessful attempt at meat insemination. The smell is awful, and part of me begins to wonder what kind of sick STD those kids have. Either that, or Burger King is now serving asparagus. I nod slowly to myself and replace the cheese, lettuce and bun. Now, I take out my rubber gloves and slip them on. I tear a piece out of the side of the burger, doing my best to make it look like a large, masculine bite was ripped out. This piece, I stash in a plastic baggy on my floorboard. The rest of the sandwich, I wrap up, place back in the bag, and grip tightly. This is the blackmail portion of the evening. As I slide out of the car, I plaster on a furious face. I'm not really an angry person. I'm not even really a bad person. It's just weeding out the evil in the world. If someone can be convinced to perform a truly bad action, then it's a secret desire they've always harbored. Just give those impulses a nudge, and reap the rewards. Just give them the reason they've always wanted, the opportunity they've never had. It's like a modern day Robin Hood. Only with piss and shit instead of gold doubloons. The carefully flattened pavement chews away under my feet and I try not to grin as the kids in the window suddenly manage to disappear. The man at the drive-thru just calmly stares at me and says, “Did you want your change? It's ninety-nine cents, not counting that dollar you dropped.” Either he's a great actor, or he's actually not mocking me. Weird. I ignore him and march to the store, preferring to have this part on camera, just in case. The smell of fry oil, salt, and thick meatiness blasts my nose as I pull the door open and walk inside. Ahead of me is a patch of recently mopped floor, but there is no “caution” sign posted. I have the briefest impulse to take a dive and try for a bigger lawsuit, but quickly dismiss it. That's for amateurs. And it doesn't look good on your record. Go to court twice for something, the legal system starts to catch on. Go to trial three times, and they might actually figure it out. I said “might.” Approaching the counter, I notice that everyone has managed to find a task to do. The restaurant only has three customers right now, and one of them looks homeless. Good. The fewer witnesses, the better. The other two, a couple that might be on a really lame date, duck their heads once they see how angry I am. “Excuse me,” I say. “Can someone help me?” There is a flurry of furtive glances as the staff wrestles over who has to deal with the dickhead customer with the jizzburger. A young girl, no more than 17, seems to lose the exchange and carefully walks up to the counter, staring intently at a spot somewhere on my collar. She gets within two feet of me and then stops, still staring at my shirt, still voiceless. “Hello?” I say in a measured tone. “May I help you?” she whispers. “Yes, there is something wrong with my hamburger.” Her face goes instantly white, and I watch her fingers flutter and shake. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She tries again. “W-what is it?” I speak calmly, all traces of aggression gone. Poof. I don't need anything else from this fine establishment, so now I can be myself. The approach was just for fun. “I specifically asked for no mayonnaise, and there is definitely mayonnaise on my burger. I would like a new one, made properly.” The relief is tangible as she exhales in a large whoosh and seems to slump down on the counter. She even risks a glance, flicked right up to my eyes. “I'll be right back, sir. Just lettuce and cheese, right?” “That's right, thank you. Good memory.” Her pale face flashes a forced grin, and she steadies herself on the counter before stumbling to the back. Her young life probably flashed before her eyes, poor thing. I watch casually as she is accosted by her “teammates,” and forced to relay the good news. While everyone is busy, I glance over at the drive-thru guy who is casually staring at me the same way that I was absorbing him earlier. We lock eyes for a second and neither of us moves. He doesn't seem frightened, or confused, just...interested. “Change?” “Come here,” I say. He walks over, right up close to me. “We need to talk.” “I have to stay by the drive-thru.” “Do you want to keep your job or not?” He stares at me, and now comes the fear. Good. I was worried this wasn't going to work, that I would have to do a semen test and get DNA swabs from the whole male staff. Once you involve subpoenas, then courts are involved, then it becomes a huge, risky hassle. Fear right now is a good thing. He walks out from behind the counter after gesturing to one of his friends to take over the headset. “What's your name?” “Austin,” he says. This jibes well with his name tag. But it never hurts to double–check. “Well, Austin, we have ourselves a bit of a problem.” “We do?” Definite nervousness. Good. I press my advantage. “Most definitely.” I hand him the bag. “Now if you'll notice, I have taken a bite of this burger.” This part of the act I do to provide a rationalization for the rest of the speech. You'd be pretty pissed off too if you ate a bite of teenage semen. “It didn't taste quite right and I just so happen to be a private detective.” This part isn't true, but it doesn't really matter. The man goes white. “Ex–excuse me?” “Now, listen. This hamburger tests positive for seminal residue. Do you know what that means?” He's freaking out. “No–no, sir.” Sir. That's good. “It means this. It means that you and I have a problem. Because according to California municipal law, the person who serves the food is immediately culpable for any legal indiscretions perpetrated upon the food. Do you understand that?” This part also isn't true, but again, it doesn't really matter, because the man seems to believe it. “Yes, sir.” “And according to the laws of California, not only can the restaurant be sued, but the individual immediately responsible can also be sued. And we're talking millions of dollars. Now, you were working drive-thru, right?” “Yes, sir.” He's on auto–pilot now, zoning out, alone in some horrible nightmare. “And no one else was working drive–thru with you, is that correct?” “Yes, sir.” “So that makes you responsible for this hamburger, doesn't it?” “Yes, sir.” Very pale. Limp hands. “This semen on my hamburger, you knew about it, and you allowed it to be served to me anyway. Isn't that true?” He nods. “Well?” I say. “Yes,” he whispers. I pull a tape recorder out of my pocket. This is the part where people usually freak out. I grab his arm and whisper fiercely. “Now, you little punk, I just recorded your entire confession. Understand? And you and I have a serious conflict. We're not talking about your job, although that'll sure as shit be gone. We're talking about a multi-million dollar lawsuit, aimed directly at you. All your life savings—gone. Your parents’ savings—gone. Your car, your CDs, your life—gone.” “My–my parents are dead,” he whispers. Ugh. Perfect. I pick a kid with dead parents. “Who gives a shit, Austin? I'm saying that everyone connected to you will be ruined. Do you understand me?” He slowly drags his eyes up to meet mine, and slurs the words, “Do I know you?” This stops me and we stare for a second. “No,” I say, and shake his arm. “Listen. It doesn't have to be this way. I don't want to go to court anymore than you do. But I'm not taking this sitting down, you can bet your sweet ass.” He nods. “Okay.” Boy, he's out of it. His hands are clammy and his face is pallid. In the background, I see the girl approaching the counter with my fresh new hamburger. “Here's what we’re gonna do, Austin. Listen close. You're going to give me your last name and your phone number. If you lie to me, I will find you and I will sue you and I will bring you down. This little blunder is going to cost you 25,000 dollars, cash. You pay me that, I'll drop the lawsuit and you'll never see me again. Tell your little friends if you want, but I think it's in both of our best interests if this remains our little secret. Capiche?” He just stares woodenly at me. “Understand?” I say again. His central nervous system isn't responding the way I want it to, so I give him one more quick shake. He blinks, and then nods. “Good,” I say, shaking the tape recorder, and sliding it back into my pocket. “Good. Now give me your phone number.” In a metallic chant, he recites, “7–5–4–7–4–3–.2” “Good, and your last name, Austin?” “Radcliff.” “Good. I'll call you tonight. Start getting that money together.” I give him a push and send him back around the counter. The little girl is staring at me with a cocked head. I see her nervousness start to return. It's so easy to control children. Really, it's like playing with finger puppets. “Is everything okay, sir?” “Everything's great, Denise,” I say, reading her nametag. “Okay.” “Is that my new burger?” She looks down, remembering the bag crunched up inside her hand. “Oh, yes sir. Made fresh.” “I'm sure,” I say. We nod at each other, and I turn around, heading for the door. Before I walk out, I turn my head and stare at Austin, who hasn't really moved from where I left him. We make eye contact, and for a second, we both start to nod. Before I can figure out what this means, the door swings open and I step through the invisible curtain into a waft of clean air. As I walk, I take a bite of the new burger and nod. It really does taste great.