Chapter 4: First Dose

Buckle up Dr. Nelson, because this was one hell of a day.

The shitshow started at 6 AM, where I'm blissfully buried beneath layers of sleep. Then, out of nowhere, the demon horns of hell blare through the loudspeaker, jolting me awake like I'm in the midst of a fucking heart attack! One thing's for sure: a loudspeaker system as my alarm clock? Definitely not the way to go. We don't need an air raid siren to get us out of bed!

With my heart pounding like a meth head at a rave, I jump up, grab my shit, and race to the bathroom! Another big problem here? I'm starving! Thank you, no smoking policy, for giving me the luxury of always being hungry now and probably gaining 50 lbs during this experiment.

Dr. Waters, being the prick he is and acting like he's running boot camp, screamed. "Move it! 15 minutes to the common room!" Seriously, are we gonna do jumping jacks and push-ups before breakfast? Maybe I'm not actually cut out for this. Well, I made $300 already, so that's something to keep me going, but not a good start. I didn't sign up for the military, Dr. Nelson.

Anyway, I get into the bathroom, take my five-minute shower, and there's Chuck, the guy with the crew cut, probably relishing the moment as it reminds him of his old military days. He's shaving away at the sink, and I'm just minding my own business, brushing my teeth, when he decides to strike up a conversation. "Early bird gets the worm," he says, acting like there's nothing in the world to worry about.

I give him a nod and humor him, "You think we'll get a 5-star breakfast?"

He grunts like a caveman and says, "Nope." Guess that settles it.

Randy, waltzes in a few minutes later half naked, scratching his junk. He's a real sight to behold – not in a good way, mind you. He's like a walking carpet with hair sprouting from every inch of his skin. But at least he washes his hands after using the toilet, so I’ll give him some credit for that.

"I'm fuckin' starving," Randy announces with a rumbling stomach, followed by a hearty laugh that morphs into a fart, resembling a discordant trumpet solo.

I take this as my cue to make a swift exit to the common room. "I'll see you out there," I mumble, hoping he won't try to talk to me.

But no such luck. He stops me in my tracks, demanding to know my name. "Jack McCoy," I reply, cautiously extending my hand.

He shakes my hand like we're old buddies and immediately starts unloading his marital troubles on me. "Married life sucks. My wife is a class A fucking bitch, brother," he says with bulged eyes and swollen neck veins. I can see in his face he's got some baggage that he's desperate to unleash on anyone who will listen.

Now, I'm no therapist, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't hired to be Randy's marriage counselor. But here we are, having a heart-to-heart about his love life and I’ve only been awake for 15 minutes.

As if that wasn't enough, Randy jumps to a new topic, "You think they're gonna fry our brains here?" he asks casually as if we’re discussing the weather.

"Let's hope not, I've got tickets to Disney World come spring," I reply, trying to escape this unexpected conversation.

Randy lets out a laugh that sounds like a mix between a donkey and a machine gun, and off he goes to the shower. As if on cue, Michael decides to make his grand exit from the shower at the same time, in all his naked glory. Yeah, thanks for that visual.

A short while later it's breakfast time, and we all gather in the common room with high hopes. But guess what they serve us? Chocolate protein shakes, vitamins, and bottled water. Yep, that's it. Sound the alarms, people – Randy's about to throw a temper tantrum.

He's pitching a fit like a hipster who just found out they ran out of almond milk for their organic, gluten-free, soy-based latte. Dr. Nelson, you promised us hearty good food, remember? Randy was practically drooling in anticipation.

So, when the doctor and his assistant rolled in with the shakes and vitamins, it was like lighting a fuse. "What in the flying ASS FUCK is this?" Randy roared, steam practically coming out of his ears.

The poor doctor looked a little startled, but he kept his cool. "It's what you get," he replied, unshaken by Randy's rage.

But Randy wasn't backing down. He went full-on ballistic, shouting and swearing like there's no tomorrow. The whole group stood there; eyes wide open, unable to process the madness. Emily seemed to enjoy the spectacle, which doesn't surprise me. If Randy hadn't immediately jumped on the doctor, I know she would have.

I have to admit; it was quite the show. Even the smelly John Wayne Gacy guy managed to crack a smile.

Dr. Roberts, in all his stoic glory, stared down at Randy like a towering statue. "You can skip breakfast if you wish," he said calmly.

Goodbye Randy the human, hello demon man! But he shifted gears and swallowed his pride and reluctantly chugged that protein shake.

The rest of us just stood there in silence, praying for lunch to be something more than liquid.

Look, I get it. We all crave a hearty breakfast and some good coffee. This "no smoking" rule is turning my stomach into a growling monster. But hey, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do – and in this case, it's all for the money…

An hour later, they herded us into the testing room. The room is a blindingly white chamber attached to the big community area, separated by a hefty metal door. It's like we're about to be probed by aliens or something. I noticed that we all seemed to pucker up a bit as we entered. 

Inside, it's like what you would imagine the inside of a flying saucer would look like with fifteen lab chairs arranged in a perfect circle. The overly eager doctors strapped us into the chairs like they were securing hostages. My brain conjured every horror movie I’d ever seen in the span of 30 seconds. It wasn’t comforting, to say the least.

They stuck pads to our chests and heads, meticulously monitoring every heartbeat, brainwave, and temperature fluctuation. The room resonated with a chorus of beeps and hums, similar to an elderly ward in a hospital for the soon-to-be-dead. It didn't help my state of mind, I'll say that.

But the real torture came from Rudy, the master of shit bombs. Seriously, he's like human gas generator. He squeaked out multi-tone farts for a good 10 minutes. I don't even know how that's possible. They haven't fed us that much. At first, it was comical, but the laughter soon turned into desperation as his foul concoctions filled the air. It's like he saved them up for this specific occasion. I'm guessing he's one of those passive aggressive types who waits for the perfect moment to strike. I'm really just not a big fan of the guy..

Luckily they didn't use needles. Thank God for that! Instead, they dosed us with little green and white pills like candy on Halloween. The catch? The doctor was our pill-pusher, inserting them into our mouths and pouring water down our throats like we were little baby birds.

Once we were all "medicated," we just laid there, waiting… for something to happen. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a bread knife.

Out of all of us, Stephanie was the most terrified. Her quiet sobs echoed through the room blending with the beeps, reminding us that we're about to go deep down the rabbit hole. She posed questions to the doctors, seeking solace from impending distress, only to be met with a look that might as well have said, "Shut your mouth, bitch, and let the fear gnaw at you." The atmosphere was tense as she fidgeted nervously, the rattle of her agitation pulsing in the air.​

As the minutes ticked by, I stopped observing my fellow test subjects and fixated on the ceiling. The doctors moved around us in eerie silence, eyes glued to the machines. That's when I realized I should have just found a fucking job instead of subjecting myself to this.

Minutes passed and the room melted away, and I found myself in a surreal dream world, my body buzzing in a strange, but comfortable numbness. An otherworldly kaleidoscope of cogwheels, circuit boards, and molecular explosions danced before my eyes. Then I felt like I was floating in water, deep in some ocean abyss. Bubbles surrounded me, bringing a strange pleasure, but they morphed into black clouds and then total darkness.

Amidst this mind-bending experience, I heard a faint voice asking, "How are you doing?"

"Who, me?" I mumbled aloud, or maybe it was just in my mind.

No response.

Then, reality twisted again. I saw a campfire, and nearby, a woman screaming in agony. It felt so real because it was real. Stephanie was screaming in her chair. The machines beeped frantically, and doctors rushed to her aid. But she just kept screaming. I was the only one awake enough to witness her torment.

Twenty minutes later, people were rising from their chairs, being escorted out of the testing room and back to the community area. Stephanie was nowhere to be seen. I asked Dr. Waters where she was, trying to feign indifference.

His eyes locked onto mine with a cold intensity. "She won't be in the trial any longer," he replied curtly.

I nodded, but inside, panic surged. I knew what I had seen. Stephanie's reaction to whatever they had given us must have been catastrophic.

Many hours have passed since the first dose, and I feel a lingering fatigue. The incessant yawning, once every two minutes for the past seven hours, is like an annoying reminder of the drugs effects. I was terrified earlier, but writing this journal entry has brought some semblance of calm. Perhaps that's why Dr. Nelson insisted on these daily entries – for some twisted form of therapy.

In the common room this evening, I observed my fellow test subjects once again. Most struggled to socialize and maintain a sense of normalcy. The ban on TV, phones, and internet has left us with only quiet classical music playing in the background. It's fucking weird, man. I'm just happy I made it through the first day with my mind intact. 

I couldn't help but notice Randy trying to strike up a conversation with Emily, the blonde girl. She seemed somewhat receptive to his advances. I guess he forgot he's married. If things progress well during this trial, maybe I'll consider making my own move on her, but it's too soon to decide. I'm not entirely sure about her yet. Can I really put up with her shitty personality? Crossing my fingers that the drug helps her check her bitch side at the door.

Elsewhere, a group was playing an amateur game of Texas Hold 'em. Watching them fumble and make foolish bets tempted me to join in and exploit their naivety. Running a card game for them and taking a cut might be a lucrative venture, but with the ever-watchful cameras, privacy is a distant fantasy. I'm not sure what the rules are in this place for gambling, but I don't want be disqualified and put out in the snow.

I've also been thinking about our three doctors here. Dr. Roberts, the silent one, seems more robotic than human. He's the caretaker who feeds us but hardly utters a word. That douche Dr. Waters, with his receding hairline and mean glare, handles the prep work and pill distribution. He's someone you'd expect to find starting bar brawls. Stephanie's unfortunate question to him about pain received a chilling response. All she asked was if it was going to hurt and the bastard just glared at her, never answering her question. Now she’s gone and we don’t know what happened. No seems daring enough to ask.

Then there's you, Dr. Nelson, the mad scientist with your wild Einstein hairdo. You sold us on this experiment with promises of close observation and possible breakthroughs in brain activity or Alzheimer's cures. But Stephanie's situation now leaves me with more than a few fucking questions...

I hope tomorrow brings some clarity and relief.

​-Jack

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