"You're whiter than a sheet, Col. You sure you can handle these kids tonight?"
"I'm sure. Just set the field markers up for us, it's only thirty minutes."
"You can barely stand."
"I can stand."
"You can barely walk."
"I can walk."
"You can barely run."
"Leave it!"
I screamed at Franco.
I couldn't help it after a while. He was completely busting my balls. Just let me coach the team, alright?? They're only seven and eight years old, they don't know what I'm doing anyway, so just shut the hell up and get the hell out of my way, you know what I mean? Such a pain in the ass.
Yes, I know I looked like death and that was the problem. It turns out death was stalking me. I didn't know it at the time, but I felt a presence that something unearthly had its grasp on me. I tried to do good, you know? I coached the kids' soccer team, I was an altar server on Sundays over at St Patrick's with Father Roberto. You know, I try to give back. I cooked meals on wheels out of my home kitchen for the needy and when I couldn't do it no more, due to my workload, they asked if they could still cook the meals out of my kitchen and I still said yes. Even after all of that. I'm a good guy, just ask anybody. I try to give back as much as I can. If I wake up and see a need, I do that need. I make sure I'm open to the needs of others more than myself.
Like, I'll give you an example. The other week I saw a homeless guy take up on the bus shelter across the road from the office. You know what I do? I set this guy up with a bank account and I put a hundred dollars a week in it for him for food. I also put out a lease for a rental property, not much, just a studio, you know? Ensuite and a bed. I put the lease under my name and I go to him with the keys and I let him move in. All taken care of. No questions asked, just pure goodness from outta my heart. That's the kind of guy I am.
So why do I look like a ghost? Well, I'm still trying to figure it all out. You see, I don't really want to get into it but I'm... Let's just say, I'm doing okay. You know what I mean? I was able to build a very successful small business into a behemoth of an empire. You see, there was this invention out of Istanbul at the height of the e-cigarette craze. They called them ‘flamers’. No burning of any substance, just pure inhalation of flavours to combat the need for reformed smokers to consume nicotine. The perfect withdrawal product. I got wind of it from a friend of mine. I invest a couple thousand bucks to bring the first batch into this country. Next thing I know, the product takes off. I mean, it's huge. It's bigger than any drink, any drug. There's a new compound formula inside. Synthetic. Emulates the feeling you get on coke, speed, heroin, you name it. It's bottled euphoria. But because there's no ignition, no burning, they sell these things to kids.
How the hell was I supposed to know it was addictive? I never used the stuff. So, kids start using by the truckload. We can't import enough of this stuff. It was a license to print cash. Not just kids, but their parents too. Then there are these thousands of people walking the streets like the walking dead. It's a ghost town in these neighbourhoods. COVID 2.0 only there aren't any lockdowns. It's an internal-only lockdown. Everybody checked out. Nobody is home. You know what I mean?
Okay, I'll admit that there was one moment in time when I was made aware that things might not be good with the product. We were on to our second-ever shipment. I was driving the trucks myself to the various local supermarkets. They were owned by locals, true Mom and Pop stores, not the big chains. We gave them a big markup, initially. Thirty per cent commission. They all took up the offer. Before the second import arrived, my supplier rings me up. He has his lab guy on the phone.
"There is an increased risk of toxicity dependency because the synthetics we use have harnessed a natural reaction to some illegal substance."
"English please, Doc," I said.
"This thing might pass the regulators, but it is highly addictive."
"Roger," I said.
That was it, that was my warning. It was the eve of the second shipment and we saw the potential of the product and I could have pulled it but we were just swimming in cash and I didn't. I made the choice there and then that nothing stops the shipment. Nothing. We went from Mom and Pop stores to the global chains. First CVS pharmacies, then Walmart, Kmart, Special Mart, McDonald's… There was even talk of a flamer-themed Happy Meal. Wendy's were selling flamer-flavoured ice cream cones.
To say these things were a hit is the understatement of the century. We went from hiding banknotes under our bed to having offshore accounts at the Swiss merchants. To gold bullion reserves with our children’s names on them. It was everything I could ever dream of.
Then the kids started dying. The synthetic in the flamers caused a reaction to five out of ten users by the time they had been hooked on the product for close to five years. No one could understand why; it was a natural reaction to the synthetic. That's what I was told. We lost half our products, and our board of directors tried to replace me. I thought we were finished.
I started giving back; altar serving, meals on wheels, soccer coaching. Anything for the kids to clean up my image and get good with the board, you know?
Then, a miracle happened. The Drug Enforcement Agency didn't ban us. You know why? We weren't a drug! We were all natural. The government didn't change the legislation to fix this loophole because the main ingredient in a flamer is yeast, which is the main ingredient in bread. To ban us would mean banning a slice of bread for a child's lunchbox; tell me which government in history is going to do that?
"You really look sick, you should sit this one out."
He wouldn't stop busting my balls. All I wanted to do was to get this session over and done with.
I knew I looked horrible. I had been to every doctor, and no one could identify what was wrong with me. It was because something was stalking me.
I was having these vivid dreams every night. A raging fire that consumed everything. Flame everywhere. It would jolt me awake at 4:44 in the morning, every morning. I would run out of bed vomiting in the bowl. I couldn't explain why the timing matched each and every day.
"It beats me, and I've been in practice for twenty-seven years," said my regular doctor.
"If I were you, I'd maybe position myself closer to the toilet at night to avoid a mess and maybe it'll pass in six to eight weeks."
That was it, that was the best advice he could give me.
So six to eight weeks passed, and still the flames in my dreams grew hotter and burned brighter. I felt a searing sickness whenever I dozed off. I felt like hell was stalking me, showing me a glimpse of what awaited.
I went to Father Roberto at St Pats.
"Father, I think Satan is on my ass,” I began. "Every night, without fail. 4:44 in the morning I'm up and I'm throwing up and I'm sweatier than a pig at an all-you-can-eat buffet."
He just sits there. Scratching his chin. We're in his office. There's a school next door and I can hear the bells ringing for the end of the day.
"There are no hard and fast rules when it comes to messages from the afterlife," he tells me. "If your gut tells you it's something sinister, it might just be."
"Well, thanks Father... But frankly, that's why I'm here to see you. I'm doing everything here. Coaching the little soccer, allowing the Meals on Wheels, altar serving on Sundays with you; I mean, what more can I do? Am I not worthy?"
"I don't know," he says. "Your business is your business, but I've read a lot about you in the papers. So have a lot of people. People say you've caused a lot of pain."
"Yeah so what... So I made a dollar, Father. So what. Guilty as charged. Am I not worthy?"
"I don't know," he says to me. "Are you?"
What kind of a priest is he?
I left his office and I never showed up on Sundays anymore and I made a vow never to serve on the altar again.
But the flames grew hotter each and every night and my face and body looked like a burned fruit withering on the vine. I knew it would consume me one of these nights. I knew there would be a time real soon when I wouldn't wake up and all the money in the world wouldn't save me from the fire that burned just for me.
"Just give me that damn ball!" I yelled at Franco. "The kids will be here soon."
I'm entitled to make money and if kids get sick from it, their parents should know better.
What am I supposed to parent these kids now too?
I didn't invent the product, I didn't invent shipping, and I didn't invent commerce. So sue me if you think I'm evil. Meanwhile, get behind me Satan and let me coach these damn kids!