“Unbelievable.”
“Look, I don’t make it happen, I just give you the shots that make it happen. Finally, with this one”—Dr. Lee pointed to one of the last syringes in the longest tray—“in one in about two hundred fifty injections, the recipient feels the urge for, let’s just say, intense and homicidal violence. Like, ‘murder everyone in the building and build a pyre with their skulls’ level of violence.”
“I can understand that,” I assured her.
“No, you can’t,” she assured me back. “Fortunately, there’s a direct and accompanying side effect of extreme lassitude, which keeps most people from acting on the urge.”
“So, like, ‘I want to kill you but that would mean leaving the couch.’”
“Exactly,” Dr. Lee said. “We call it murder stoner syndrome.”
“That can’t be real.”
“It’s very real, my friend. We’ve learned that certain foods help counteract the murderous urge. If it happens to you and you actually have enough energy to stand up and move around, fry up some bacon or eat a pint of ice cream, or have a couple of slices of bread with butter.”
“So, fatty foods.”
“Basically.”
“You remember the part where you told me to avoid fatty foods, right?”
“I do.”
“So, just to be clear, the choices here are ‘homicidal maniac’ or ‘shit tornado.’”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, and yes. But the chances are pretty good you won’t experience either side effect, much less both at the same time.”
“And if I do?”
“Angrily consume your bacon on the toilet, is my advice.” Dr. Lee lifted the first syringe. “Ready?”
* * *
“Did your shots go well?” Avella asked, when I returned to her office.
“I didn’t murder Dr. Lee,” I said. “But that may be because I can barely move my arm right now.”
“Thank you for not murdering our doctor,” she said, then she removed her mask. “I was vaccinated weeks ago,” she said, when she caught my look. “And now that you’ve had your shots, I don’t have to pretend I haven’t had mine. But I’ll put it back on if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“No, it’s fine.” I thought about taking mine off but didn’t.
Avella tapped a folder on her desk. “We have some paperwork for you to fill out. We need information so we can direct deposit your salary and get you enrolled in our medical and benefits programs. We also have some optional paperwork here that gives us a limited power of attorney so we can deal with things like your rent and school loans.”
“What?”
Avella smiled. “Tom didn’t tell you about that, I see. In addition to your salary, KPS covers your monthly rent and any school loan payments you might have. If you have credit card or other commercial debt, you have to pay that, but we can either pay it for you and deduct it out of your salary, or help you set up an automatic payment for it if you haven’t already done so.”
“That’s terrific,” I said.
“We’ll be asking a lot of you, Jamie. And we’ll be taking you away from the world when we do it. The least we can do is make sure you have a place to come back to. Speaking of salary, I realize we haven’t discussed numbers yet. If it’s acceptable to you, we’ll start you at a hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“I mean, that’s fine,” I said, dazed.
“That doesn’t include the ten-thousand-dollar signing bonus to act as a bridge to your first paycheck.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I blithered, stupidly.
Avella reached into her desk and pulled out a manilla envelope and passed it over to me.
I stared at it. “Is that…，” I began.
“Two thousand in cash and a cashier’s check for the rest,” she said. “Although if you prefer we can Venmo the eight thousand.”
“Can I…” I stopped.
Yes?” Avella asked.
“I was going to ask if I can transfer this to my roommates, to help them cover their expenses while I’m gone.”
“It’s a cash bonus, Jamie. You can do whatever you want with it. And if you’re still worried about them, while you’re away we can arrange to have some of your salary sent to them. We do that a lot. We’re an international organization, and a lot of our employees send remittances home. This would be pretty much the same thing.”