The French Formula (LSD, #3)

6. Heroes

Heroes

It's getting late. We have to go. It's nice to have fun, but my spiPhone is full of work-related messages. There's one message from #1, The Boss, asking why I don't send reports and why I haven't solved the case yet. There are two messages from #2, The Nerd, with instructions. The first one explains my support mission for #3, The Diplomat, delivering an envelope at the home address of some consul, waiting for the answer and returning with it immediately. The other orders me to park an unmarked (stolen) car behind the highly secured building of Pharaoh Pharmaceuticals, for #4, The Agent, about ten minutes ago. There are three messages from the hospital, warning me I'm late for my shift. It's Saturday night, the busiest night of the week, with all those free people, free to choose how to spend their free time, and free to have so much fun that they cause a rush hour in the emergency room.

I know the facts: last year, terrorism caused 25.000 deaths worldwide, which is serious enough to interrupt TV programs and fill front pages as often as possible. Compare that to the 200.000 mortal overdoses of drugs, the 3.300.000 alcohol-related deaths and the 7.000.000 funerals caused by smoking tobacco. Our entertainment industry, with its 10,5 million killings per year, is 400 times more deadly than all the terrorists in the world.

"We have to get back to the hospital, Doc. At least I have to get back to the hospital. If you can drive yourself and want to go later, it's fine for me."

"I have been drinking. I can't drive; not this wheelchair.", Doc replies.

Tong Au makes it clear he's not available as a chauffeur either: "After our serious drinking, I'm too drunk to walk too. I sit on your lap, Doc."

I point at the bar, where Manny is still celebrating his private party: "We have to take him."

Doc waves it away: "Why? That's just recreational drugs. As long as he breathes, he won't die."

Michelle trips over Manny's legs, gets annoyed, and tries to wake him up: she slaps him in the face, delivers to his liver some lively kicks with the sharp noses of her high-heeled pumps, and even empties a full pint of beer over his head. Manny turns his head aside and pukes on the floor.

"That man is sick, Doc. We have to take him to the hospital."

"Nonsense. That man is just having fun."

"That man said something about G.O.D. before he passed out. He's a drugs dealer. He might help us find the manufacturer or perhaps even get us a specimen."

Tong Au is not interested: "It's Saturday night. We don't work. We have fun."

Michelle is working, and she's not having fun at all: "You take your dirty friend with you, now, or I call the police."

With a little help, I hang Manny over Doc's lap on the wheelchair. I kick Tong Au in the butt when he tries to sit on top of them and tell him to call a taxi if he can't walk back. He can't walk back and he's too drunk to call a taxi. Michelle and I toss him on top of Manny, keep them both attached to each other and the wheelchair with a piece of rope, and finally, we take off.

We're lucky: this is a five-gear wheelchair, and I'm using all five of them when running behind the chair through the empty nocturnal streets of Brest. Our speed forces me to take the corners on two wheels, scraping either Manny's shoes or his fingernails over the tarmac, but even when his head hobbles over the curbstones, he doesn't complain.

Doc asks: "What do we do with Manny? He doesn't say much."

I suggest: "Can't you inject him with that stuff I gave you two days ago? Prepoleptyl? It gave me the impression it does miracles with drug addicts."