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𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒-𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒-𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊
EZEKIEL
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'Mr Stane, we apologize for the draconian safeguard measures but here at JRJ,' Jones grinned with reason, 'discretion is a necessity.'
Zeke's nerves were coming to play when he seized his lips into a borderline fake half-smile, arresting the choking twitch of the plasticine that clad his fingertips. He had designed it himself, biotech weaponry that could halt the world on its axis as and when he had liked it. He quickly tugged the leather gloves tighter on and shrouding the wires underneath. It was a drag to go through security with his bodily enhancements, but he crafted a lie about the augmentations being his pacemaker. Like he would ever need one.
'Of course, gentlemen. I have put your money where your mouth is,' he explained. 'Shall we begin?'
The only purpose of the meeting was damage control. To Zeke, this company was like his sacrificial lamb knocking on his door when his plan was starting to shape up the way he liked it. JRJ had wanted his impromptu methods to provide them with a cigarette, to be put simply, that would allow customers to smoke to their delight and lose weight at the same time. Not that he had cracked the formulae to make it work, it was just simply because he would rather put his money in something the world could never forget.
The conference room's lights dimmed so as to get the projector started up. The holograph-testing table lit up with a deep blue glint, glitching with starting troubles and soon expanding to show the human brain. All six of the investors had started the mumbles and Zeke started to get rubbed off the wrong way. He hated that he wasn't the centre of attention until—
'What are we looking at?' The fattest one asked. Of course, the round one would speak up first. He was the one who was eating up seventy per cent of the manufacturing money. Only today, he had planned an experiment like never before.
'The tobacco I have synthesized is higher in the basal metabolic rate,' he began, taking short steps around the room, only to gauge the exits. He counted two: one behind the fat one and the wall-window at the end of the table. 'So, congratulations. You are, now, the men who will keep traditional smoking alive even after it should be buried six feet under.'
When a wave of whispers went across the table, he sighed out in all dramatism.
'Did you know, gentlemen, that I make and manufacture next-gen pieces of equipment for freak-show lunatics and AGM? Since I was eleven, actually. And once you struck your deal, I have hit the ceiling.'
