Curse of the Potency

by Oliver Franks

  Rocket Fuel Pee

  Book Two: Curse of the Potency

  By Oliver Franks

  First published by Darkside Fiction Press in 2018

  Copyright © Oliver Franks, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Oliver Franks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Cover by Jake @ jcalebdesign.com. Edited by Bodie Dykstra.

  First edition

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Foreword from Dave

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Final Word from Dave

  Notes from the Author

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Oliver Franks is an author from Brighton, England. He writes a unique blend of science fiction, magic realism, dark comedy and fantastical tales – what might be called speculative misadventure. Embracing the magic of the strange, the dangerous and the vaguely possible, his mission is to enthrall and challenge readers with darkly comic entertainment whilst telling stories with a point, even if that point isn’t always immediately obvious. Otherwise, indeed, what is the point?

  Visit his website for more information and to subscribe to his newsletter list. It’s probably worth it for the free book alone.

  https://oliverfranksauthor.com/

  Foreword from Dave

  Hiya there,

  Just a quick word from me. This book, being the middle one, chronicles the London part of it all. Not to put too fine a point on it, but from the very first day at Leading Edge Solar Ray sodding Research Materials Ltd, it was a total nightmare, and it pretty much went downhill from there. And when I say “downhill,” I mean an utter bloody disaster, really. So that’s what you’ve got to look forward to here. Lucky you.

  Deep down, I guess I always knew it wasn’t going to work out. I never in a million years wanted to live in London, and Daryl and me were not exactly off to a great start. If you recall, he laughed his head off at me for thinking we were going to stay at his mum’s, plus he was a surly git the very first time we met. As you read this torrid tale, you might well ask why I put up with it for as long as I did. And well, I do sometimes wonder.

  Anyway, I’ve tried my best to give you the story here in the best way I can. Put events in order, whizz over parts that don’t matter, and give as true an account of it all as my memory can muster. As before, I haven’t minced words where words don’t deserve a mincing. Putting to paper some of the awful stuff that happened was rather like pulling teeth, I must say. I hope you don’t judge me too harshly in the end.

  No offence if you do though. I was, am and will always be a silly bugger at heart.

  Your one and only,

  Dave Smith

  Chapter 1

  We arrived in deepest, trendiest London just as it was getting dark and rainy. Daryl parked us in front of the grey office building that was to be my home, led me through the reception and then opened a door to the left, which took us down to the basement, via the tradesmen’s stairs no less.

  “Basement?” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Your very own studio en suite.”

  Being housed below road level was another unwanted surprise (aside from being in London itself), but I held my tongue. Best to wait till I’d seen the room first, I thought.

  The basement corridor hardly gave good vibes. Scummy as hell, really, all grubby greys and laminate floors and the noxious smells of cleaning materials. Several of the doors had big “No Entry” signs on them, and there was this odd, rather disconcerting humming sound chugging about the place.

  “Welcome to your digs,” said Daryl, opening the only door without a warning sign and switching on the lights.

  I peered inside and felt a wave of mixed but mostly negative feelings. They’d evidently gone to some effort, but it was also clearly a former filing room or perhaps an office that had been hurriedly converted into something approaching a flat. A long, chilly rectangle of a room, it had bright, freshly painted white walls that glared horribly in the reflection of bare light fittings that were quite a few tads too intense. There was a dark blue carpet—new but sort of like what you might find in an old people’s home or a leisure centre or something. I sniffed the air and got strong new paint and new carpet smells, sort of musky and not particularly homely. Then there was the furniture. It looked decent enough—all new and all a soft brown colour—and there was just about enough of it: a sofa, a single bed, a desk, a fridge and a TV. It was all functional but drab.

  “Well, go on, Dave,” said Daryl. “Feel free to get settled in.”

  I grunted and we stepped inside. I couldn’t help staring up at the series of little grainy windows high atop one wall, the only openings onto the outside world and through which I could see the footsteps of people traipsing up and down Shoreditch high street. Lovely view.

  “So,” said Daryl. “As you can see, there’s everything you might expect. I just want to draw your attention here though, please. This is going to be your toilet. Well, for number ones anyway. The team have constructed it from the material we’re developing.”

  “That?” I said, surprised. “You want me to pee into that?”

  He was pointing at a roughly waist-height green-silvery bin that I had failed to notice when I arrived, mainly because it was sat rather unassumingly midway between the desk and the door and because, to be honest, as mentioned, it looked like a bin.

  I walked over and took off the green-silvery lid which was screwed onto the top. Perhaps a high-tech sort of a bin. It was definitely big and tall enough for me to pee in without worrying about splashing. Inside was all shimmering green metal too, the whole thing evidently constructed from the same mega-dega-whatever-it-was-called stuff that Daryl had banged on about in the hearing. The colour was a little off-putting and I really struggled to call it a toilet, but at least I could safely pee there—or so Daryl assured me.

  “Don’t worry, Dave,” he said. “We wouldn’t want any accidents down here, now would we? Just aim straight and true and don’t forget to hit this red button every time you, er, finish.”

  He pointed t
o the little red button on the wall just above the pee-bowl thingy, just next to a phone that was hooked up there. I gave him a grunt and nod in reply. Then he left me to it, telling me to come up and see him for a “one to one” as soon as I was ready.

  And so I had arrived at Leading Edge Solar Ray Research Materials Ltd, an Omega Group company, from here on in referred to by the less-of-such-a-bloody-mouthful name of “Solar Ray.” Less of a bloody mouthful but still just as much of a bloody nightmare.

  *****

  Overall, at that moment I was experiencing the same sinking feeling I’d had when arriving at my university digs for the first time, a dump of a room in a strange town where I didn’t know a single person. Also, could I handle being stuck underground? I’d have to see how the room fared in the daytime, when those tiny windows would provide a smidgen of natural light. It was better than a police cell though. It was free, I’d be getting paid, and I hadn’t properly moved in yet. I also doubted I’d be living there for too long; they obviously had work to do to develop this material of theirs, and it had a very temporary feel. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

  So I mooched about in the room for a bit, not really at home within those empty white walls and not wanting to think about things, knowing that thinking could send me into worry and panic and all those other un-chill emotions I hated. I did some basic unpacking. I fished for my mobile phone and charger in the black bin liner the police had given me, then placed these items onto the table and left them there like that, uncharged. Strangely, now that I could, I struggled to see what good it would actually do me to charge it. I hadn’t spoken to anyone since I was arrested, and now, after everything that had happened, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I mean, what the bloody hell would I say?

  It vexed me, actually, but at this point I didn’t hang about in worry for too long. Might as well get the “one to one” thing with Daryl over and done with, I thought, get through the next couple of days at least.

  First, though, a pre-meeting tinkle was in order.

  And I was very pleased to see that silvery-green bin thing not disintegrating on first contact with my shimmering lime-green acid wee.

  When finished, I pushed the little red button just as Daryl said, and before you could say “time for a tinkle,” some bloke arrived, opened my door and stormed in as if it was perfectly normal to be intruding on a lad’s private abode like that.

  “Alright, mate,” I said as he hurriedly unscrewed the tank.

  He was probably my age, roughly, maybe early twenties, but he carried himself in a distinctly schoolboyish, nerdish way. A few spots here and there and glasses, you know.

  No need to be quiet as a mouse with me though.

  “I said alright, mate.”

  “Hello.”

  He spoke with an air of annoyance, glancing at me for the barest of seconds, as if talking was a massive, unnecessary effort.

  Then he was off without another word, the miserable bugger.

  I watched in amazement as he lugged the tank out into the corridor, scurrying it to a door right down the end with a big “No Entry – Extremely Dangerous Toxic Substances” sign. The door closed quickly behind him, but it was time enough for me to realise that this room was the source of the humming sound. Actually, now that I thought about it, it was more a sort of rhythmic bashing noise, a bit like how I imagine the sound of a submarine. I guessed that must be where they did their thing with my wee—whatever that thing was.

  I probably shouldn’t be too hard on him, I thought. After all, emptying toxic toilets was probably not what he signed up for.

  *****

  Daryl had told me his office was on the fifth floor, so I climbed the tradesmen’s stairs to the ground floor lobby, where I took the lift up the rest of the way. The ground floor lobby was much nicer than the basement—small and silvery and fairly pristine. When I exited the lift at the fifth floor, the decor was even plusher—a reception area surrounded by clear glass walls, sofas and plants and the odd hanging framed photograph of science-materially stuff, patterns of molecules and stuff like that. It did have a slight air of being hastily rearranged—dust lines on the walls where pictures had evidently been taken down and several dusty-looking framed photographs stacked up against the sofa.

  A girl with smart dark hair in a ponytail was seated at a desk, her head in a laptop. The door to the offices beyond was just behind and to the right of her.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi,” I said, taking a sneaky look at those stacked-up pictures which bizarrely seemed to show what looked like pipes and guttering of various sorts. “I’m here to see the big man.”

  “Big man?”

  “Yeah. The head honcho. Daryl.”

  “Oh?” She began looking behind her as if someone could help.

  “He’s my mate,” I said.

  She laughed. “Really?”

  “No, not really. I don’t really like the guy to be honest, but I am here for a meeting with him, alright?”

  “Oh, you’re Dave, aren’t you?”

  She looked me up and down. I noticed that whilst her hair was all neat and tidy, she was hardly what I’d called dressed for the office. She wore jeans and a bright purple T-shirt with one of those atom diagrams and big words in yellow saying “Never trust an atom. They make up everything.”

  “Yeah, I’m Dave. The guy who—”

  “I know who you are. Go on through.”

  I went through, feeling less and less up for whatever was in store for me here.

  Beyond was another corridor, a bright and pleasant one with nice clean carpets and translucent glass walls you could see through just enough to make out the vague shadows of people and desks and windows. At the end was a door with a sign saying “Boardroom.” Next to that was another one that said “Daryl York – CEO.”

  As I approached that door, my general sense of unease coalesced into a big globule of dread, a thumping pang deep down. What the bloody hell was I doing here? It was quite amazingly striking how wrong things felt already—being here in the offices, seeing that git’s name on the door like that. Alarm bells were ringing. I’d basically be working for Daryl. He was the big boss, and the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was work for that tosser. Plus, perhaps more worryingly, did I really expect to get on at some fancy-schmantzy company in London? Would they really be able to help me figure out what was going on with me? Did they even give a toss? And could I hack it, living in a basement, the basement of this company, in this bloody city?

  I sighed to myself.

  And of course, there was the none-too-small matter of what a ridiculous freak of nature I very much still was: able to cause massive destruction with the most basic of bodily functions, with no one appearing to have the slightest idea what had happened to me.

  It was enough to drive any lad nutty, and for a moment I just stood still there, leaning against the wall, breathing hard, the future just an unknown black hole before me. I felt this rising panic as if my whole life was a giant mistake. I even doubted whether anything at all that had been going on was real. Pissing acid wee? Really?

  I could have murdered a beer at that moment, but I continued with my deep breathing. Eventually, that did the trick, more or less.

  I had to give it a go, I told myself. Things had to be kept in perspective. I’d just come out of a monumentally crazy few weeks. Earlier that very day, I had been through a big official hearing. The judge had looked at me seriously and asked me what my decision was, and I’d given it. This was my decision. I also knew full well the State did not know what to do with me, and I didn’t want to go with that poncy bloke from Cambridge, that Clive. What options did I have? Daryl had promised a lot, but he would of course need some time to deliver. I just needed to settle down for a bit, get my head together, chill, start to get some answers. There was the salary, the proper apartment, the shares in his company. Those were good things. This could be my future, my ticket. I had to give it a chance, didn’t I? Whatever orde
al was in store for me had to be way easier than what had gone before. It would lead me to easy paycheques and unwarranted glory. Well maybe not glory, but definitely lots of money I didn’t deserve.

  I told myself this, and I almost believed it.

  For a time anyway.

  Chapter 2

  Daryl’s office was a really cushy number with a nice plush desk and a huge window that looked out onto the dark and twinkly streets of Shoreditch, slap-bang in the middle of the East End of London.

  “Dave,” he said, sat staring intently at his computer screen, one hand typing something and the other clutching a mobile phone to his ear. “Sit down. I’ll be with you in just one minute.”

  “No worries,” I said, sitting down in the chair opposite him.

  He spoke on the phone, quite nervously, I thought. “Yes, Frank, he’s here now. He’s with me right at this moment. Yes, we’re going to do that now. Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”

  As he spoke, he continued his typing, leaning right into the screen and squinting while I sat, biting my nails, my stomach starting to grumble.

  “Alright, Frank. Bye for now.”

  He put the phone down with a sigh and looked at me.

  “Got any middle names, Dave?” he asked.

  “What?” I said.

  “Middle names. You know, between your first and your last one.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. Albert.”

  He typed something and then in one movement hit a final button on his keyboard before swivelling in his chair, collecting the document that was ejected from the nearby printer and placing it on the desk in front of me.

  “Right,” he said. “Please sign here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Your contract.”

  I looked at it. At the top there were the words “Leading Edge Solar Ray Research Materials Ltd, an Omega Group Company” followed by my name and then three or four pages of tiny, barely readable text.

  “What’s it say?”

  “It says you’re going to get paid and have shares in my company, just like we agreed.”