Scene 2

Ruben returned to his own dark and empty apartment. He felt a little sick from the cocktails and the taxi ride, so he wobbled into the bathroom to take an Advil with a gulp of pink Pepto-Bismol. What time is it? He blinked to read his Wal-Mart wristwatch. "Four thirty," he muttered aloud. "I've got a few hours to sleep."

He kicked off his shoes and his trousers. Still hoping he didn't need to vomit, he collapsed face-down onto the bed.

In his dream, he adjusts the brightness and contrast on an old black-and-white television. His maternal grandmother sits nearby in a ragged armchair, and she waits for him to fix the picture. "It's almost three o'clock," his grandmother says in Spanish with a thick Puerto Rican accent. "You're going to make me miss my show. Hurry, Rubencito! It's time. It's time!"

The clock's alarm woke him up. The digital claxon was like the honking of a car horn that would not stop until he slapped it. Ruben squinted at the glowing red numerals 8:17.

"Shit!" I'm late. He sat up in bed.

And he was not alone. A man's bare legs stretched next to his own. The blankets wadded up between them felt warm.

Scared to look—and scared not to look—Ruben turned his head to the left. Reclining in all his Playgirl centerfold glory was a very pale, very nude Ian Price. His eyes were only halfway open; he looked as sick and hungover as Ruben himself felt. Yet somehow Ian managed a cruel smile.

"What time is it?" asked Ian, his blue eyes heartless.

"How did you get in?"

"I know how to pick locks, Ruben, is it? I'm betting that you don't." Ian gestured with upturned eyes, to turn Ruben's attention to the headboard of the bed.

Handcuffs enclosed both of Ian Price's wrists. His pale arms extended overhead like a prisoner in some S&M fantasy dungeon. Whereas the bed's frame was a cheap pressboard with a fake wood grain veneer, Ian had drilled through a heavy-duty bolt hook for the bicycle chain.

Ruben jumped out of bed. "What the hell!"

Ian Price coldly glanced sideways to the clock. "I've got seven minutes before I change. Not quite enough time for me to tell you what I think of you... you lying, sniveling, kiss-ass. Last night, I thought about dunking your head under water until you confess what you and Jason are cooking up for me. Seriously, I filled up your bathtub. But you were passed out cold, and I couldn't torture you."

Mind spinning, he fought to keep a poker face. "Torture me? Oh, that's funny, Jason, uh, you're a real practical joker."

"You know damned well I'm not Jason."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Ian Price twiddled his fingers and rattled the handcuff chain. "Instead of torturing you, I looked at your iPad, your laptop, and the closet full of three-ring binders. Then I snooped through the bottom shelf of your fridge. Wow, I gotta say, there's some pretty serious Frankenstein shit going on in there."

Oh my god, oh my god, Ruben thought in a ringing chant in his mind. His mouth hung open and no words came out.

"Now, what would the hospital administration think of you taking supplies home to your kitchen? I have no idea what's in those freaky test tubes, but I'm betting it's not FDA approved."

"OK, um... um..."

Ian Price laughed at him, a mirthless wicked cackle. "You must be a brilliant chemist dude, because you can't lie for crap."

"I'm not a chemist, I'm a pharmacologist."

"Whatever." Ian Price's cold blue eyes glanced to the clock again. "Four minutes. Nope, now it's three. You've got three minutes to explain that chemo-babble in plain English or else. Tell me what you and Jason are cooking up for me."

"Or else what? You're the one handcuffed."

"And naked in your bed," Ian Price added. "Wouldn't it be embarrassing if people found out about this? Maybe not so embarrassing for you, since you're just some anonymous lab guy nobody cares about. Whatever you do in your spare time, hey, it's a free country. But what about your friend Jason? The world-famous and oh-so-boring neurosurgeon Doctor Jason Cole with the saintly character that inspires all those rich donors to contribute so generously to the hospital."

Ruben yanked open drawers and frantically pulled out sweatpants and T-shirts. First, cover him up. Second, smash the cheap bed frame and get him out of here.

Ian Price laughed again, a little louder in his wicked glee. "Two minutes and counting! What'll it be, do you think? A neighbor has phoned in a complaint about the noise and cops show up? Better yet, maybe a phone call sounding like Jason was made to one of your colleagues at the hospital, like that prick Doctor Jordan who has it out for me, or that real pretty Doctor Solis that I'm failing to impress? Or maybe some high-def photos are going to upload to Facebook at exactly eight twenty-five?"

Ruben fumbled with trying to get the sweatpants on his feet. All the while, Ian Price pedaled his legs and almost kicked Ruben in the face.

"You can't afford to ruin Jason," he said. "His credit cards pay for you to party all night."

"He wants to destroy me!" Ian's sudden blast of fury hit Ruben like a physical slap. Startled, he backed away from the man on the bed. "How will he do it? How will you do it! Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

"With drugs," Ruben blurted. "We drugged you into oblivious before, for five full years, until you apparently developed an immunity and so now we're trying to formulate a new serum that will eradicate you forever."

Ian Price settled back to the pillow. "Go to your laptop and type in all cap six-six-six. You've got less than thirty seconds."

Ruben rushed to his Macbook and did as he was told. The screen saver of a tropical beach gave way to the desktop, a cascade of tiles rapidly closing themselves out. Rubin shuddered at the naked photos disappearing before his very eyes, before they uploaded to Facebook, to Instagram, to Flickr, to Pinterest, to eBay, and even to the craft forum Etsy.

Ruben turned back to face the man on the bed, just in time to watch the transformation. For all the years that he had known his friend's secret, he had never actually witnessed him change.

At exactly 8:24, Ian's expression went blank as a corpse. His eyes fixed, his jaw slackened, and even from across the room it was clear he had stopped breathing. Ruben wondered if he were hooked up to an EKG, would he appear to be flatlining. When the clock ticked over to 8:25, Doctor Jason Cole gasped like a man coming up from underwater. The quality of his demeanor changed. His blue eyes took on a mood of kindness and intelligence, followed quickly by confusion.

Jason rattled his chained wrists. He looked down at himself. "Ruben? What's going on?"

"I'm sorry, but he made me tell."

"Tell what?"

"What we're planning." Ruben gestured to the laptop. "He was going to upload those photos to the internet. I couldn't let him ruin your reputation, your career. I'm sorry, Jason."

"It's OK." Jason paused, and Ruben wondered what he was thinking. "First, find my phone. Ian usually leaves me a video message, and with any luck, he'll tell us where the keys to these handcuffs are."

"Right." Ruben dialed his own phone and followed the factory-default ring tone into the front room. Sure enough, Jason's clothes, shoes, and iPhone were in a brown paper grocery bag behind the couch.

On the outside of the bag was written in black felt pen, See you at 8:25 tonite, dumb ass.

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