The early years weren't easy. Gaining the trust of consumers for our type of service always meant providing them with security, stability, and a high return on their capital. Creating facilities without raising suspicion among investors forced my kidnapper-turned-benefactor to avoid relying entirely on his own company's direct involvement. My laboratory was the only place where true security existed; no one wanted me gone. The research was agonizing. The tests for the first formula—and its eventual success—were kept in a containment zone far from everyone else. Their food had to be meat, though fortunately, the myth that it had to be human was just that. The danger is that their hunger is never sated. They are difficult; I can't even go in to draw blood, even when they're restrained. Narcotic drugs and paralyzing weapons seem ineffective. I rely exclusively on what the machines can recover when they go in to feed them.
But that wasn't the terrible part. It was the people. Beautiful or not, well-fed or in the depths of malnutrition, they arrived every Friday. I had to test my experiments on them; those were the instructions from my captor. I understood that the nearby towns were no salvation—they all had minimal services and were under cartel control—so I did what I had to do, with pain, with rage, with resignation, and with an ambition for the unknown. I watched them wither and die by the dozens. Formula One was too much for people on the brink of starvation; I had to tone down its effects.
The treatment plants—aerobic digesters to clean the tons of waste my complex generates—and filters of all kinds, from basic grates to the latest UV lights and ultrasonic variations, along with solar panel gardens and water purification support, guaranteed that basic needs wouldn't be a problem until I implemented Phase Two of my plan. The phase my boss didn't know existed.
With dwindling income and many "targets" to eliminate, I suggested making extra money by allowing investors to be the ones who hunted them. It took time to convince him. Even after I designed Firing Range One, he wanted to test it himself. He failed several times, each time saying, "This is garbage! It's horrendous, and I'm not coming back." But days later, he always returned. By the time he managed to eliminate the targets, I had already finished Zones Two and Three, not to mention the formula that restored his strength. But of course, he was just a bag of fat; so when I told him I needed more—a condition to enter Zone Two—he had already given the green light, and the first hunting maniacs were on their way.
The first ones were told they could kill people who had betrayed the company, and since they were going to die anyway, they were invited to do it for a fee. They were given long-range weapons and told the targets were drugged to resist more than one shot—all my recommendation. Meanwhile, I could only sit in the lab, hoping that fewer and fewer people would have to face that fate.
The man who receives me could be any office employee: hard gaze, non-athletic body but capable of overpowering many. A murderer, a visionary, a narco, and a sociopath to whom I owe the second phase. When my Formula Two was finished, narcos from various gangs came looking for those staying here or demanding protection money; others sought a place to move their product. All tried by force, except for His Majesty—leader of cartels and a well-known businessman in the United States.
"Good evening, Mr. Topec," he says. He could torture someone and receive the next person with impeccable etiquette.
"I see we have problems. Anything you'd like to share?"
"She hasn't entered our facilities. She's going to the 'Mist Village.'"
"Will the officials take care of it? Or do you prefer something more discreet?"
"I seem to recall you have more people there than they do."
"Hehehehe, true!" His laugh was soft, as if he were whispering jokes to himself. "She won't die. She'll have an accident before she arrives. Watch."
The scene on his projector shows the press vehicle traveling a road in poor repair. The driver swerves; the explosion tells me they had already planted fuel. The driver dies. A few minutes later, the woman's silhouette appears—injured, but nothing serious. Behind her, her assistants emerge. A couple of his boys fall; she watches them drop without understanding a thing. In the distance, an ambulance comes for her. Strange; it's a new team. Men from the Kingpin step out—strong, with expressionless eyes, no drugs or tattoos. They hand her a card as they pull her in. The camera zooms in. The message is brief:
"Good evening: You are going to a hospital where the doctors work for me. You will eat this card and another you will find at your house; your daughter has one too. We suggest you consume it, but if she speaks, you will both have failed. Say one word too many to anyone, and it will be the last phrase of your career. Attn: Leader of the Shining Death."
The image fades. He looks at me serenely; it's his way of saying the task is done and it's time to talk business.
"Thank you for the intervention. As you know, the harvest is going wonderfully, and the drying room has the agreed-upon amount ready." Marijuana and poppies are plants you can grow here, where we also grow cardamom and seeds prized in Chinese and Indian gastronomy. No authority will come; no one wants to know us. "The workers are paid, and the tunnel is ready."
"I'll bring new strains. In Oxford, they developed one that has all the benefits and only a quarter of the original toxicity, like the one Pfizer uses for infertility treatments." Legalized drugs for recreational purposes made him one of the most prosperous merchants in the north. He avoids customs taxes by passing it through tunnels and selling it to small labs that buy it under the table; it's expensive up there without subsidies, and Mexico's climate is ideal for cultivation. His employees are forbidden from selling or consuming here or in the north; the territory is for production. They sell outside, collect, and live inside. No excesses, no alcohol, no parties, no stupidity. "I hope you trust my people next time. I don't want another event like ten years ago."
When he leaves, I ask for a Medias de Seda cocktail to dull the most irresponsible memory of my life. The director had retired; I was left in charge while his children fought over and wasted his other projects and investments. When the narcos attacked, my clients brought mercenaries; nothing worked. They gave them refuge in nearby houses; the cities for ten kilometers around belonged to them. So I did the only thing that seemed sensible: I let everyone loose for a week of debauchery. Two months of dealing with the bodies of those who lived there with no fear other than living with narcos. Then the fires, the explosions that the press labeled as Pemex tunnel thefts. Then He appeared. He told me he had recorded everything and that he liked my method of making money. He offered that no one would ever settle nearby again in exchange for letting him produce. I was scared to death, and I accepted. Having hundreds of weapons pointed at my employees helped. I haven't managed to bring him into this "game" yet. I wonder if one day he'll come for me.