Applause and cheers.
“The benefit came when we successfully lobbied to put Testrial into pizza, beer, and bar snacks. By the end of this year, we’ll see the testosterone-reducing supplement in all foods in school cafeterias, prisons, sports stadia, and soup kitchens. The violence in bars, soccer games, and on our streets will be a thing of the past.
“We forget how bad things were, and how, as a species, we’ve slowly overcome our worst instincts. Those violent impulses in males nearly wiped out Homo sapiens between five and seven thousand years ago, when the Y chromosome almost went extinct as nine million males killed each other in tribal warfare—nearly half the human population at the time. The 2018 paper by Zeng, Aw, and Feldman has now been corroborated by other careful studies of the genome.
“We don’t need more cavemen. We don’t need protection from wolves and saber-toothed tigers. We don’t need clans and tribes fighting bloody tooth and nail. We need women and compassionate men working harmoniously together. And of course, we need technology to define a new age of human existence. Testrial is the new promise. The new hope.”
She closed her eyes as applause rose like the thunder of a gathering storm.
Cantor was alone in the room with one other person. What just happened here? How’d I lose an entire audience of potential investors? Who’s the guy at the end of the table?
He turned the projector off. The whirring fan slowed to a stop. This allowed air from the back of the room to circulate forward. It carried with it a nauseating stink. The sound of a fart punctuated the silence.
The man in the stained red shirt clapped loudly, stood, and walked forward. “That was brilliant! Brilliant!”
“Thank you,” Cantor said, stifling a gag reflex. “And you are?”
“Name’s Berky,” the man said, looking down at Cantor’s 5-foot-10-inch frame, grabbing his hand, shaking it vigorously. “That’s all you need to know for now.”
Cantor put a power cord in his hand. “Fine. Hold this, Berky. It’s all Ah need from you right now.” He began packing up his projector and laptop, disregarding the stranger who watched him like a beaming Buddha.
“What’s the significance of the tattoo? What’s a Barblefarb?” Berky asked, looking at the back of Cantor’s right hand.
“It reminds me of something I want to avoid. Can you stow that power cord?”
Berky dutifully put the cord in the backpack as Cantor reached toward the projector.
“Ah, frikin’ fudge!” Cantor shouted as he touched the projector lamp. Then he picked up the bag with cables, and the rotted bottom gave way, spilling accessories across the table. “Shit.”
“For someone who claims to have a formula for getting rich, it looks like you can’t even afford modern equipment,” Berky observed. “And how about the crappy sign outside? Did you draw it yourself?”
Cantor rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. He didn’t need smart-ass remarks. What he really craved was a new bag. And air freshener. Maybe a whiskey. He had never failed this miserably before—he had not landed a single investor. He wanted to break away from Berky’s presence, or maybe just break Berky, but something about the hairless fat guy gave him pause.
Berky touched Cantor’s shoulder and leaned forward as if to impart a confidence. But his voice boomed out so loudly, like the voice of a revival preacher, that Cantor jumped, startled.
“God has given me a chance to save mankind!” he thundered. “Like you, I’m part of His plan to restore order to the world. I can read His messages in the genome, sent from the beginning of time. They tell me how to overcome the poisons that sap our manhood and lead us toward a feminist hell-on-Earth. I have a plan to make things right again, but I need a partner who knows how to produce. Are you The One? Do you have what it takes? Is your technology real?”
Cantor couldn’t be certain, but he suspected the man had detonated another stealth fart bomb. He opened the door to the conference room to let the place vent. Fresh air enabled him to think more clearly.
His brain fixated on a single question as he looked at the blubbery, disheveled bald man. That question was: How deep are your pockets? Instead, he said: “What do you have in mind?”
“I propose to test you, Mr. Cantor. If you can do the things I need, you can be my partner. If you can’t—well then, you are nothing more than a charlatan. To prove yourself, I want you to bring Ichthy back to life.”
Cantor blinked at the disgusting man in the disgusting shirt—the source of a disgusting stink. “Ah am not sure Ah want to bring your Icky back.”
“You don’t understand,” Berky said. “Ichthy was an important historical figure. I have sixty-nine million dollars we can use. Is that enough?”
Canduka Cantor cleared his throat as an involuntary spasm grabbed his esophagus. He regained his composure and wrapped an encouraging arm around Berky. “Not nearly enough,” he said. “But it’s a start.”
Marcy spotted a potential mark—Mr. Alphonso Rodriguez, husband of June Rodriguez, heir to the Prickly Pickle restaurant chain.
“Alphie, I’m so glad you could come to my symposium. I hope you enjoyed it.”
The seventy-five-year-old man extended his soft hand. He wore a black suit with a silver bow tie. His thin and fit body moved with the energy of a man in his thirties.
“I’m always up for a little excitement,” Alphonso giggled. “You look radiant.”
Marcy winked. “And you look dashing.”
“Oh, this is a little something Junie picked out for me. It makes me look younger, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. And where’s June?”
“She’s at the mayor’s office, working on a big investment. I’m here treading water. I’m glad your conference happened to be in the same place. It was so convenient.”
Marcy took his hand. “Well, maybe June would like to invest in our great cause. You could speak to her about it. We could use her support. And you would make a great regional director, I might add. A handsome and viral distinguished gentleman like yourself would be perfect for our organization. Tell her she can help us save the world.”