Date: Mon, 15 Mar 2010 03:56:56 -0700 (PDT)
From: K.D. Ohrdanski <offwitherhead83@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Pavlovian Games - Chapter 1

The usual disclaimers apply: for adult readers only. Contains graphic
depictions of sexual activity between men, some of whom are related.


CHAPTER 1 - SIX AND SEVEN

***

	"You got an F in walking?"

	Normally, I'm not that blunt. My friends have always said that I
have an uncanny ability to sympathize or, as one friend put it, appear
authentic. Just because I excel at some things doesn't mean they are easy
for others. I acknowledge that. Not a big deal. But walking?

	"Fuck you!"

	"No. Brandon, tell me how on God's green Earth you got failed
walking...beginning walking at that!"

	"Give that back, faggot."

	I was driving, so keeping Brandon's report card out of his reach
was easier said than done.  After two failed attempts, he ripped the report
card from my hands. He then punched me straight in the arm, and not in the
most playful of ways.

	"God, Brandon. With friends like you, who needs enemies?" I
complained, rubbing the place he had just landed a pretty solid blow.

	"Fuck off."

	"So are you going to answer my question?"

	"What question?"

	"The F. You hold at least a quarter of all the track and field
records at Larson High School, you were a two-time Nebraska All-State
selection in cross country, you're on a full-ride scholarship to college
for football, and you fail walking. How? That's my question. How did you
fail walking?"

	"Not everyone can be as perfect as you are."

	I shook my head. "You've got an A in astrophysics."

	"So did you. You got an A in everything. Always."

	I felt my blood pressure rising. "Brandon, how you get an A in
astrophysics and an F in walking?"

	"I fucked Professor Yaccabucci."

	Most people would have probably laughed at this, but I knew he
wasn't lying, even though we had made a pact that he was going to stop
fucking his teachers in order to get passing grades.

	"I thought we..."

	"We did, but if I didn't get a passing grade, they may not have let
me come back next year to play. Too much is riding on my senior year for me
to have gotten an F in that class. I did what I had to do, man."

	I sighed. Brandon was smart. No, he was really smart. To this day,
I don't know if my intelligence intimidated him and made him underperform,
or if he was so overextended that he couldn't get the grades he should
have, but he definitely didn't live up to his academic potential.

	"I assume Vanessa doesn't know?"

	"What she doesn't know can't hurt her."

	"Great philosophy."

	The drive from school to Larson, Nebraska is only a two-hour
commute, but like the last day of school during our freshman and sophomore
years, the trip was an hour longer. Just getting out of the parking lot was
about 30 minutes, and getting out of the city was an additional half an
hour. By the time we hit the interstate, we had traveled five miles in
about 65 minutes. So needless to say, Brandon and I were already irritable
and the "real" part of the trip had just started.

	"I failed because walking was on Friday morning," Brandon
confessed. "Do you need any further explanation, Fuller?"

	I didn't. Our school, like any other school in the country, started
its weekends on Thursday.  Brandon had a social obligation, as he called
it, to live hard on Thursday nights, and even though we had just both
turned 21 within the last three months (Brandon in January, me in March),
he'd been enjoying the bar scene since his freshman year.

	Many people did poorly in that class because you walked...a lot.
But this was obviously not the case with Brandon. Any idiot knew that. He
failed because the class met once a week and Brandon never showed up for
class.

	"Please don't let my dad find out, Kevin."

	"Why would I tell your dad?"

	Brandon was looking out the window with his gaze on nothing in
particular. He and I had been best friends practically since I came home
from the hospital 21 years ago, but even with all of his athletic success,
he always felt like he was second best in comparison.

	This, of course, was insane. Brandon was 6'1", and our freshman
year, the football's Web site listed him at 195 pounds.  Two years later,
he was eleven pounds heavier with 8% body fat. So not only could he run
faster, bench press more and, as evidenced minutes earlier, punch harder,
he didn't exactly have a tough time bringing home the ladies, either.

	Don't get me wrong; I'm no slouch. I'm only two inches shorter than
my best friend.  Although I hung up my cleats after high school, I found
myself working out daily as a stress reliever, so my 185 pound body frame
was nothing to complain about.

	As for my athletic ability, well, someone had to throw him the
football in high school to bring in the statistics he did. My quarterback
statistics were impressive, and there were definitely schools that were
looking at me. Perhaps the fact that I turned down athletic scholarships
for academic ones made him work harder, knowing that I could have kept
competing with the big boys, too. We were quite the tandem, but I think he
wanted to break free of the shadow he perceived himself to be in.

	I think the problem was that his dad really pushed him to be what I
was in high school: a multi-sport athlete as well as a "little Rhoades
scholar", as Mr. Carpenter always put it. The practices and workouts
weren't what burned Brandon out. Let's just say the high school weekend
scenes definitely made the aforementioned goal unattainable.

	"What are we listening to?"

	My jeep had an MP3 player installed in it; I had the soundtrack to
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly in, music Brandon definitely wouldn't
appreciate. After hitting the fast forward button two or three times, the
first track of The Fast and the Furious started to play. Not exclusively
hip-hop as he would have preferred, but definitely a step up from what was
playing, I'm sure.

	"What was that?"

	"It was music I downloaded to help me study this semester."

	"The Good, the Bad and the Ugly?"

	"Yeah."

	"What is that? Sounds like some white people shit to me."

	The comment made me laugh. Brandon and I are both black, but when
we graduated, we were the only two African-Americans in our graduating
class. White people surrounded us, so the thought of white culture somehow
not influencing us at all growing up was impossible...not to mention
comical.

	"You know, I've never seen the movie," I replied in honesty. "I
don't know what the racial makeup of the movie is."

	"I can probably guess." He was starting to lighten up now that the
conversation wasn't about him any more. I relaxed a bit, too. Any time
Brandon was tense, it made me tense. Nervous, and in a few situations
growing up, I was genuinely scared. The kid had an anger streak that was
tough to predict.

	"I never knew so many of us existed. They even have a black student
union up there."

	"Yes, I know this," I frowned. "I'm the outgoing BSU
vice-president."

	"Oh." He could sense the discontentment in my tone. "Didn't get
re-elected?"

	"No," I said flatly. "I mean, I didn't run. I just wished you would
have made it to one of the meetings every once in a while."

	"I..." He was obviously at a loss.

	"I know you were busy," I replied, letting him know it wasn't a
huge deal. "I just thought that would have been one of the things where
could have really reconnected."

	We spent about 90 minutes in silence. I-20 doesn't have much to
look at, so both of us just stared out of the respective windows of my
jeep. We were finally heading home for the summer, and I was sure when we
got back to Larson, our excitement would peak once again.

	About 20 minutes away from home, Brandon's phone vibrated in his
pocket. Brandon's phone went off all the time; such is the nature of a
socialite. And just like a socialite, he was never the kind of guy to keep
his adoring public waiting. He checked his texts in the middle of the
night, in class, even in his practices. This time, though, he didn't answer
right away. It didn't take me too long to realize he was fast asleep.

	I reached into the pocket of his track pants and pulled out his
cell phone. I looked down and saw DAD listed across the screen.

	"Hello, Mr. Carpenter."

	"Bran...Kevin?"

	"Yours truly." I smiled. Brandon's dad and I had spent many nights
together, helping me study for tests or helping me with my ball control for
soccer. My dad, although insanely supportive to almost unhealthy levels,
was always out of town for business. So Brandon and I grew up like
brothers, and Mr. Carpenter had as much authority to punish me as my own
dad.

	His voice wasn't immediately pleasant. In fact, it was void of
emotion altogether. "Hello, Kevin. How far are you away from Larson?"

	"I think we're about 20-30 minutes away."

	"Ok," he answered, just as flatly as before. "Stop by my house
before you go home."

	"Well, I need to grab something to mail off from my house first,
but I can be over your house right afterwards."

	"No!" he exclaimed, almost as if there was something at my house I
shouldn't know about.

	A welcome home party, I wondered. Brandon and I hadn't been in
Larson since the beginning of September. During our freshman and sophomore
years, we had come for Thanksgiving and the break between the two
semesters, but with Brandon's sports obligations and my volunteer
commitments, we had stayed at school for the entire year and hadn't seen
our families since we left in the fall.

	"No?" I said coyly. I wanted Mr. Carpenter to know that I knew what
he was up to.

	"No. Your brother has already mailed off a check to reserve the
spot for Charlene and Lincoln's reception."

	This comment caught me off-guard, not because Kris had already
taken care of arranging this part of the wedding, but because Mr. Carpenter
already knew what I was planning on doing. I had told Kris that I was going
to pay for the reception, but why would Kris have told Brandon's dad about
it?

	I returned back from the daze after Mr. Carpenter got my attention
with two or three hellos.  "Yes, Sir. Brandon and I will be there soon."

	He didn't say goodbye. He just hung up the phone. I hadn't talked
to him since I left, so I wonder if he was so excited to see the two of us
that he was tense. Like father, like son.

	Or maybe it was because they had to get the lights off and the
confetti ready for our return.  I laughed out loud at this, which woke
Brandon up.

	"Thank God!"

	The familiarity of our town did the same thing this year that it
had in years past. The high school, the grocery stores and the movie
theater were all in sight. I could see the park in the distance, and the
police station was coming into view. Yep, we were home.

	"We're going to your place home first."

	"Good, I'm hungry."

	"When are you not hungry?"

	We passed the police station and veered right onto Inlanders
Drive. Nothing had changed. I hadn't expected it to, and the familiar
sights were soon going to be grouped with familiar faces.

	We pulled up into Brandon's driveway. His house was a ranch-style
home with a dirt drive.  His front patio was pretty big with one of those
two-person swings on the front. The shingles on the roof were fading in
color, but the house itself was still very sturdy. The house had been in
Brandon's family for only two generations, but the Carpenters did their
best to maintain the house and keep it in good condition.

	When I parked my jeep in his driveway, I noticed there was a man
standing in front of the house's front door. Except it wasn't
Mr. Carpenter. Brandon and I looked at each other in confusion. The thought
of our welcome home party was no longer on the forefront of my mind. In
fact, I had no idea what to think.

	"Welcome home, boys."

	When we got to the front patio, the identity of the man in question
became clear to me. The man was John Cartwright. Mr. Cartwright was an
attorney here in town, but his legend was well- established outside of the
courtroom. This man was known far across the state as the premiere
quarterback at Larson twenty years ago. He was two or three inches taller
than Brandon, but this man was big. Intimidating. He might have had a gut
from one too many beers, but he still made muscles in places where most
people don't have places, and he had to weight between 245-250 pounds.

	Mr. Cartwright had been very nice to me growing up, and when I was
little, he threw me my first football. My dad said that when I threw it
back at him, the biggest possible smile arose on his face. Mr. Cartwright
knew I'd grow up to break every single one of his high school records. (It
turned out that out of the seventeen records at Larson he held in football,
he still maintained twelve of them. I was only able to break three of
them.)

	Although a torn Achilles tendon kept him from playing in college,
he was as healthy, as happy and as daunting as ever. He was wearing a
little blue Oxford without a tie coupled with a pair of Khakis. It was like
he just got off of work and was going to relax on the couch for a few
hours.  Except not his couch. Brandon's couch.

	"What are you doing here?" Brandon asked, not holding back his
dismay. I don't know if Brandon even recognized Mr. Cartwright, but he
wasn't thrilled by a "stranger" welcoming him home after eight months of
being away at school.

	"I'm sorry?" It was just as clear that Mr. Cartwright wasn't
expecting that type of welcome and was genuinely caught off guard by
Brandon's rudeness.

	"I apologize for Brandon's outburst, Mr. Cartwright. I haven't seen
you in a while, Sir.  Didn't even recognize you. How have you been?"

	Mr. Cartwright laughed. "Kevin, it's very good to see you. But
please, call me John."

	"Ok, John." I smiled. I gave the large man a tight hug as memories
of my childhood came flushing back to me.

	"We've been waiting for you for quite sometime," John said with a
smile on his face. "Both of you, in fact. Please come in."

	I looked at Brandon, and to say that he was irritated was quite the
understatement. I looked at John, who already knew his agitation stemmed
from the fact that he was being welcomed into his own by house by a total
stranger.

	"What's going on here?" Brandon asked. His irritation was quickly
turning to fury, so questions were going to have to be answered sooner than
later.

	"Yeah, what's up? Mr. Carpenter seemed pretty urgent on the
phone". Although I wasn't mad like Brandon was, I was relatively curious
what the deal was.

	"Ray is inside. He, and your dad, Kevin, are both waiting inside."

	John opened the door. The lights were off, and immediately the idea
of a surprise party came back to me. I think the idea came across Brandon's
mind, too, as his anger quickly subsided and anxiety took over. In his
eyes, a surprise would quickly change this odd introduction into a
worthwhile experience.

	Unfortunately, that idea quickly was dismissed. John turned on the
lights, and Brandon's living room was illuminated with no piercing
"SURPRISE!" to welcome us back home.

	One thing I did notice was that the living room was cleaner than it
had ever been in over ten years. Mrs. Carpenter had passed away when
Brandon and I were eleven. Mrs. Carpenter gave birth to Marissa, Brandon's
sister, but Mrs. Carpenter didn't make it through the experience. Mr.
Carpenter was left to raise three children to raise. His job as a police
officer paid enough that he was able to financially support them, but the
cleanliness of his house was usually the last of his priorities.

	Now, the living room wasn't only clean, but the hardwood floors
practically shined. The shades were free of dust, and the room, though not
large by anyone's perception, seemed bigger than it had before.

	"How about you two have a seat?"

	There was a scowl on Brandon's face, and it was becoming apparent
that his short fuse was getting even shorter. Although Brandon was a
receiver, he had played a little defense his senior year to prove that he
was a well-rounded player, and the expression he had on his face now was
reminiscent of his senior year: he was ready to pounce.

	I sat down on the couch in fear. Not only was I concerned with the
fact that John had welcomed us into Brandon's home, leading me to believe
everything was not alright, but I was concerned with the fact that if John
and Brandon were to get into a physical altercation, there was no way I'd
be able to get between them. Instantly, I felt weak.

	Brandon sat beside me. He looked at me, and I just shrugged. He was
trying to cool his jets, and I gave him a "why are you so mad?" look. I
trusted John, and there was no reason to think that there was any imminent
danger. Brandon took a deep breath, unclenched his fists and turned his
attention to John.

	John took notice of Brandon's more relaxed attitude and immediately
spoke in a tone of assurance. "First, let me start off by reiterating that
everyone is alright. Your dads, Henry and Kris are all waiting for you in
the kitchen."

	"Where are all the women?" I asked.

	"Catherine, Charlene, Marissa and little Gabby are all at the
hospital," John replied.

	"Hospital?" Brandon and I replied at the same time. Normally
Brandon would giggle at something as trivial as saying the same thing at
the same time, but the idea of my mother, my sister, his sister and his
niece at the hospital while our dads, my brother and his uncle sat in the
kitchen was starting to wear him down.

	"How many times do I have to tell you everything is fine?" There
was a hint of irritation in his voice, but only temporarily. His mood
quickly shifted. "Kris and Emily are the proud parents of a 7 pound, 2
ounce baby boy. Kyle was born late last night and is good condition."

	Kris, with whom I talked to at least four times a week, had somehow
forgotten to tell me that he was going to be a dad. His negligence spun
around in my head until I came to the only reasonable, albeit vague,
conclusion: something was terribly wrong. My genius brother was an airhead,
for sure, but he was also incredibly responsible, and the fact that he
wasn't in the emergency room with his wife and son meant that he was here
against his will.

	"Is Earl there, too?" Brandon asked. I looked at him, and there was
no consoling him. He was starting to get the hint that even if everyone was
safe and alive, something...a big something...was amiss.

	"All of your questions will be answered here shortly. It's best if
you both stay calm and give me the opportunity to explain. Then you will
have the opportunity to ask any questions you'd like to."

	I looked at Brandon, who had clinched his fists tight again. From
thinking that there was a surprise party to fearing for the wellbeing of
our families, his emotions had gotten the best of him. I put my arm on his
bicep, and for the first time since we had sat down on his couch, he
acknowledged my presence. He always looked to me for peace, and my hand
gave him just that.

	At this point, John was right. For us to speculate what was going
on was counterproductive.  "Ok, so what's going on?"

	"What I'm about to say is going to shock you. It shocked Ray. It
shocked James. It shocked Henry. It shocked Earl. It shocked Kris. There's
no way for this to not come off as shocking, but one thing I will tell you
is that this is very real."

	I nodded my head, but I looked over to Brandon when I heard an
audible gulp come from his throat.

	John remained very relaxed as he started into his explanation:

	"Kevin, I'm fully aware that you are familiar with Ivan Pavlov's
contribution to classical conditioning, but for Brandon's sake, I will
explain it as your understanding of how it works becomes crucial to what
lies ahead for you."

	I always hated when people assumed I was smarter than Brandon, but
at this point, Brandon was so ready for an explanation that he remained
unfazed.

	"Over a century ago, Ivan Pavlov was conducting an experiment on
the digestive processes of dogs when he noticed a strange occurrence. It
appeared that the dogs would begin to salivate when they saw the lab
technician who normally fed them. This automatic response from the dogs
intrigued him. Pavlov theorized that even if the lab technician came into
the dog chamber without food, through repetition, the dogs subconsciously
equated the technician's entry with food. This is known as classical
conditioning."

	"Pavlov proved that his theory was right by replacing the lab
technician with a metronome.  Sure enough, after a few repetitions, the
dogs would hear the metronome and start to salivate. To you and me, there's
nothing tantalizing about the sound of a metronome, but through classical
conditioning, Pavlov was able to take something completely neutral to the
situation and have it create an automatic, uncontrollable response."

	I looked over at Brandon and had no idea whether this was new to
him or not. He, like me, was waiting to see how this had to do with the
strange welcome we'd received.

	"About three years ago, an American by the name of Timothy Grant
decided to take the experimentation one step further and to see if it
worked on more advanced organisms. He wanted to know if the experimentation
worked so well with dogs because of their relatively simple minds, or if
this were a trick that could be used universally."

	"He decided, for fear of a social backlash, that he wouldn't try it
on humans. Rather, he tried it on a specimen that's just one step...one
major step...down from humans. And I'll be damned, it worked."

	I was growing tired of this conversation. John was being ambiguous
for dramatic effect, I was receiving a lecture I had received back in the
eighth grade, and none of my questions were being answered. "With all due
respect, John, I don't need a trip down memory lane." I cringed, but I
continued. "I don't care about any recent chimpanzee experiment. Just
please get to the point."

	"Very well, Kevin," he replied, a bit irritated that I had
interrupted him. "I want you both to follow me, but I don't want you to say
a word when we get in the kitchen or there will be major problems for
everyone involved."

	For the first time since coming into Brandon's house, I was
legitimately scared. Kris was in this room instead of being with his
newly-born baby and now I was to remain silent as to what I was about to
see. I was a nervous wreck, but I got out of the couch and followed John to
the door that separated the Carpenter living room from its
kitchen. Brandon, who I thought was going to have a heart attack, followed
closely behind.

	John reached for the door. "Brandon. Kevin. I introduce you to your
fellow contestants in The Pavlovian Games!" The door swung open, and what I
saw next would send shivers down my spine for the next 30 minutes.

	I must have stood in the doorway for thirty second with my mouth
wide open, motionless before John ushered me into the kitchen. Even though
Brandon was behind me, I could hear his heart beat wildly, almost so fast
that I was as equally concerned about his well being as I was the well
being of the men in front of me.

	"The fuck?"

	Brandon's interjection shook me from my second wave of
motionlessness. He had gone from shock to anger, but this time, he was
going to need some physical restraint. I broke my stare from the debacle
that was in front of me to focus on my rambunctious friend behind me.

	"What the...the...what the...?"

	Brandon was starting to foam at the mouth. It was almost as if he
was losing complete control over all of his reactions. Although the sight
before us needed some serious explanation, I immediately realized that our
families were not in any immediate danger. In fact, they were calm.
Brandon wasn't, and I started to wonder if his spastic behavior would
endanger them.

	"Brandon."

	"What the..."

	"Brandon!"

	Now Brandon was crying. I grabbed his arm as tight as I could,
pinching him to cause enough of distraction to get his mind off the
sight. To some degree it worked, and his arm dropped to the counter beside
us. His breathing hadn't slowed, and if John said the wrong thing, he'd
surely blow another gasket.

	"Kevin, I...do you...?"

	"Brandon, John is going to explain what's going on in a second,
right?" I looked at John, and he nodded. I looked back at John. "But you
acting this way could...I don't know...put them in jeopardy. Fucking
relax!"

	The last two words came off stronger than I expected, but their
impact definitely worked. I took the back hand and wiped away the drool
away from his lips. I wiped it on a dish towel and brought both of my hands
to either side of his head. I brought his forehead to mine, wincing when
they connected.

	"You okay?"

	Once they came out of my mouth, I realized those weren't the words
I meant to use as I wasn't okay, either. But he knew what I meant and
nodded his head in agreement.

	I turned around and faced the curious sight for the second time. In
the center of the kitchen was a large, circular dining room table. It was
much larger than the one that had been placed there before. There were four
chairs, and as John had promised, there were Brandon's dad, my dad,
Brandon's uncle and my brother, each sitting in silence.

	The first thing that I noticed was the fact that all four
motionless men were a lot bigger than I had remembered them. Even though I
had been gone since September, their whole bodies had grown
exponentially. Brandon's arms had gotten bigger through endless workout,
but the four men who sat in front of me could be mistaken for professional
athletes. At second glance, I realized that none of them had bodybuilder
physiques, but any one of the men sitting in front of us could have been on
the front cover of a health and fitness magazine, no doubt. Maybe not a
bodybuilder, but any one of them could have a career as a professional
wrestler.

	Each of them sat in a chair that had arms. All four of them had
each of their respective wrists handcuffed to the arm of the chair. There
wasn't any give in the body of the cuffs, so their arms were awkwardly
restrained to the chair. Much like their arms, their ankles were shackled
to the legs of the chairs.

	I couldn't see any of their faces. Each one of the men had a black,
lightweight spandex hood that covered their entire head. Other than the
scar that identified Brandon's uncle, I had no idea who was who. The hood
didn't have eye openings; it only had an opening for the mouth.  None of
the mouths had any sense of facial hair, so there was no distinguishing
which set of full lips belonged to my dad, to Brandon's dad and to Kris.

	Around their necks were identical collars. Each was thick and
looked heavy. They looked like dog collars. The thick, metal chain was
locked together with a 1" padlock. In each of their mouths was a steel ring
that kept their mouths ajar. Leather straps came from each side of the
rings, and the straps were tied to the back of their heads. Talking was
impossible, but perhaps more unsightly was the fact that each of them had a
thick stream of drool coming from his mouth, culminating into a large pool
of water in front of them. With their hands immobile, it became apparent
that these fountains of drool were intentional.

	And then there was the clothing. Or, more accurately, the lack
there of.

	All four men were completely naked. Other than the hood, the gag,
the shackles and the collars, each of them sat bare. So even the parts of
them that defined their manhood lay flat against the seat of their
respective chair.

	The more I stared, the more answers I needed. Why were they sitting
there, and more importantly, was there anyone in this room I didn't see
that was keeping them there? My dad, a proud and respected businessman, was
now sitting in front of me, stripped of his integrity. Never would I be
able to see him as a strong provider of my family. Now he was the belittled
captive of the man that stood beside me.

	But the tears started to fall when I thought of my big brother. No
one in my life had meant more to me than Kris, and if what John said was
true, then Kris sat here at this table, unable to control the dehumanizing
drool that fell from his lips while his wife and his mother cooed over his
new son.

	My first thought was to go over and relieve each one of them from
their current predicament. There was no one else in the house. But that
same thought is what kept me motionless. Although my brother might not have
been a hot head, my dad had a temper that even my mom couldn't control. And
Brandon's temper wasn't even remotely comparable to the tempers of his dad
and his uncle. Whatever predicament they all were in was big enough to keep
all of these attitudes in check.

	Even still, each sat in complete silence. Picturesque, really. If
they were scared or mad or upset, none of them wore it in their body
language. Though their faces were masked, my uncle stared at one of them
men as he stared back at him. The same was true for the remaining men.

	The most overwhelming emotion to deal with, though, was
shame. Whatever it was that was being done to them was not being done with
the intent of causing them bodily harm. There was a very strong sense of
meticulousness that went into displaying them the way they were. In fact,
whoever had arranged this scene for us did so to replace the way we thought
about them. Their intent was to remove the images of respect we had for
them and, in exchange, reduce them into...well, this. Senseless entities,
shrouded with anonymity.

	Our escort walked to the refrigerator, located on the far side of
the kitchen, and pulled out a pitcher of water. I watched as he glided
across the room, as if this display wasn't anything unusual.  He peered
over his shoulder once, smiling at the image, and reached for three glasses
in the cupboard.

	"Thirsty?"

	I nodded my head. For some reason, a calming sense came over me. As
horrified as I was at the current predicament and as anxious as I was at
knowing what was happening, I realized that the situation at would best be
handled with a clear mind.

	But a second later, another thought crossed my mind: I was to join
their fate.

	I pushed that thought from my mind and drank the water. Brandon's
tears were uncontrollable right now. He was terrified, and the last thirty
minutes proved to anyone watching that he didn't have firm control over his
emotions. There wasn't anything I could do for him at this point other than
start clarifying the situation, hoping that answers would soothe.

	But before I could ask any questions, John broke the silence. "I've
said it before, but to reiterate, no one has been hurt. Their egos have
been irreparably destroyed, of course, but all four of them are doing fine
In fact, each is elated that you are back from college and will be happy to
tell you after this initial meeting is over."

	I reached for my glass. My throat was dry, and as I spoke, it came
off as if I hadn't had water for years. "So what does classical
conditioning have to do with...with this?"

	The soliloquy continued. "Mr. Grant's original goal was mind
control. To make a long...and slightly boring...story short, he studied
Pavlov in an effort to pursue his own selfish goal of being able to read
the minds of his peers. He was fully aware that classical conditioning
wouldn't give him psychic abilities, of course, but he wanted to see if it
was possible to have a level of control over an individual that having a
person do whatever he said without hesitation."  Brandon had stopped
crying. He was now listening and, like me, trying to piece together this
bizarre story. "So you got these guys to be like this through mind
control?"

	John went to shake his head, but decided against it. "Kind of."

	"Kind of," Brandon repeated, confused.

	"Mr. Grant wasn't able to achieve his goal of global domination, as
I have satirically described it in the past. But he was able to develop
something far greater: he created, quite literally, an obedient slave."

	The two words sent chills down my body. The chills were so intense
that I almost dropped the glass in my hand. Henry, Mr. Carpenter, my dad
and Kris were not just slaves, but through intense conditioning, they
couldn't fight it.

	"The Larson's Gentlemen's Club, or the LGC, was established in
October of last year.  Police Chief Hayden Rouge is the current president,
and he does a damn fine job if you asked me.  All white men of adult age
are encouraged to join. We're at about 90% of the town's population at this
point."

	"White men only, huh?" I laughed at how bluntly racist this was
becoming.

	"The only reason it's white only is become all of the adult black
population are participating in the experiment," John smiled.

	"Yeah," Brandon said. "Unwillingly."

	"That's not true!" John barked. "If you were to ask your dad if he
had a choice to participate, he'd say yes."

	I rolled my eyes. Whatever choice he was given must not have been a
choice at all. That thought, however, brought me to another startling
realization. "How did you get them to agree to this?" I used air quotation
marks around the word agree.

	The question sparked movement. John reached down to the large
briefcase that was sitting beside the counter. He shuffled between paper
and folder until he pulled out two official-looking packets. He placed them
on the countertop, one in front of me and one in front of Brandon searched
through his briefcase again and pulled out two pins in front of each
packet.

	"Principal Geyser caught wind of this project over the Internet. He
brought it to me, and we both were so intrigued by it that we wanted to see
if this would work on the seven of you. And evidenced by the exponential
increase in the size of the group, we weren't alone."

	"This is bullshit." Brandon's fury was starting to build again.

	John ignored the outburst. "So Kevin, you weren't entirely right
when you interrupted me early. Chimpanzees are not the closest living
species to humans. You are!"

	My heart dropped. A man I had considered a friend an hour ago just
implied that African- Americans were their own species and that we were
somewhere between men and chimpanzees.

	"The LGC has unanimously agreed to take on this project but under a
few conditions. One is that the black womenfolk are left in the dark about
the whole ordeal. Your mother and your sister are good friends of all of
the white womenfolk in the town. There's no need to shake the boat. In
fact, none of the women in town know what's going on. Not even my wife."

	It was the first good news I had heard all day. Mom and Charlene
were not only safe, but they were none the wiser of what was going on. "So
you've been lying to them for the last several months..."

	"Yes," John said, cutting me off. "For the most part, they think
these men are members of the LGC and are happy to give them their
space. Emily even accepted that this weekend was a huge initiation and
`let' Kris spend the weekend with us until he could come visit his son."

	I looked back at the table. Not one of them had moved.

	"There is one catch, unfortunately," John said, drawing our
attention back to him. "The women are safe and ignorant of the situation
now, but that's based on your unwavering compliance. Yet, if you choose not
to participate, then that won't necessarily be the case. This was a hard
stipulation for the LGC to agree with since this entire project is supposed
to be harm-free.  But there was no other way to force participation."

	In a sick way, it made sense. There was no way to get my dad, my
brother, Brandon's dad and his uncle to participate to this nonsense. They
had been blackmailed into it, and John's previous comment about willingness
made sense. With our young, innocent relatives' lives on the lines, I
imagine not one of them thought twice about the agreement.

	"Each of these men have been enslaved since about November, but as
you might imagine, the conditioning has to remain constant for the desired
effect to maintain itself. So they spend their weekends with us, each in
their own individual chamber, watching video after video to enhance their
training, and then spending time with their...well, we'll call them their
personal trainers. Each of the four men you see before you have responded
far past any of our expectations."

	For the first time, the fact that John referred to four men and not
five brought the obvious question to Brandon's mind. "Where's my brother?"

	John smiled; his smile was full of contempt. "Earl is a stubborn
individual. He obviously cares for the well being of his family, but the
idea of being enslaved by anyone didn't sit well with him. So he decided to
run away."

	"However," John said before either one of us could respond, "he
quickly came back to his sense two days later, knowing that he had put
everyone he knew in jeopardy. Both the LGC and the men before you were all
relieved that no one had to be hurt because of his selfishness, but it was
decided he had to pay a hefty price because of his insubordination."

	Brandon's eyes widened. "You didn't!?"

	John had a look of confusion on his face for the first
time. "Didn't what?"

	"He's... I mean, you didn't..." Brandon was getting choked up, but
his inability to articulate his question ironically made both John and I
aware of his concern.

	"No, Earl is still alive. He's doing well, actually. We don't want
to hurt anyone. As punishment, Earl is in jail. He has been there since
February and is scheduled for release in a week or so. He is allowed one
visitor a week, and since he impregnated his girlfriend, she spends the
allotted hour per week with him every Sunday."

	Had the announcement been under different circumstances, I would
have laughed at Brandon's reaction. He grinned, but the grin evaporated as
quickly as it formed. He was stoked at the prospect of finally being an
uncle, but saddened that, like Kyle, Earl's son would probably grow up in
the most unusual of circumstances.

	"Unlike these gentlemen, Earl spends 6 days a week with his
personal trainer. His obedience is 100%. He's a great slave, and the LGC is
excited about seeing what type of progress he's made."

	I finished my glass of water, and John filled it up again.

	"Thank you, Sir."

	I immediately recognized how automatic my respect was, and John bit
his lip so he didn't laugh. My family and my best friend's family had been
conditioned to respond in a way I did naturally. Fuck.

	"Each of the four men here is allowed to live his life,
uninterrupted, four days of the week.  We don't want suspicion to arise,
and we honestly want you all to be happy. We all like you, whether the
current situation might make you think otherwise. And no one outside of the
LGC knows any different. Saturdays are meant for conditioning, and Sundays
are meant for slave labor.  The only catch is that any one of them can be
used only one day of the week. That's to say, any LGC member can remind
them of their place and use them accordingly."

	"Wouldn't that catch a woman's attention if they were instantly...I
don't know, transformed?" I asked.

	"Each member," John said, "is instructed to only use that ability
in the most discrete manner. Negligence on any LGC member would result in
punishment similar to that of the negligence one of you might cause."

	"So when does this end?" Brandon asked.

	"I'm glad you asked. We've made this into a game as I alluded to
earlier. The seven of you are all playing against one another, and the
method you use to win is completely up to you."

	"How is this a game?" Brandon shot back.

	"Both of you will go through the same conditioning used on your
families until the slave effect is as strong as it is with Ray, James,
Earl, Kris and Henry. The two of you will be no different, and then the
Pavlovian Games will begin."

	"However, when you two become official participants, one of the
current players will be quickly eliminated. In fact, the first elimination
will happen tomorrow in front of the entire LGC!"

	"Eliminated?" This time, I was the one to speak up. To me, an
important part of the "game" had been left out of his description.

	John must have understood my confusion, and he reached into his
suitcase to grab a small gift box. He placed it to the right side of the
packets on the counter, and he opened it to reveal its content. Six pills
sat inside. Each was a very dark maroon color and was engraved with a white
X.

	"Let's just say these are not FDA approved...and very expensive."

	"What are they?"

	"These are what we have colloquially called the X pills. They were
invented by Mr. Grant.  Each pill is very potent with neuro-chemicals that
will permanently alter its digester's mind.  Immediately, free will and
independent thinking will go the way of Old Yeller. Reborn will be a
reprogrammed mindless slave, unconcerned with anything other than serving."

	It was my turn to gulp loud enough that Kansasians could hear
me. This situation had been crazy enough, but now there was some magical
pill that was going to turn me into a permanent slave. My dreams of
starting a family and moving out west were now on hold, and instead of
being the activist I had wanted to be, the possibility of becoming property
to another man was the more likely outcome.

	Brandon had been trying to maintain his dignity, but he finally
lost it when he heard the result. He looked like he had already been
beaten, and tears were uncontrollably taking over his face. He, like me,
was terrified at the possibility of giving up who he was.

	I looked over at the table and held back my own tears. "Will we
still know who we are?"

	"Of course you will, Kevin." The fact that he used my first name
struck an uneasy feeling in me. It was soothing. Perhaps I would say it was
calming. And most importantly, it was sincere. It was as if this game
wasn't done in malice, but as if it had to be done this way.

	"Each loser will have their current spirit inside of
them. Metaphorically speaking, the pill simply locks that man away. He'll
sit on the sidelines, to use a sports analogy, and watch the new you live
life. He'll love the people he loved before the transformation. They will
always be there, but those feelings will be trumped so heavily by the need
to serve that anyone else won't know that those feelings are even there."

	My stare was still locked on the table. There were so many thoughts
that were going through my head.

	"Besides," John continued, "the game can only end when you want it
to end. You see, these pills only work if you allow them to. In each of
their collars, there is a small electronic transmitter that, when placed
firmly against the body, will tell how susceptible to the pill the
individual is. We call it the Resistance Level. If the Resistance Level is
too high, the pill isn't going to work. If you two were to take them right
now, for example, each pill would be a poor investment; your Resistance
Level is currently way too high, and they'd have the same effect of an
ibuprofen. And as you see, there's only six. Whoever isn't
transformed...well, he wins."

	Brandon wiped away the tears with the mention of hope. "So it's
possible none of us could lose this game?"

	For the second time, John was hesitant in his
response. "Technically, yes. But that's not going to happen?"

	"Why not?"

	"Three of the five men already have Resistance Level scores that
are well below what is necessary to make the transformation. As I said
before, one will be making the transformation tomorrow."

	I didn't blink. Tomorrow, one of the men sitting at the table was
going to be permanently different.

	"Who is it?" Brandon asked.

	"I'll tell you within five minutes. That's how long the two of you
have to make your decision. I've explained the game. No more questions
asked. You don't really have a choice - I'm not going to pretend like you
do have a choice – but I'm not going to give you days to think about
this either."

	The soothing tone to his voice was gone, but I couldn't help but
wonder if he changed back to the stern demeanor only to move it along. It
was clear that there were safeguards to protect everyone. The punishments
were drastic enough to cause an infinite number of problems, but John and
the LGC had managed to have enough support that any sort of disappearance
would be explained.

	"What if...?" Brandon started to ask.

	"Five minutes begin now."

	I looked at the packet, wondering why he had placed it in front of
us. I could have read a significant part of the packet in five minutes, but
John and I knew that this wasn't a matter of technicality. The words were
just that. Words. John said no questions, and I knew immediately that the
time to act was now.

	Images of a future as a slave flooded my head. I wouldn't finish
college. I wouldn't be accepted into any law school. I wouldn't be able to
travel long distances like my dad did for work, nor would I be able to
travel short distances like my brother did for his. My dream of leaving
this small town behind me would be dashed.

	Thirty seconds passed, and Brandon was done thinking about it. He
picked up the pen, flipped to the last page of his respective packet and
signed on the line. As he finished up his signature, his head dropped. The
defeat that he had felt earlier was back, and he knew what he had just
done.

	Just as soon as Brandon placed the pen down, John reached into his
suitcase and pulled out two collars and two ring gags, identical to what
the men at the table were wearing. He placed one set on my packet and
walked toward Brandon. Brandon backed up a step, but he braced
himself. John wedged himself behind the counter and walked behind
Brandon. He placed the steel chain around Brandon's neck. Then he squeezed
back around to face Brandon while reaching through his pockets.

	"You've made a good choice, Nigger Six," he said as he put the key
into the collar's padlock.

	Only one man had ever called Brandon a nigger before, and he paid
for it with two of his teeth. Brandon was no happier to be called it a
second time, and he had every intention of showing John that he wasn't
anyone's nigger.

	Unfortunately for Brandon, his fist never made it to his verbal
assailant's body. Expecting that level of defiance, John removed the face
of his watch and tapped a small button fast enough that an electronic shock
went through Brandon's body.

	"Ah!" Brandon screamed. The pain was obviously excruciating, but
John kept his finger on the button that was evidently connected to the same
electronic device in Brandon's collar that measured his Resistance
Level. Brandon's tears of sadness didn't compare to the tears of agony he
was shedding now. His whole body was convulsing, and as his strength
started to evaporate, he involuntarily fell to his knees in front of John.

	"What are you, ape?" John bellowed. His voice demanded submission,
and Brandon's immediate situation called for it. But Brandon's pride and a
second racial slur kept Brandon from answering the question.

	"Fuck you, cracker!"

	Only an idiot would respond that way, and Brandon proved that he
was that idiot. John didn't remove his finger from the small button, and
the electronic shock stayed consistent.  Brandon's eyes were starting to
turn red, and he went from a kneeling position to flat on his stomach. His
screams had changed from those of a man in pain to those of a woman. The
base in his voice was long gone, and his lack of obedience was starting to
look like a fatal flaw.

	"Tell me, coon. Say I'z a nigger for da white man, Massa." John
repeated.

	The dialect of John's demand made it clearer how this game
works. Belittlement.  Degradation. Embarrassment. Even semi-public
humiliation. Each worked to slowly erode the resistance of each participant
until he didn't want to play any more. Whoever had given up and was facing
transformation tomorrow had grown tired of situations similar to these. He
must have thought he couldn't be degraded and humiliated if he was happy to
oblige to these types of belittling instructions, and the only way to be
happy was to lose the game.

	Although in an unconvincing tone, Brandon obliged.

	"I'm a nigger for the white man, Massa." Brandon said it in a
whisper, but it was loud enough for John and me to hear it. John let go of
the button in his watch and snapped the face back on. Brandon, meanwhile,
was choking and trying to rebound from the electric experience.
Unfortunately, the pain had taken its toll, and Brandon's response must
have been the result of desperation.

	He had passed out.

	John turned his attention to me. "By no means does this have to be
like that. Neither one of your family members has ever felt any sort of
electric shock since this game began. But you only have a minute left."

	For the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do. My best
friend was unconscious. His motionless body was sprawled on the floor in
front of me. For all I knew, he could be dead. The safety of my mom and my
sister were at stake. My dad and my brother sat ten feet from me, and
depending on who was being transformed tomorrow, I didn't know if I'd ever
be able to talk to one of them as men ever again.

	John walked up so that his chest was up against my face. He took
his index finger and tilted my chin so that his eyes looked directly into
mine. I was afraid for my life, but my eyes didn't waiver.

	"Do you have a choice, Nigger Seven?"

	The thought of spitting in his face, or running, or doing anything
else to escape all burned brightly in my mind. But before I could
rationalize which one would be the least harmful to everyone involved, I
looked to my left at the table. The man sitting to the right of Brandon's
uncle shook his head. It wasn't emphatic, but it was enough to make me
realize he was answering the question for me. It was as if he knew I knew
the answer, but he knew I needed one more rational person to help me make
the right call.

	It was Kris.

	"No, Sir," I said, back away from John. "I don't."

	I didn't know what the future was going to hold for me, but I knew
what I had to do. I took the pen and flipped to the last page. I cringed,
took a deep breath, laughed silently to myself and signed my name.