Anti-Matter

Selling contraband is like an addiction: you don’t just walk away. To make it worse I knew Alvarez didn’t want to lose a good distributor, especially not one who worked for FemCad.

And Alverez had ideas. He was very motivated. If FemCad was going to clamp down on Black Gas he would find something else to peddle. Hell, Alverez wanted them to clamp down on one more thing and then another and another. The more FemCad clamped down the more its bureaucracy would choke on itself.

I went to Alverez. “I want out,” I said. “It’s getting too risky.”

“I know,” said Alverez. He was not surprised. “Lots of dealers are getting skittish. I understand. But I have a proposition for you. A new product. A whole new trade. A product meant to shut down the source. If you don’t pass methane during your quota testing, you don’t have a quota. Think of the allure. Think of the market.”

“How?”

“Chemistry.”

This was where a good chemist would come in handy. In fact, this is where a good chemist formerly employed by a pharmaceutical company did come in handy.

Over the counter supplements to help control bloating or excessive gas had existed for years in varying degrees of effectiveness. In the first year of methane collection their sales skyrocketed. I presume they worked well enough since FemCad procured an executive order to halt production and ban sales of these products. They didn’t want a Prohibition Era problem: the one where doctors were allowed to write prescriptions for the medical use of alcohol. No exceptions. Not even health exceptions. All stores, all warehouses were emptied of the product. It was now contraband. Federal felony to distribute.

Some smuggling did occur, but either there were not enough supplies or there wasn’t enough money in it. A good chemist could go across the border and with some backing begin manufacturing one of these former gas prevention supplements, but FemCad could test for it. No one wanted to sink capital into something people were afraid to use.

The concept was alluring, though. Like the Holy Grail. If Alverez was willing to risk sinking money into developing a new formula that could not be detected, he must have believed the reward was enormous. And so the smugglers became biotech entrepreneurs.

“A lot of money was spent,” Alverez said. “Top notch equipment, top notch chemists. Test subjects. Everything done right.”Apparently someone got it right.

Alverez wanted me to traffic “Anti-Matter,” the street name for this new anti-gas formula. The pitch was easy. You used Anti-Matter in the weeks approaching your annual gas quota test. I don’t know how it worked (something about gas being reabsorbed or some such thing) but apparently it shut down almost all gas release. Alverez claimed it was undetectable with existing tests. That was the ticket.

Like all drugs, it had some serious side effects with long term use. The way Alverez explained it was that your gas wasn’t being released but instead being absorbed back into your body as toxins. That was a serious problem. I guess the toxins were stored in your fat and muscle. Alverez warned that prolonged usage would probably kill you. Two weeks on it, no more. I don’t want to know how he tested this. You definitely went on a detox program when you were done.

You would take Anti-Matter before your annual test. You would score really low and have a very small quota. After your quota test you stopped taking Anti-Matter and producing gas again. This is where freedom came in. You only had to wear your collection unit until you met your quota.

This was back to selling freedom. I was in. The sales model differed from Black Gas since people would only need Anti-Matter once a year. But that kind of freedom wasn’t cheap so enough doses to duck your test would cost you dearly. Profit margins were better too, since there was no equipment to deal with.

So now I actually had become a drug trafficker. I didn’t feel sleazy. I didn’t feel felonious, though by definition I certainly was. I felt even more like a freedom fighter. I sold liberty.

Business began slowly. I was selling something you had to buy on faith. I could provide no proof that it worked, that it wouldn’t kill you. You had to wait and see. And there was no money back guarantee. You didn’t guarantee contraband.

Anti-Matter did work. Apparently it worked well. And word of mouth works very well. I couldn’t vouch for the health risks. I did feel bad about that. I gave fair warning and instructions. Word spread and spread. Business boomed. Not just for me but for everyone. Alverez was mad with money. This was ‘80s cocaine smuggling money.

I knew it was big when newspapers started to cover it. I knew it was big when FemCad began making outrageous proclamations about it. “New dangerous drug! Hundreds dead!”

Thousands of people had used Anti-Matter to lower their quotas. Six months after Alverez put it on the market, FemCad announced the first significant monthly decline in collection volumes. With distribution channels just gearing up even FemCad could see their collection efforts coming to a grinding halt if they did nothing. Anti-Matter was its own worst enemy. It was too successful.

Yes, FemCad hated Anti-Matter. At first they just issued proclamations warning people that not only was it not legal but that it was extremely dangerous to your health. Proclamations indicating that it contained all sorts of nasty chemicals, many of which were potentially lethal. They were certainly right about the risk, though I suspect the details were less than accurate.

Nonetheless, as with most such proclamations there was no effect on the trade and consumption of Anti-Matter. People wanted freedom. Anti-Matter was freedom.

So when the proclamations did not work, FemCad did the natural thing and swayed the President into issuing an executive order that set significant penalties for trading and consuming Anti-Matter. Consumption was a federal misdemeanor. Selling and manufacturing were federal felonies. The penalty: Life in prison. Tribunals were set up to speed the convictions. Hordes of FemCad goons were hired to hunt the traffickers down.

FemCad goons had extensive powers granted to them by the executive order. Suspension of rules around warrants, wire tapping, search and seizure. They were not messing around. Elliot Ness would’ve been proud.

For users of Anti-Matter the penalty was life-time probation and the permanent version of the collection unit. You could not take it off. To make sure you provided your share of methane, you were issued a state-controlled diet. You were not allowed to consume anything FemCad didn’t provide you. This diet was courtesy of on-going FemCad research to maximize methane production through the appropriate diet. They needed test subjects and here was a captive, if not willing, population. They would extract their quarts of methane one way or another.

Catching a dealer selling Anti-Matter was a pretty straight forward case, just like prosecuting narcotics dealers. Proving a user consumed Anti-Matter was another story. Since they couldn’t find it in your system, they couldn’t prove it. There was always entrapment but too much of that would become a public relations nightmare.

FemCad claimed they had developed tests to detect it, but the timing of that seemed a bit too convenient. So they tested. And convicted. Word on the street was that FemCad monitored known traffickers, tagged buyers who subsequently scored lower than previous quotas and then fabricated tests to nail the conviction. But you couldn’t entrap everyone. They could, however, make you afraid.

Black Market

You can buy anything if you can find the seller. The black market will always find opportunity.

God knows where black market gas came from. But you could buy it, no questions asked. As long as you provided your volumes, FemCad didn’t ask questions. I won’t say FemCad didn’t care but as long as people were meeting quotas they weren’t alarmed. At first.

There were rumors FemCad was working on testing. Testing to see if it’s your methane—like a DNA stamp. They would have to test it to find out if it was bovine or swine or synthetic or whatever; you couldn’t just fill the canister with methane. The gas would have to be a combination of methane and nitrogen and oxygen and carbon dioxide and so on.

But for now it just needs to resemble human gas. And in the case of black market gas, it was probably some human’s gas, smuggled in across the border, in which case it would still be human and so no red flags would come up. No knowing where it came from.

But FemCad hadn’t gone to testing yet. Perhaps because the bureaucracy would swell well beyond its already bloated state. But I knew FemCad and if there were rumors there was probably activity. FemCad had shown willingness to do most anything to meet the government quotas.

One day, I got my chance to reach into the resistance. I was collecting from a guy named Johannsen.

“Anyone ever get caught faking it?” he asked

“Faking what?” I asked.

“Faking the gas in the canister,” he said.

“In what way?” I asked. “By filling it with air or something?”

“Or something,” he said.

“Well, I am sure it has happened. They do test it to see what it is,” I said.

“Anyone every not get caught?” he asked.

“That would be hard to know, now wouldn’t it?” I said.

“But you might know someone who has tried, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Might be worth it to know such things,” he said.

I said I would see what I could find out. Since he offered me money, I saw some reward in the risk of finding out what I wanted to know anyway.

I didn’t really have any contacts on the street so I went to my contacts at FemCad. I figured I could get the names of a few people who had been arrested or suspected of black market involvement and seek them out.

Now, if I was going to approach someone on a FemCad watch list, I needed a story. Unfortunately my plan would probably cost me all the money Johannsen had promised me. Pay for play, though. I figured as a bona fide methane collector I could run an operation putting Black Gas customers in touch with Black Gas providers. In fact, I could be the perfect distribution channel. In plain sight.

So I concocted my story, which really didn’t have to be a story at all since I could really set up shop distributing to needy customers.

I approached James Garafo, repeat black gas distributor. I knew he was on probation and probably under careful watch so I wasn’t sure how cooperative he would be. I gambled that FemCad couldn’t watch everyone all the time. I had Garafo’s address so I followed him from his apartment complex. Made a reasonable attempt to avoid security cameras and then just physically bumped into him and we were off.

“Garafo. James Garafo?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But I know of you. Just keep walking. We both know you might be under surveillance.” I tried to act natural. “Anyway I’m looking for a supplier of Black Gas.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” said Garafo. “Get lost.”

“I don’t want you to supply me with any. I want you to give me a name. Just hear me out. Believe it or not I’m a methane collector. Seriously. I’m a methane collector.”

“Why would you want Black Gas?”

“I want to deal it. I have the perfect distribution channel for needy customers. I can do it right under FemCad’s nose. But it has to be good stuff. Real stuff. If they test it, it has to pass.”

“I don’t want to do jail time again.”

“I can make it worth your while. Some cash up front and you get a cut of my profit. Cash on the barrel head. No one will ever know how you got it. I just need a name.”

Garafo was reluctant but his desire for money and his dislike of FemCad were stronger than his fear. So I got a name. Per Garafo this guy had the best product, imported it from Mexico. He didn’t mess around with synthetics or bovine or swine.

His name was Alverez. He had family in Mexico. Used these connections to smuggle in Black Gas.

I didn’t know anything about the drug trade, but I figured it was a lot like this. I met Alverez in a Wammomart parking lot. He appeared alone though I doubt he was. He did all of the talking.

“You will do exactly as I say in all things. No questions. I do not trust you. But you will trust me and work solely on that trust. I know that you work for methane collection. This can be a very lucrative business. It is also very dangerous. I am sure that is very clear to you.”

I nodded as he went on. I don’t know I could have spoken even given the chance. He made it clear this was life and death, my life and death.

“You’ll be provided with product in a large canister. You’ll be provided with ten authentic FemCad canisters. You will be able to fill these from the large canister. As you swap these out to customers you will have a circular supply of canisters. If your distribution becomes large enough you will be provided with more.”

He turned to walk away. I didn’t want to speak but I needed to know about the money. So I called after him.

“What do I charge and what is your cut?” He turned. I expected a frown or a rebuke but he smiled instead.

“Each large canister will have a price. The price will vary based on how hard it was to obtain. You’ll be able to fill approximately 100 customer canisters. You will pay me double what I paid for the large canister. Price your deliveries accordingly. It is very simple.”

He was right. It was simple. Frightening, but simple. Next morning, I found a large canister and ten small FemCad canisters in my living room. No idea how they appeared. A short note instructing me to leave $1,000 at some address. Well, now I could try to price it.

Incorporating this service into my rounds was easy. People hinted. I hinted. I didn’t ask for explanations but I got them. Everyone who wanted Black Gas wanted to justify their desire to thwart the system. I tried to tell them I was agnostic. I did not care why. At least not in the beginning. I made money. Of course, if I was caught I would go to jail. FemCad would have no mercy. As an insider I would get the book thrown at me at least a couple times.

It’s probably not fair to say I began to care about the people who wanted Black Gas or even care about their stories. That would imply the wrong kind of empathy. What I did was begin to care about their desire to be free. I am not even sure what was being done to them. The emotional violation, the physical violation, the political violation.

I’m no great politician or advocate so I didn’t see myself rallying against this or taking the fight to Washington. But I was willing to sell people a bit of freedom on the side.

Business was booming. I thought about trying to recruit other methane collectors to distribute Black Gas. More distributors, more freedom. The lure of easy money might draw some in despite the risk. Make enough money and you can hope to escape across the border if you get caught.

I was getting close to making overtures when I heard through the departmental grapevine that FemCad was hoping to change up compliance rules. They didn’t have a reliable test yet, but they were hoping to basically DNA stamp gas. They knew people were cheating. But just like with security measures, you were a step ahead and then a step behind.

It was a cat and mouse game. It meant peddling Black Gas was going to become much more risky for everyone involved. But more risk means more money. I wasn’t in it for the money but more money meant easier escape. When you were willing to choose the heightened risk of going to jail in order to continue to sell people a little bit of freedom, that’s when you stopped being a methane dealer and became a freedom fighter.

At this point a pair of avenues appeared before me. The first was to walk away. Take my money and run. Join the Underground and go off the grid. The idea was that if FemCad didn’t know you existed or couldn’t find you, they couldn’t collect from you.

You didn’t have to join a gang or pay dues. You just had to be able to stay under the radar. I could do it.

Then there was the other avenue.