The store manager returned to his makeshift interrogation room holding a black baggie. "So," said the store manager. He took a sip of his coffee. He regretted leaving it for so long; it was getting cold. "You gonna tell me why you keep coming into my store and stealing my shampoo?"
"I haven't stolen anything," the man at the table stated. He sat staring at the manager; his hands placed together, quietly studying him.
"Then what's with the baggie?" He dropped the airtight bag onto the table. The man didn't even bother to look.
"Not everything is as it seems, sir."
"Oh, and what's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, like this cup of water you gave me.” He slowly ran his finger along the edge. “How do I know it's not spiked with kerosene?"
"’Cause I would never do that."
"Well, I guess that's how you and I are different."
The manager shifted uneasily in his chair. The man took note of this.
"Then what's in the bag?"
"Did you know that you’re the first person to catch me? And I’ve been to maybe nine or ten stores...all over Chicago. God, they have the stupidest employees...not even a single camera."
"That wasn't my question."
"Walked right into the shampoo aisle and did what I did."
The store’s manage snapped his fingers, as if to wake the man from a dream. “Are you deaf? Answer my question.”
"It was so easy, too. You have no idea. Cause who would steal shampoo, right? That's why all the cameras are on the electronics, you know? We steal movies, CDs, games, cameras, food, clothing, PDAs…No one ever bitches about stolen shampoo..."
"So you did steal the shampoo."
"No.” He slid his mug slowly over to the black bag, a trail of water casting a growing shadow. “I just said you never hear about it. You should listen more carefully."
"Look smartass, I'm calling the cops if you don't start cooperating."
"I am cooperating. You’re just not listening."
"Then tell me what’s in the bag; If you not stealing shampoo, then what are you stealing?"
"Well, nothing from this store, or any of the other stores. Except maybe a few lives." He took a drink. "But I don't know yet."
"What’s that supposed to mean?”
"It’s what's in the baggie, sir.” He smirked, toasting his glass to the manager, never taking his eyes off him.
The manager slowly blinked. He would have reached over and strangled the man if he didn’t disturb him so much.
"Then I'll ask again. What. Is in. The bag?”
"I got this awesome package from a friend online. We got this great community of doctors and scientists, I guess. They call me Doctor Quarantine... you can call me Doctor Quarantine, sir."
No reply.
"Well? Call me Doctor Quarantine, sir."
"No."
"Please, sir."
"Don’t call me that.”
“Call you what, sir?”
“I’m not playing games with you.”
"I threw some of this,” he flicked at the bag. A shiver ran down the manager’s spine. “Right on this pig's face. Got a few of them tied up in my basement. Hours of just screaming and squealing, you know? That pathetic noise a pig makes when it’s being slaughtered. One hour, and the face melted right off."
The store manager’s sat deathly still, his eyes slowly drawing towards the bag that lie in front of him.
"It's not acid I don't think...more like a virus. I mean, it technically doesn't eat the skin...it releases toxins that gradually…” He leaned back on his chair. “Steals…from the muscle...
"One pig died in 15 minutes, the other in 2 hours. You tell me which is worse, sir."
The store manager reached for the phone to his right.
"You know, once you call, I stop talking. You don't want that yet.”
"Why did you bring it to my store?”
"Everybody uses shampoo, right? It’s funny when you can’t even trust your shampoo.”
"Why would you do something so terrible?"
"I don't know. Because it was easy, I guess. Just poured it right in.” He flashed the manager his black gloves. “Luckily it doesn't go airborne until it gets under your skin."
He picked up the phone and dialed 911.
"I mean, can you imagine? Some lady wakes up and takes a shower with a new bottle of shampoo. She scrubs it into her hair...I mean, really just rubs it in. And that gets deep into the scalp. And now it's on her hands, and she’s washing the rest of her body, right? Her stomach, her chest, her face…
“All of a sudden, she feels this tingling sensation up top. Under the hair, like…like you know that scratch you get on your arm when you got a cast over it? She can't even get at it…it’s like a mild sizzling, you know what I mean? But then it starts to burn, and it starts to seethe like a white flame, and she screams for help, and her boyfriend runs in, and she begins howling in pain.”
He slamed his hands on the desk. The mug of water smacked the linoleum floor and splattered everywhere. The manager felt his entire body twitch. “I need help,” he whispered into the phone.
“Now he's screwed because she's breathing on him, touching him, yelling at him to make the burning go away. But it doesn't go away, it gets worse. It’s like forest fire and it’s keep spreading and spreading and spreading.
“And he throws her into the car and drives to a hospital. She’s tossed onto a stretcher, strands of her hair and skin forming a path as they go. The doctors touch her. The nurses touch her. The whole staff is touching her. Pretty soon, the boyfriend starts complaining of a similar tingling in the waiting room."
"The visitors are afraid they're gonna catch it, so they run home right around the time her face starts peeling off. They head home to their families of four, to parties, to the movie theater. The movie theater…can you imagine how many people go to them blockbusters? Huh? Can ya, sir?”
A young police officer opened the door and cuffed the man.
"How do you reverse it?"
He laughed, his eyes bloodshot from his tears. The cop struggled to keep a tight grip on his chains.
"Reverse it? Cure it? I have no idea! That's why it’s so funny!"
"Well, the jokes on you...I'll have every shampoo bottle taken off the shelves...and destroyed.”
"Go for it, take as many as you want! Take them all! You act like it’ll fix everything, but you haven't listened to a single word I've said!"
"Check his pockets before you leave,” the manager said, taking a panicky sip of his coffee.
The officer patted the man down. He sunk into the officers arms like an abused ragdoll. He stared at the manager with a crooked, yellow grin. The officer pulled from the man’s pocket an empty, black-coated test tube, and set it on the desk. He placed it right next to the manager’s cold cup of coffee. The manager’s throat began to tingle.
“Thanks for the kerosene, sir.”
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