CHAPTER THREE
563 Words
CHAPTER THREE
He didn't think of himself as anything less than brilliant.
A genius.
And who could question him?
He smirked to himself, as he moved about inside the small trailer which he had parked at the foot of a sand dune; the heat whisked through his small home, carrying grains of sand through the window. He inhaled slowly, taking in the warm scent of the desert.
No towns for miles. No cops for miles either.
Glass bottles shifted—a flask was dumped into a large beaker over a Bunsen burner.
He watched as the bubbles swirled, and the color of the liquid changed.
He nodded slowly to himself. The percolation had to be timed. The gas distribution would have to be measured. Everything about this was art.
Not just science. Chemicals were far more than science. They were the paints, but the final product was the portrait. And he was the master artist.
He nodded to himself as he moved quickly through the small space.
If anyone did stumble upon his trailer in the desert, no doubt they would suspect they had found some sort of cook lab. A meth factory.
But he had never consumed dopamine-dumpers. He made his own version of mind altering concoctions. But for him, the pleasure was in trying out his creations on others.
He didn't partake.
There were too many horror stories about what could happen to a mind like his if altered chemically. And the world needed his mind. Everyone needed his mind.
He felt a flash of rage as he considered this last part. As he considered just how poorly he had been treated.
He frowned to himself, turning up the heat a few notches. He had a small, temperature gauge attached to the side of the beaker with a non-active adhesive—he continued to watch the bubbles, and watched the thermometer.
As he waited, he turned slowly, adjusting the goggles over his eyes. He peered out, staring into the desert, his gaze trailing over the sand dunes.
Sometimes, ATV riders would come through. But mostly, the place was abandoned.
Twice now, he had made a statement. Twice now, he had managed to communicate his message.
He was painting in bold strokes. But there were subtleties ahead too. It all made sense to him. When da Vinci had painted the Mona Lisa, he hadn't taken input from his lessers. Art by committee wasn't art at all. Which was why he'd been forced to come out here. The last place he had created hadn't appreciated his particular skillset. Hadn't appreciated the savant in their midst.
Now, he glanced back, and cursed.
Faint foam bubbles were spilling over the side of the beaker. Where the bubbles landed on the safety counter, sizzling burn marks were left in the lacquered wood.
A couple of strands of the liquid also spilled down the cabinet in the center of his recreational vehicle. Where the liquid touched wood, it immediately began to hiss and steam, corroding and eating.
He hastily adjusted the temperature, keeping his gloves as far from any of the spillage as possible.
He breathed slowly, shakily. He couldn't allow himself to get distracted. He had only just started.
The real work was about to come. And he had so many more ideas. Messages. Gifts he would present them with. They wouldn't be able to resist.
- Writer
