MONES
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Max picked up the ringing phone. "Damn it, Ellen, I told you no more
calls. I've had my fill of aggravation today. These FDA scumbags are
draining my life's blood. No more, I tell you. NO MORE!"

He slammed the receiver down.

Max Pheromone, nĂ(C)e Napoleon Maximilian Farren, looked at the stack of
unfilled orders on his desk, then turned and spat.

"What the bloody hell do those government assholes know, anyhow? My
customers write me unsolicited testimonial letters. They keep
reordering. It works just fine for them. It works, dammit. So what if it's
just red food coloring in cologne? People believe in it, and it works.

"Gotta remember my blood presure. Another heart attack is all I need
right now. Like they say, this too will pass. The court'll have to lift
the injunction, and I'll be able to ship merch again. Soon. It's gotta
be soon. My cash reserve is hemorrhaging. Bills unpaid. Don't know how
I'm even gonna make payroll next week. Life is shit, ain't it?"

"It can't be that bad, Maxie. Something will turn up. It always has."

"Nah, Tommie. Not this time. This is the end. My string of luck's finally
run out. It was nice while it lasted. I had -- what? -- deuce million
in the bank six months ago. Then the Feds got interested. Those fucking
Communist thieves in Washington hate successful businessmen. They hate
with a bloody passion successful businessmen who don't make political
contributions. If you don't pay 'em off, they shut you down."

The comm buzzer went off again.

"What is it this time, dammit, Ellen? Haven't I told you and TOLD you
. . . "

"Mr. Pheromone, there's an inspector here from the FDA. With a court
injunction. She's threating to have us all arrested if I don't let her
into your office. Immediately."

"Bloody hell! And I was hoping for at least another week to get my
affairs in order. Dammit, Tommie, by this time tomorrow we'll probably
be standing in line for a plate of biscuits and beans at the Mission."

"Aw, Maxie, c'mon now. You've always managed to wiggle out of tight spots
before. Remember when that loan shark threatened to break your arms and
legs and then you hit the numbers for ten thou the next day? Something'll
turn up. Just wait and see."

"Ouch, dammit! You and your fucking pep talks, Tommie. You got me so
fucked up that I knocked these samples over. Now I got this shit slopped
all over my new eight hundred dollar suit!"

A tall pyramid of Mones bottles had toppled over, soaking Max Pheromone's
shirt and pants in the process. The reek of cheap cologne filled the air.
At that precise moment the woman walked in.

Mr. -- uh, Pheromone, is it? I have a court order here . . . and what's
that godawful stench? Open a window, someone, please (cough, cough)."

She was a tall, officious-looking woman, possibly in her mid-thirties.
Under more favorable circumstances she might have been considered
attractive, but Max had no time to follow that train of thought because --
without warning -- he was under attack. The woman had leaped upon him and
wrestled him to the floor. She was clawing at his clothes, ripping them
off his body. She was rubbing her breasts in his face and had somehow
managed to thrust a hand down past the waistband of his pants and grab
onto his penis. "Stick it in me, stud! Do it! DO ME! I need you in me!"

Max tried to fight her off, getting only negligible help from Tommie,
who was trying to choke down laughter all the while. Then she shrieked
wildly and shoved him away.

"Lady! What's with you? You've gone crazy! Serving court papers is one
thing, but assaulting me? That's part of your job, too? Your supervisor
is gonna hear about this as soon as I can get to the phone."

The woman had sunk to her knees, holding her head in her hands and
sobbing. "I don't know what got into me. That awful stink . . . something
made me lose control. I don't -- can't remember. Please! This will ruin
me! Destroy my career!"

Tommie walked over and put his arm around her.

"My dear woman, I can certainly understand how the stress of your very
difficult job could cause a temporary lapse in, shall we say, your
composure? Such matters are best forgotten. However . . . "

Of course, they worked something out. The woman's supervisor at the FDA
would receive no phone call about unprofessional behavior and in return
the Mones Enterprises files would somehow be accidentally mislaid. This
was the best outcome for all parties concerned.



"Your unbelievable luck saved your ass one more time."

"That, and a little fast talking from you, Tommie. Thanks. But I wonder
what got into that dame? It couldn't be *just* my overpowering charm.
Wait a minute. That accidental spill . . . You don't think -- ?"

"Yeah, boss, if I were you, I'd send that particular batch of Mones out
for analysis. What do you think?"

It turned out that the lab compounding the Mones, a shady cut-rate
outfit somewhere out in the bayous of Louisiana, had run out of red food
coloring. Someone there had come up with the Bright Idea of substituting
the red dye used for marking "dye-pack" currency bundles, the ones
banks reserved for giving out during robbery attempts. Apparently a very
strange chemical reaction had taken place.

As a test, Max sent out a hundred bottles of the accidentally super-potent
Mones to reordering customers. That was when the complaints began pouring
in.


    "Your damn Mones cost me my job. The department supervisor
     got the uncontrollable hots for me, and when she climbed
     into my lap one afternoon, *her* supervisor walked in and
     fired the both of us. You'll be hearing from my lawyer
     shortly."

    "Mones! Beautiful, bloody Mones! If I could only be there
     in person, I'd force you to choke down the foul concoction!
     I was a hopelessly inept virgin before using your devil's
     brew, and didn't know how lucky I was. Now I'm working at
     three jobs to pay child support because I wasn't strong
     enough to resist the temptation that was thrust upon me."

    "Hoping to stoke my girlfriend's passion, I tried a bottle of
     Mones. Unfortunately, her mother just happened to be visiting
     . . . "

"Tommie, dump that last batch. That's right, pour it right down the
fucking drain. Let the sewer rats get the benefit of chemically-enhanced
passion. For damn sure, we've got no use for it. And while you're at it,
burn all the lab documentation, too.

"Me, I'm just an old-fashioned con man. Make my customers happy . . . give
'em the illusion they're getting a dose of magic. Real magic, though,
that's pure poison. Upsets the natural order of things. More trouble
than it's worth. Bad for business, too. Let's do the human race a favor,
Tommie. Get rid of that shit."

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