Monkey Business clasps his hands together and takes a slow, measured step forward, like he's about to present a college lecture on the finer points of international crime. The suit moves with him, sharp creases and clean lines, making him look polished in a way that's wrong for a guy in a plastic Halloween mask. This guy should be speaking in a boardroom meeting, not... here.

"If you are here for the free Jump," he announces, his voice crisp, professional, cheerful, "our associates on the left side of the marina are distributing as we speak. One box per person. Please, do not attempt to double dip, as that will result in immediate and deeply unpleasant consequences. The consequences are that we will immediately and unpleasantly shoot you in the face."

The way he says it--flat, simple, matter-of-fact--makes my stomach twist. A couple of scattered laughs, some of them nervous, some of them genuine, breach through the surface of the crowd like bubbles in boiling water.

He gestures grandly. "Now, if you would like to become a distributor, you will need to sign a contract." He pauses, lets the word sit in the air for a moment. "Before you get nervous--this is a very fair contract. Legally binding, yes. Psychologically and physiologically binding, also yes. But fair. I am going to be very clear and tell you that I am not using figurative language. The contract is psychologically and physiologically binding. That means it can affect your thoughts and actions. I cannot emphasize enough that this is not a joke, and you need to understand this before you sign, or it won't work."

Some murmuring in the crowd. Someone laughs, like it's a joke, but Monkey Business keeps going, ignoring the laugher.

"To save everyone time," he continues, "I will verbally go over the terms of the contract before you step up to sign. The paper will simply say that you agree to the verbal contract as expressed, as well as re-outlining the terms. This will qualify for activation of my powers, should you understand and agree to the terms." He presses a hand to his chest like he's a game show host about to reveal the grand prize. "Because we care about transparency, and because it won't work otherwise. We play fair here. My powers will not operate under individuals who are under duress or are doing the fingers crossed behind your back thing."

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to glance around. Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking away. The smart move--the obvious move--would be to turn around, blend into the crowd, and put as much distance between myself and this freak as humanly possible.

Monkey Business tilts his head slightly, just enough for the rigid monkey mask to catch the dim marina lights, almost glittering with late April humidity. "Upon signing, your right eye will desync from your left for approximately five seconds. This is a minor but inimitable means of physiological control that acts as our indicator that you understand the terms of the contract. No lazy eye, no deal."

The murmuring in the crowd gets louder. More than a few people shift on their feet, uncomfortable now. Not nervous enough to leave--just uneasy. I'd be uneasy too if I felt like I was literally about to make a deal with the devil.

Who is this guy?

Monkey Business spreads his arms. "Here are the terms you will be agreeing to."

He raises a single gloved finger.

"One: You will provide your full legal name when signing this contract. No aliases, no cute nicknames. Our delivery guy needs your name to find you. If you do not give us your name, we will not be able to find you later. Don't worry, we don't comply with subpoenas or court orders."

A second finger joins the first.

"Two: You will receive at least two shipments of product from us per month. You are free to sell it or distribute it however you see fit. This includes giving it away. However, you will only be able to retain one out of every ten pills for personal use. The other nine per ten will have to go to someone else, somehow."

Third finger.

"Three: You will report all income from sales truthfully and fairly to us and pay a twenty-five percent cut of your net profits after shipment received. Net profits means all the money over and beyond what you spent for a sale. If you spend ten bucks on gas money to get to a crack house and sell 10 pills for two hundred and fifty dollars, you owe us twenty-five percent of the two hundred and forty dollar profit. We will bring calculators."

Someone in the crowd whistles. I have no idea if it's admiration or alarm.

Monkey Business ignores it.

"Four: You will not disclose where or how you obtained your shipments, nor any operational details about the organization known as Rogue Wave."

Five fingers now, his hand wide and open.

"Five: If anyone questions you about Rogue Wave more than once, you will immediately attack them through whatever means possible until they are unconscious or out of your range of sight and hearing."

A ripple goes through the crowd--that one landed. Someone actually steps back.

And now I know. This is the guy.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

This is the guy.

Monkey Business does not stop. He raises the thumb on his other hand.

"Six: You will follow the orders of any agents of the mother cell of Rogue Wave as necessary. Birthday Suit and I are both designated agents of the mother cell of Rogue Wave. If you are a distributor, you may meet more. Only agents of the mother cell possess authority to add new individuals to your mental model of who is and isn't an agent. No cop will be able to trick you in this way."

Then, just like that, he drops his hands to his sides.

"That is all."

The silence that follows is thick and ugly. It sits in my ears, presses against my skull.

Monkey Business waits, patient, almost relaxed. He wants the discomfort. He's letting it breathe.

Then--without looking--he gestures to Birthday Suit.

She shifts, raises her chin slightly, and in a voice that carries over the stillness, she says:

"Si necesita un traductor, por favor, acérquese después de que termine el discurso."

Then again, in Mandarin. Then in something that sounds like Russian. Then Arabic? I vaguely recognized that one. Something else? Another barked sentence, and another.

People are watching now. This isn't some half-baked gang operation. This isn't a bunch of street pushers trying to offload their supply. People start moving preemptively, lining up.

Monkey Business claps his hands together one more time. "Alright, now that we've established the ground rules, let's get moving, shall we?"

And somewhere, in the back of the crowd, a nervous-looking guy with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder steps forward. I feel my heart drop as more than half the crowd goes to the right side - to become a distributor. I look to my left, to try and find the guy I was just talking to, but when I can't see him, I do another scan of the crowd to see him already halfway down the line. Only a small handful of people are hanging back.

It's quick. Efficient. People who didn't understand the speech are talking with a handful of Rogue Wave guys by the boats, and I can clip out the scattered foreign words.

"One last thing! You can keep moving, just keep your ears open and listen, alright?" Monkey Business shouts above the din.

Monkey Business pivots smoothly, his energy still bright, still playful, but the edge of something sharp glints underneath now. He scans the crowd, like he's picking out familiar faces in an audience, like he already knows the people here who shouldn't be. And maybe he does.

"Now," he says, voice honey-smooth, "I'd like to take a moment to address some very special guests in our audience tonight."

Something shifts in the air. The wind starts blowing the Delaware's funk towards us like an aura.

"This is, of course, a public event. We welcome all walks of life here. And some of you, I imagine, walked into this gathering with the best of intentions. Maybe you're just curious. Maybe you were looking for an opportunity." He spreads his arms, inviting, benevolent. "Maybe you're a journalist. Or an activist. Or a concerned citizen looking for answers. I love that. I encourage that. You can even walk out of here with some free Jump. Lucky you!"

His hands come together again, a slow, deliberate clap. "And maybe you're a law enforcement officer who thought you were clever."

The silence sharpens. Monkey Business tilts his head. "I see you," he says, the words almost affectionate, like he's speaking to a child. "I see all of you."

I swallow. People shift uneasily. Some in the crowd are nodding, like yeah, yeah, we knew some narcs were here, but others--others look like they just realized they are the narcs. Or at least, standing way too close to one.

Monkey Business keeps going, cheerful and insolent. "Now, I'm not a cruel man," he says, pacing slowly across the dock. "I understand hesitation. I understand second thoughts. Maybe you got here and realized this isn't your scene. Maybe you're starting to wonder if this is a bad idea. You're about to get involved with the latest problem destroying society, after all."

His voice drops just slightly in pitch, but not in volume. This is a man who knows how to play a room. "If that's you, then I highly encourage you to leave now. I'm so extremely serious I cannot express it to you enough. Nobody will bug you. You are under my protection. Birthday Suit and our guys will keep watch and you can make it past the obvious police cordon surrounding the area. I'm serious! Go! Leave!"

A few people shift like they're considering it. Nobody moves.

Monkey Business claps his hands. "Because if you think you can wiggle out of this contract after you sign it--if you think you can just play along and figure out a loophole later--you are wrong." His mask scrunches up a bit with a plasticine crunch - is he grimacing? Or just smiling? "If you sign it, you are bound by it. I do not write loopholeable contracts. You just became the newest, most valuable mole in the Philadelphia Police Department, and I will own you, and if I ask you to shoot your friends on the force in the face you will do it because I asked. I don't mean in a you will do it because we're friends way, I mean your body will stop acting according to your own instructions and start acting because of mine. And I do not have compunctions about death."

A beat of silence. Then, Monkey Business raises his arms again.

"And, finally--while we're here--"

His tone stays light, like bubblegum. But something in my stomach drops before the words even hit.

"If you are already a distributor," he says, "until you leave this area or an hour has passed, please find and restrain the nearest police officer or vigilante within this gathering through whatever means available to you. Collaboration is acceptable. That's all for real, go have fun! It's a beautiful night!"

The marina goes deathly still. There's not even any music from anyone's speakers. Just the wind and the sound of boats rocking back and forth in the Delaware.

And then--slowly, methodically--about a quarter of the crowd goes ramrod stiff. The same look in their face as the one random Jumpheads get when I ask them too much about Rogue Wave, and they go zombie mode. I feel my breath catch in my throat. I try to headcount. At least twenty people, before I lose track of who's who in all the milling about. The line continues to shuffle forward, but there's more of a nervous, ha ha what the fuck? energy to it.

They aren't attacking. Not yet. They're just standing there. Silent. Searching. Scanning the faces around them with cold, detached efficiency.

I barely have time to process what I'm seeing before someone in the right-side line, the growing line full of newly minted distributors, moves out of the way. Like he's trying to casually slip out of the queue. Like he just realized--too late--what this actually is.

And I see him, really see him for the first time.

A guy in his forties. Cheap baseball cap. Nondescript windbreaker. Looks stunningly out of place in a crowd of twenty-something hustlers and street kids. You can even see the walkie stuffed under the edge of his pants. He's wearing a belt. What drug dealer do you know wears a belt?

Plainclothes.

I barely get a breath in before two guys--two completely normal looking guys, guys I wouldn't have picked out of the crowd five minutes ago--turn toward him in perfect, synchronized motion.

And they start walking. Not rushing. Not charging - Just approaching.

Like a decision has already been made.