A few months earlier…
Thomas Worthmore, a recent college graduate, pulled into a large warehouse in the center of the city darkened under the thick curtain of night. He opened the door to his brand new Porsche and calmly and coolly stepped out into a deserted gravel lot. He then began to make his way in the direction of the warehouse where a couple of semi trucks were unloading their cargo. See, Thomas worked for a big-time drug company that his father—William Worthmore—had built and run from a fairly young age. Thomas had gone off to college and gotten a degree in business logistics and finance, which put him in a position to run the drug company’s ordering of ingredients. Put simply, Thomas was the guy responsible for making sure all the proverbial trains ran on time, as well as for buying the stuff they carried.
Thomas was quite made for such work. His mother had died when he was only eight years old, and the memory of that traumatic experience—all the countless doctors and specialists who could not save her—had left Thomas cynical and jaded…borderline sociopathic, in fact. He didn’t like people much, and his wealth (more accurately, his father’s) had tragically not activated any sort of philanthropic instinct. Rather, it had left him unable to empathize with the pain of others, their sorrows, their hopes and dreams, and so forth. With that in mind, a job that required him to sit in front of a computer and crunch numbers all day made sense for him.
Physically, Thomas was a small man, only about five feet six inches tall and about 130 pounds. He had slicked back black hair and a pleasant enough face. His small stature had also reinforced his personality; it helped him learn that one needs sometimes to be ruthless to survive, be cunning, and so forth.
Thomas walked slate-faced into the bustling warehouse, past forklift operators and guys in blue work-suits going about their businesses. He spoke to no one on the way in, but he did give the occasional slight smile as he went about his destination. Everybody was nice to him; after all, Thomas was the boss’s kid. He made his way to the back of the warehouse, to the cargo that most concerned him. Turns out, a couple of the semis carried an ingredient a cold drug. Neither the drug nor the ingredient for it was particularly special, but it was still Thomas’s job to make sure everything showed up. As Thomas approached, a portly older man in a well-worn outfit saw him coming and smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Worthmore,” the man said pleasantly. Thomas smiled a little bit and responded, “How’s it going, Bill?” as he walked by the man and took a clipboard from his hands and walked with him into the semi. “Oh it’s going well sir,” Bill declared, “if I could just get the wife to leave me alone about loosing some pounds, I’d be even better,” he said as he patted his pot belly. Thomas gave no response and only looked into a couple of the boxes. He took out a small package of the ingredient to make sure it was what had been ordered. Confirming that it was, he simply signed a piece of paper on the clipboard and handed it back to Bill.
“Good,” Bill said, “everything’s in order then. Anything else I can do for you sir?” Thomas paused. “Yes, Bill,” he began, “if you could excuse me for a minute or so, that’d be great.” Bill looked confused for a moment, then nodded obediently and pleasantly, “Um, yes sir, sure, sure thing,” he said as he backed out of the semi trailer and left Thomas by himself. Alone, Thomas walked to the very back corner of the trailer and picked up two full black briefcases. Both were not huge, but they were filled to the brim with the substance Thomas had actually come for. Thomas, it turns out, had a bit of a liking for drugs—illegal ones. One of the guys at the company that supplied ingredients was Thomas’s dealer…just a couple short texts and another few thousand dollars added to an order price, and this man (name unknown) would toss some illegal drugs in with the shipment of legitimate stuff needed for the company. The trucks cam and went as always, and who would notice a couple small briefcases? No one.
Carrying his precious contraband, Thomas emerged from the truck and smiled at Bill as he made his way out of the warehouse and back to the car. He placed the briefcases in the trunk and got in to drive home. Thomas traveled once again along the darkened streets toward his big, luxurious apartment building. Suddenly, there appeared behind him an unsettling sight. “Dammit!” Thomas spat out as he saw the lights of a police car flash behind him. Irritated, he slowly pulled his car to the shoulder and turned the engine off.
He glanced in the side mirror as someone emerged from the police car…a woman, actually. She walked up to Thomas’s rolled down window, at which point he instinctively held up his license and registration. The officer shone her flashlight upon Thomas, and the lights from passing cars illuminated her own features a bit. “Mr. Worthmore,” she said, as she took his license, “you again.” Thomas looked up to see the officer. Turns out she’d stopped him before. This figure was that of Officer Brenda Nelson, and what a wonderful figure it was. Nelson had long blonde hair and a wonderfully curvy body—complete with nice wide hips and a beautifully round ass. The spectacular globes that hung from her chest were a source of ever-lasting joy for the men on the police force. At 45 years old, her body had begun to show signs of wear—a line or two appeared on her face, and her figure was a big heftier than it used to be. There was a little pouch forming just above her belt, for example. Still, for the most part, her age just added to her sex appeal, adding to curves in all the right places. It was almost worth it to speed just to have the woman pull one over.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” she asked. “Fifty-five I think,” Thomas lied. “Seventy-one,” Brenda answered, pulling out her writing pad and handing out a ticket. She handed it to Thomas and declared, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Thomas chuckled, “Well we could meet some other way. You could let me take you to dinner and…well…we could find a new use for those handcuffs of yours.” Without a smile, Nelson answered, “Just pay the damn ticket and be glad I don’t bust you for sexual harassment.” Another chuckle from Thomas. He pointed to Nelson’s bulging chest and began, “Speaking of bust…” She shook her head in disgust and turned to walk away. “Good night, Mr. Worthmore.” “It certainly is,” Thomas declared as he watched the woman’s shapely rear sway and jiggle with her steps. He started up the car again and returned home.
1) Mr. Worthmore goes to his apartment and samples his new product.
2) Suddenly, Worthmore’s body begins to spasm (someone has possessed him).
3) Brenda Nelson returns to the station and hears about a couple crimes that are…odd. People with no criminal history whatsoever have begun to kill, to steal, and so forth. It’s almost as if these people were not themselves when they committed the crimes.
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