Author's Note: Call it a side effect of too many infomercials and over-exposure to John in Wauwatosa's sense of humor.

*********

“Oh, man, what hit me?”

He tried to sit up, or just rub his eyes with a hand, but he couldn't budge either arm. He managed to blink his eyes clear enough to see he was cuffed (shiny, polished steel with a soft flannel (?) lining) to a table.

“Very good to see you finally wake up! I so prefer my patients to be awake before I begin my work!”

He blinked again, and could just make out someone at the far end of the room. She wasn't terribly tall nor was she excessively heavy. Her medium-brown hair was cut fairly short, from what he could see, but without his glasses, he really couldn't get a good look.

“Patient?” he croaked. His throat was too dry, and he coughed

“Oh yes! I'm trying out my new process on you, and if it works, I'll make a mint without near the risk!”

“Wait! WHAT process?”

She stepped close enough for him to see her slightly deranged expression. “My process to turn men and women your age into young, nubile women to serve as sex slaves, of course! Kidnapping anyone in their late teens is getting too risky. The police, and even the FBI, tend to take those crimes seriously. Someone your age, though, will sometimes just drop off the grid to 'get away from it all.' If no one hears from you for a while,” she shrugged, “they won't worry.”

His eyes widened. ~Young? Sex slaves?? But how...?~ “You're telling me you can do cosmetic surgery that's convincing?”

She snorted. “Surgery?! Feh! Almost anyone can do surgery that would pass a cursory inspection! No, I'm talking about a true change -- down to every cell in your body! Even your skeletal structure will pass an expert surgeon's examination!”

~Whaaaaa? She's nuts! Why....~

She watched as her subject suddenly realized his doom. His expression went from puzzled, to frightened, to ... excitement?

His voice was even more avaricious than her own had ever been. “Doc, you're thinking too small. Way, way, WAY too small! How much do you think you can make on one of your slaves? A million? Two?”

“About one and a half, but...”
“Right! And for all your work and genius, you have to hide from everyone. You gotta think outside the box!”

~Making sex slaves is thinking inside the box??~ She was beginning to wonder if she'd caught someone who wasn't sane enough to brainwash.

He was still in full marketing mode and ignoring her suddenly worried look.

“Look, you have something, surgery or chemicals or ...” “Nanomachines, actually!” “Even better! They'll rejigger someone's cells and make them younger after a while, right?”

She hesitated. “It takes about a month for the body to regenerate, but ...”

“Super! So instead of all the hassle of catching and changing people, why not have them come to you?”

The doctor had started to move away from her erstwhile victim. “How do you expect that to happen?”

He was hitting his full stride now, and marketing plans were filling his head like visions of dollar-filled sugar-plums. “How much do you think Cher, or Alec Baldwin, or ... or Harrison Ford -- hell, ANY Hollywood A-lister who's getting old -- would pay for a treatment that would give them their career back? I mean think of how much money they have, and would pay, to look like they're in their prime!”

“But I'd still have to hide from the FDA....”

“Nonsense! Look at all the spas, health clubs, and supplement companies. They have to be sanitary, but none of them will do what you can! You'll make a REAL fortune, and you won't have to kidnap anyone! Just come up with a set of treatments that will knock, say, ten years off someone's apparent age. You don't think Raquel Welch, or Jane Fonda wouldn't pay you millions for a series of treatments?”

He cackled in glee, and he'd have rubbed his hands together in anticipation of piles of money to make Scrooge McDuck envious -- except for his shackles. For which his captor was a bit grateful.

“Are you related to Billy May or something?”

“Feh! Amateur! I have contacts, I tell you, that will make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams and as famous as Doctor Who!”

She blinked. “Isn't he a fictional character?”

He tried to wave his hand in dismissal. *clink* “Whatever. Just think of what you could accomplish!”

The scientist, feeling a bit dizzy, sat down as her plans were recast for her.

~Oh, God, I've created a monster! I suppose it could be worse, though.~

A sudden thunder of heavy rain pounded on her laboratory's roof.