Inside a Meth Lab

Sunday, February 27, 2011

The Drug Trial cont.

This is the first part of chapter two of my in-progress novel. It's now a requirement to finish a major writing assignment for Applied Writing so this stuff will be, as they have so pleasantly described it at TAFE, vomited down on the screen. To be honest, I'm not overly happy with this draft. It needs a fair bit of re-working, i understand that, but you have to start somewhere. And this my beginners vomit.

Chapter 2 - Part 1

The 1993 Ford Falcon his mum bought him for his eighteenth birthday was still running quite well despite its age. Noah had spent the best part of six months fixing it up. Getting it spray painted a true black with dark grey decal along the side. Dark enough to coincide and compliment the black, but light enough to stand out when focused on.
Cars were Noah’s hobby for those six months. Never settling on one thing, he was always changing leisurely activities to keep himself interested or excited. First it was karate back in year seven. His parents always pushed him to do something structured. But he soon grew out of that phase and moved onto painting a little while later. Never imaginative things though, only still lives, realism, and black and whites. Noah never appeared connected to anything he painted or created. He would spend hours upon hours on a single painting, fixated and unmoveable. He would finish the artwork, take a step back. Stare for a moment then come back in close. Look at it, tilt his head to the left, grin, and proceed to scrunch it up and throw it out without any sign of remorse.
This continued until his dad introduced him to his first guitar in year nine. It was a fifteenth birthday present. James had been playing for years, roughly twenty in fact, and had become quite talented for his age of forty five. Noah was hesitant at first and chose to continue painting. His dad kept pushing gently, trying to convince Noah that music was an art, just like painting, and that it had a sort of ‘audio science’ to it. This slowly drew Noah nearer the guitar and away from the canvas.
After several weeks of persisting and prying, Noah had finally picked up the guitar. From that moment, Noah spent precisely one hour each day learning the chord or note his father had taught him the previous day. Once Noah had learnt that note or chord to a satisfactory level, his dad would teach him a new one. James found that Noah learnt best and participated most when in a structured learning environment.
Noah had reached the bank and pulled up out the front. This was the first time in several months that he would have accessed this account.
‘How much will you actually let me take out?’ he thought to the machine. He entered the numbers 5, 0, 0, hopefully. To his surprise the ATM accepted the requested transaction. “WOULD YOU LIKE A RECEIPT?”
Noah repeated this cycle once more to make sure he had enough money to purchase all the required equipment in one go. First stop, the aquarium.
Noah parked on the far side of the car park, rather than going through the hassle of multiple attempts at parking in a narrow, confined spot nearer the front entrance. He felt like he was being watched and judged when he actually tried the manoeuvre, even though he knew that people weren’t actually watching him. He still couldn’t shake that feeling though. And it was such an uncomfortable feeling. Not worth the annoyance.
The automatic doors of the aquarium opened in front of him, and stepping inside, he immediately felt the change in climate. It rose significantly in comparison to the temperature set outside from the Autumn breeze. It was a lot darker inside. The altered light source was coming from hundreds of fish tanks and their florescent light bulbs.
“Noah!” A directed shout came from across the room towards him and instantly gained his attention. He recognised the voice and immediately placed a face to the auditory stimuli.
“Oh shit!” he said under his breath, panicing. He couldn’t escape now. He had been sighted by his ex. She was headed in his direction. Noah got nervous. The past was flashing before his eyes. Their past, shared. A year that brought everything from across the emotional spectrum.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

The Drug Trial cont.

So, here's part two of the first chapter of my in-progress novel 'The Drug Trial'. The first half had a what I deem to be 'good response', so I'll continue on. Enjoy. And please leave a comment. Helps me become a better writer.

Chapter 1 (Part 2):

Noah was staring out of his bedroom window; fixated on the pool he could see through the fence palings in the neighbour’s backyard. The water had turned a fierce, deep green. It obviously hadn’t been cleaned in quite some time. A chemical process caused by algae and sunlight called photosynthesis had begun, which initiates the minute the algae enter the water. Within twenty four hours, fifty algae can multiply into one million, possibly more. Noah always wondered how a person thought of adding chlorine to water to prevent this algae growth occurring. What reasoning, other than possible scientific hypothesis, could have created this experimenting? He also found it quite interesting that the key property of chlorine, when added to water, was to create ‘light-pockets’, preventing sunlight reaching the algae, therefore halting their growth. 
Science is bloody awesome sometimes’, Noah contemplated, now fixated on the buoyant yellow rubber duck, floating on the surface of the gently stirring water, being carried around with a kind shove from the Autumn day breeze.
Something had just clicked inside of his head. A mental light switch had now been flicked on.
Why hadn’t Noah thought of this before? It had all the makings of what he was looking for. A rush. A future. A risk. Company. Noah could become a Methamphetamine cooker. He had the knowledge and the drive. That stuff he tried back in year eleven was shit house. He hadn’t any experience with drugs before that day, but even Noah could tell the crap quality of the stuff through a simple deduction of common drug criteria and to scrutinise its aesthetic qualities. He knew he could improve it; tenfold even. His only problem was that he didn’t run in those types of circles. He didn’t really run in any clique when he was honest with himself. He hated to think it but a good kick in the teeth is what Noah felt he needed sometimes. To regain focus and set his mental path straight.
‘I’m can use the knowledge I’ve got for a purpose. This isn’t about morals or values. It’s about a future. And without this I have no bloody idea where mine is’. His moral integrity was always skewed, and he recognised this. But his mind process allowed him to think like this without guilt. Without losing what little moral fibre he had.
He emerged from his dimly lit bedroom, turned left down the long, even more poorly lit hallway and entered the garage. His place to escape to. Where he played his guitar. It was the only thing that connected him to his deceased father. Aside from a large sum of money, his dad, James, had left his Ibanez guitar to Noah. He missed his father a lot. They got on really well, especially over their love of acoustic music. Set rhythm, the routine and repetition of a tune. Music was safe.
Noah was never blessed with any real musical talent, but he tried anyway. His dad urged him to. And whenever Noah played that finely crafted, deep-oak coloured Ibanez, it took him six or seven years back, and he felt happy. He swore he could see his father sitting opposite him, showing him how to play a chord better, or hold the guitar more comfortably. It was the only thing, other than science, that made Noah joyful in an otherwise bleak-coloured world. The view Noah took since his dad died from that inoperable brain tumour.
He shook his head, trying to regain focus on the task at hand and move away from the depressing imagery swirling around his head.
He headed over to his plain, four-legged, no drawer desk. Sat down on the black, poor lumbar supported chair and grabbed his pen.
 He started to jot down what was involved, what he needed, and how it could all be tied together in a neat, secretive bow. His main concern was pharmacokinetics. The traces of evidence in people’s bodies. Urine, blood, even plasma. He had to create something with a selling point. Not only would it be pure and refined, but its half life would have to be decreased significantly. This included minimising the traces of hydroxymethamphetamine and phenylacetone; especially phenylacetone. 
And none of this pseudoephedrine bullshit. It’s gonna be the real deal’.
Noah enjoyed expanding his knowledge. He was always researching science related topics and studies. Biology. Chemistry. The laughable concept of Astrology and whether it had yet gained any scientific verification to support its so called ‘results’. All this research included chemical cooking methodology, and how substances such as ‘Ice’, and is base-chemicals, were manufactured. Noah was therefore aware of the current methods of drug production and its pitfalls. How the ‘Birch reduction’ method was dangerous because the alkali metal and anhydrous ammonia were extremely reactive, and how the temperature of liquid ammonia makes it susceptible to explosive boiling when certain reactants were added. No, no, no. He would do it better, smarter, simpler, and safer. Much safer. With some research he felt he could cook some very serious Meth.
He also realised that he didn’t have much to risk, or lose. This was Noah’s way of reinforcing and supporting his current train of thought. Even jail was a path in life, an almost certain one with this career choice. But he would be smart enough to remain anonymous. Even use an alias. Every measure would be taken to ensure his exclusion from the selling and using of his product.
Noah leaned back in his chair, joint his hands together with his fingers, like puzzles pieces, and placed them behind his head. He looked up and the ceiling, closed his eyes, focused on the blackness and took a deep breath. Then another one. And one more just to be sure. He realised how crazy this notion must have seemed.
Calming down, he resolved to himself what he wanted in life. What he wanted to take from it. But to him, cooking Meth, however insane and irrational it might seem, fit him. He had the skill, he had next to nothing to lose, and he stood to make a lot of money if he was smart about it.
It was late morning Monday, the day was young, and he had a lot of supplies to purchase to start off his new career. Noah had been smart enough to go easy on the spending of his inheritance. 
‘It had paid off’, having a little chuckle at the pun he had just made.
Jumping in his car parked out the front, he left for the bank to withdraw some cash. 
'I gotta start this off right. No credit trails. No evidence from point one. No way to trace my footprints. A metaphorical, man-made snowstorm it would seem’.
He would go to the aquarium, the hardware store, the gardening shop and ‘Super Cheap Auto’. Most of the tools and utensils needed were in those four shops, and bought individually; the items were in no way illegal and would not appear to be. The rest of the more specific and specialised equipment he would be able to purchase online.