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.