A crisp, white, lab coat trailed through the air as its owner briskly walked down the corridor leading to the metal dungeon. He was going to meet up with his boss and discuss the experiment's status quo.

The owner of this lab coat was none other than Cornelius Shortbottom, an English man of a middle class family living somewhere in the suburbs of Manchester. This fellow possessed thinning white hair and shaky penmanship, both, I might add, desirable qualities of his scientific peers.

He strode down this stately hall without the feeling of bravado. No, quite the opposite, he was walking with remorse. However positive the results of his experiments were, what he was doing now was less than honorable, it was silly. And yet, we all have to make a living in this world.

He came to the end of the hallway, poked in a 10 digit combination on a key pad, and heard a satisfactory beep. He sighed, and pulled the on the handle of the thick iron door. He entered, and shut the door tightly behind him. Taking more time with the process than most would see necessary.

He was greeted by the sight of his boss, siting behind an iron desk, that quite matched the rest of the room. To put it lightly, décor was something the room definitely lacked. The furniture consisted on an iron desk, an iron bookcase (filled with not books but with what his boss liked to indulge himself with in his workers' absence), and a musty, moth bitten rug. This rug happened to be the only object adding color to this otherwise drab and iron room.

He looked up at his boss. The man was heavy and close to 140 centimeters in height. His three hairs were carefully gelled, and combed. The rested on his shiny head in a manner similar to cooked spaghetti. However silly Mr. Shortbottom's boss looked in his tweed suit and cream tie, he was a powerful man. Powerful, and crazy, a strictly undesirable combination. This was a man to avoid at all costs.

“Sir I bbbbrought the samples,” this pale fellow said with trace of embarrassment.

“Excellent! Excellent! And you preformed all of the lab tests?” his thick, and greasy boss exclaimed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yyessss. Sir,” came the stutter.

“Ah. Excellent! Excellent! And results are all positive! Remarkable!”

“I will return then to my office?”

“No my boy! Let's celebrate with a glass from the olde bottle!” The fatter man exclaimed, gingerly grabbing a caramel bottle of scotch from the bookcase standing to his right. He opened it, his beefy fingers doing the job in seconds. He smiled at the bottle showing a set of crooked and yellow teeth.

“I'ddd rather notttt sir, I have further work to do,” Mr. Shortbottom quickly spit out.

“Work? We've succeeded my boy! We've done it all! Why would you ever want to work at a timeof success?” the boss whispered, his eyes fixed on the caramel beverage, the corners of his mouth, still up at his ears.

“I'll bbbe going sssir,”

“CORNELIUS! GET BACK HERE THIS SECON- on the other hand.....you are free to leave,” though I am not aware of what exactly was going on in the head of Mr. Shortbottom's boss, I suspect that while proclaiming his disagreement with his employee's eagerness to leave, he realized he washolding the bottle of aged scotch, and Mr. Shortbottom's presence in its consumption would be less then necessary.

And so, Cornelius lifted the iron handle, and pressed his side into the heavy iron door. As previously, he took much too much time closing the door behind him. And again, like before, he briskly walked down the hall. Thoughts whirling in his mind.

What had he just done? Why? How? How in the name of god had he managed to create a serum of invincibility? Most importantly: What on Earth was Charlie McGregor, the notorious drug dealer (and his boss), going to use it for?

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