"I would be very interested in seeing Miss St Hilaire receive her due," you tell Treece. "Gaining access to her is another matter."
The St Hilaire estate hadn't been difficult to find, and was one of the first things you checked out once you got back in town. More trouble than it was worth. Ashley's home was at 1000 T Court, and the only house on that unimaginatively-named dead end; the 'Court' was actually the driveway, which picked up from the serpentine northern terminus of Merced Street, which itself was the main drag through the intermittently tony 'Skid Hill' area where everyone you're after lives.
"First things first," says Treece. "If I get that bag of chips, I take care of my problems at work. More importantly, we've got a weapon. After this corporate saboteur's game is up, it's going to be nearly impossible to get anything out of the lab. And for various reasons, from office politics to, I'll admit, personal greed, I want to shut him down immediately."
"So much hangs on a bag of potato chips," you say, sighing heavily as you think it over. "What outcome could we expect, assuming Ashley ate one?"
"Anyone who eats anything salted with KTN? They'll be "highly motivated" to get more. And if you're holding the bag, you'll call the shots. It's as good as mind control, I promise."
"And, to put paid to this particular rogue bag of chips, you'll need a lookout to free you up for a thorough search, because the clerk will be too busy being ecstatic at being robbed and no help at all."
"Shall we?" Treece says, starting back down the street.
You follow along. Not your normal m.o., but imagining the look on the pretty brat's face when you shove a handful of chips in her mouth gets you moving.
*
"Lie quietly, or I will permanently disrupt your circadian rhythm," you tell the clerk. He's on the floor behind the counter, doing an excellent job at looking terrified. Until he admits he's a little thirsty, so you bring him a bottle of Perrier. Other than that, it's very therapeutic to have someone whimpering and at your mercy. It's also good practice, if your revenge plays out as you're hoping.
"If he moves, shoot him in the face!" calls Treece, adding to the atmosphere as he waves something complicated over the chip rack.
The clerk blubbers about having a wife and child. You keep your eye on the parking lot, hoping no one comes in. Even if it's a pretend robbery, you'll still go right back inside.
A minute later, Treece's gadget beeps. He shouts and runs up to the counter, bearing a bag of chips gripped in a pair of lab tongs.
"I thought so!" he says. "Our man used an unadulterated dosage, which interacted with the packaging to produce some discrete outgassing. There's only one batch this sample could have come from. He's finished. I won't even bother with the surveillance tapes."
"I never knew industrial espionage could be so exciting," you say, though your excitement is more like nervousness from drawing down on a convenience store clerk.
"You still don't believe me, do you?" Treece asks, the narrow grin not fitting well with the drunken face. "If we could get some service... up! Stand up! On your feet, before I hide a clip in you!"
The clerk bounces up, having a swig of Perrier. You press the gun to his jaw on impulse, and he clearly appreciates the gesture.
Treece carefully works the bag open, using another set of rubber-coated tweezers to offer the clerk a chip. There must be something to his claims, because the smell is heavenly. Potato chip perfection.
The clerk looks at the proferred chip curiously, knowing the supposed effect, before crunching it down. From where you're standing, it resembles a bizarre communion.
"Catch hold of him!" Treece cries, the clerk leaping over the counter and grabbing for the bag. "Get him by the belt loops! Manhandle him, damn it! He'll gobble up the evidence!"
It's a struggle. The clerk doesn't look imposing at all, but you can barely hold him back. Treece runs backward across the store, juggling out a spray bottle of clear fluid. He spritzes a chip twice, again being careful not to touch it directly, and thrusts it at the clerk. Who eats it and chills out at once.
"And all along, I thought it was nonsense!" the clerk says, amazed. And shaken. "A man with potato chips such as these could conquer the world!"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," says Treece. "We have business in town, first."
You relax a little. You'd been afraid Treece would forget all about you and your revenge once he had what he wanted.
The three of you discuss the ramifications of such a powerfully compelling taste for several minutes.
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