The Evil Gene

                                              The Evil Gene

The lights snapped on and he awoke to the sound of bootsteps and rattling keys. Gene knew he had slept soundly through the last night he would have to be incarcerated. He rose to his feet and stretched out the kinks in his muscles.

Darryl, his cellmate smiled as he opened his eyes and rose from his cot. His crime had been particularly brutal, having killed both his in-laws for the insurance money. Since the treatment, though, he had been as tame as a church mouse. Gene’s treatment had been successful too. Together, the two of them prayed.

It had been almost seven years earlier when the scientific community had announced to the world that they had successfully charted the recesses of the human brain, an accomplishment almost as profound as the human genome project. It wasn't long until doctors learned to suppress activities in certain areas of the brain. In particular, they could suppress the centers responsible for violent and aggressive behavior.

In the news, and on the street, people did not believe this was true. They suspected that the so-called 'treatment ' was merely a cover for the practice of lobotomizing violent criminals. So, it wasn't surprising that James took exception to the procedure. He had been hauled into the prison kicking and screaming, fresh out of court with the blood still plastered all over his knuckles, strapped to a gurney and rolled into the treatment chamber.

It was full of technology like imaging monitors, computer screens and precision microwave emitters. Its sinister appearance and the cold impassive eyes of the doctors and technicians made him feel like a laboratory animal, completely at their mercy. From his viewpoint, he could see a glass wall of an operating theatre. There were over a dozen people staring down at him and scribbling notes.

The tallest man there pulled down his surgical mask, looked up at the audience and spoke.

“ Over the space of approximately a century, science and medicine have studied the human mind, and have searched for a solution to the problem of criminal behavior. The most well known, and one of the least successful, was the use of operant conditioning.”

“This was demonstrated in the middle of the last century by placing an infant in an enclosure with a rabbit, and then was scared by the sound of a loud air horn, which made him cry. After that, at the sight of a rabbit, he would start to cry. The two stimuli and the emotional responses they created had been associated in the child’s mind. The practical offshoot of this principal became to be known as aversion therapy. It was used to make a violent felon associate violent images with a feeling of nausea.”

“In our treatment, however, we take the problem to its very source within the human brain. We now know the specific area of the brain that causes violent and aggressive behavior. Neurosurgeons now can surgically disconnect this area from the neural pathways in the brain. This causes any stimuli that would normally provoke an aggressive response to be totally blocked from the conscious mind.”

Then, he replaced his mask and turned to stare down at Gene. He didn’t understand most of what the doctor had said, but he was certain that he didn’t like it.

He continued his vain attempts at a struggle an IV was inserted in his arm and the tube was percied by a syringe.  The drug quickly rushed to his head. The last things he remembered were two lab assistants fumbling with a metal jig they were placing over his shaved head. “Damn” he heard one assistant say as he clumsily struggled with the jib. “Careful,” the other said, “ If it doesn’t fit properly, this guy will be a vegetable.” Then there was the sound and the faint vibration of the drill that bored through his scalp and into his skull.

He remembered nothing until he awoke in his cell days later feeling strangely calm and peaceful.

As it turned out, there was no 'evil gene', no inborn capacity for violence. Violence only begets violence, but the cycle had been stopped, leaving the criminals mind free for higher pursuits. How it would affect their survival skills was another matter entirely. It was like de-clawing a cat and letting it try to fend for itself.

His cellmate had become the leader of the bible group a few years earlier, and together they had prayed in earnest during the many long, dark stretches of night when the brutality of their pasts would revisit them and chase away any chance of a restful sleep.

In short order, the guards arrived at his cell to usher him out of his captivity. He quickly gathered his belongings and packed them into the cardboard box they had provided him. They then led him through the gray, cavernous corridors of the high-security penitentiary.

He passed by dozens of cells on his route. Many of the prisoners he saw inside were praying. One was playing Brahms on a flute, the subtle, rich tones filling the cathedral-like acoustics of the building. Another cell was covered in Zen inspired ink brush paintings the prisoner had rendered in his own hand. They had a deceptive simplicity and amazing depths. The painter had sat in silence for hours before picking up his brush.

There was no swearing, no stabbings and no rapes, no violence whatsoever. What had once been a hell on earth where the guards would look the other way as their prisoners would find ever more sadistic ways to prey on their fellows had become a peaceful haven for quiet souls who had lost their way. All of this was thanks to the treatment.

When they ushered him into the discharge area, a sullen surly guard rooted through the rows of metal shelving that covered the far wall and produced a box containing everything he had on his person when he was arrested. It contained a comb and an empty wallet. The switchblade and the wad of bills were missing. The clothes he had worn had been picked clean by forensics. It was all evidence that had been presented during his brief time in front of a judge. He was given a cheap suit, courtesy of the prison.

The prison may have become peaceful, but it was never meant to be comfortable. He was reminded of this when he was told to strip out of his orange jumpsuit and don the suit in front of the three guards. Then he signed the clipboard and they opened the door to the real world, and the door to freedom.

The sunshine struck his eyes. It was very different then the neon lights and windowless rooms he had become accustomed to. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and then a prison funded taxi rolled up in front of him. He entered the cab and said goodbye to paradise.

The cab slowly weaved its way through the vehicle- choked labyrinth of streets that snaked its way through the safe, clean façade of the suburbs until the landmarks became increasingly familiar as the taxi entered the inner city. There were the same old decrepit buildings packed with desperate people who survived in any way they could, and there were people, even more desperate, littered over the landscape, begging for change on street corners and sleeping in alleyways sheltered by cardboard boxes.

His sister was the sole person from his past that would take him back. It gave him a warm feeling to know that his sister had finally forgiven him. He hoped that he could finally be the big brother that he should have been; it would be a great foundation on which to build a new life.

The cab deposited him at the front steps of an old building. He climbed up the front cradling his cardboard box under his arm, elbowing his way past the junkies laying all over the steps and rang his sister’s buzzer.
With a friendly hello, she buzzed him in. He anxiously climbed the stairs. 

She was there at her door. She looked hauntingly similar to they way she looked on that fateful day when he had stolen his fathers gun and left their home, and her life, for good.


The fateful day begun when he caught his sister with a set of recent needle tracks on her arm. She had been careful to wear long sleeved shirt for the past two weeks, but he had caught a glimpse of her arm anyway. “What the hell is this?” he shouted, “Who the fuck hooked you up? Was it Jimmy? Don’t you know what he’s going to do to you? You’ll be selling yourself on the street!”  All she could do was blankly stare, completely stoned.

He knew where his father kept his gun. Every night he would get drunk and wave the gun around while watching TV, raving inanely. He fished it out of the dresser drawer, shoved it into his jeans and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door as he left.

Now, he was seeing her again. She was dressed in the same rags, like she was the last surviving hippie, and she had the same sad look in her eyes. Her eyes seemed darker, though, more tired. She gave him a big wet kiss and invited him inside. He followed her to the center of her living room. It was filled with torn, urine soaked furniture and the floor was littered with empty vodka bottles and used syringes.

She walked into the kitchen. “Want some tea?” she asked.

He sat down on the couch “Yeah, that would be great.”

After filling two chipped and stained mugs with tea brewed from several well-used bags, she joined him on the couch. Then she looked at him with her characteristic twisted, sarcastic grin.

“So, I heard you got the treatment. Did they fuck with your head, make you a retard?”

He looked down at his cup. “Not really,” he began, “ they tell me that if anything happens to make me mad, I won’t even notice it. It works, it really does. I’m a better person now.”

She laughed. “Really? Lets try it out then.” she said, then leaned over and spit in his face.

His face felt wet, he knew something just happened, but he didn’t know what it was.

“This is rich. Big mean Gene, a fucking pussy. How was prison, asshole? Were you someone’s girlfriend? Did you notice that?”

He shook his head, confused. “I don’t know what…” then he trailed off.

Then, he heard someone open and then kick the door shut behind him. He went visibly pale as he turned and recognized two members of his old street gang.

“Sorry, honey, but I needed a fix.” She said with a shrug, and then she left the room.

Blade was tall and wiry and the t-shirt he wore revealed deep needle tracks on his arm. His deeply sunk eyes glared at him with a cold rage and his mouth was twisted in a spiteful scowl. He always kept his hands in the pockets of his jeans to conceal the fact that he was missing his left thumb.

Brick was the size of a truck. He was heavy set and was all muscle.  His hair was shaved roughly off and his beard had been growing for years. He made no attempt to conceal his hollow eye socket. The shock effect could make his enemies’ blood run cold

Gene was missing his left index finger. The initiation rites of the gang required new members to remove some visible part of their bodies while the others watched and cheered.

His former friends approached, then he grew dizzy and his vision blurred, he blinked and he was lying outside of the apartment building. Someone was pulling off his jacket and someone else was taking his shoes. He tasted the blood streaming out of his nose and lip, and he could barely see through his black,

swollen eyes. He struggled to his feet and found that he didn’t have any broken bones, just bumps and bruises from being thrown down a flight of stairs. Then he staggered down the street. He heard the voices of those he passed. He didn’t know what they were saying, so it was probably bad. All he heard was their tones of spite and of fear.

The crowds, the incessant noise, the carbon monoxide pouring out of streams of cars, they all pounded on his mind like a jackhammer. The open space was terrifying, he had become accustomed to the safety of the cozy prison walls. After a few blocks, he slipped and fell in a pool of vomit. The people around him started laughing, someone was saying something the others found funny, but he was blocked from hearing what it was.

It was then he made up his mind what he was going to do. The police station was a few blocks away. He had been inside there often enough to know the way. He felt dizzy as he climbed the front stairs of the precinct. He steadied himself on the railing, took a deep breath and entered.

The reception area was packed with prostitutes waiting for their pimps to arrive with bail money, victims of crimes ranging from theft to sexual assault and off duty cops coming off their shifts. On either side of the entrance, two cops stood guard, keenly watching for any trouble. He turned and approached them.

“I ‘d like to turn myself in. I need to go back to prison. I can’t hack things out here.” He bluntly stated.

The cops smirked at one another. “What have you done?” one of them asked.

“Nothing, but if I stay out here I’ll die.”

They laughed. “Sorry buddy, we can only arrest you if you’ve committed a crime.” The other said.

“What if I called you a pig, will you arrest me then?”

“No, but we might kick the crap out of you, now beat it!”

“It’s the treatment, turns them into retards.” One said to the other as Gene turned and left.

‘Okay,’ he thought to himself, ’if they want a crime, I’ll damn well give them a crime.’

It seems incredible, but it was almost half a year before there was a knock on the door of his rented room. It was the middle of the night and the only light was from his stolen laptop, the tool of his illicit trade, tied to the Internet through the broadband access of a nearby office tower. He had been patently obvious in his scams, leaving a clearly marked trail all over the Internet. The money was rolling in and as of yet he hadn’t been caught.  Finally he decided he had to connect all the dots for them by sending the police an anonymous tip on his own activities.

The money meant nothing to him. He still found life outside the prison unbearable. The everyday humiliations were constantly compounded by robberies and assaults, against which he had no defense. He may have been incapable of a violent crime, but he did know how to lie, a talent that came in handy.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he answered the door to greet the police detectives. He even had a bag packed, ready to go. 

It wasn’t long before he was before a judge and entered a guilty plea for fraud and grand larceny. It was quick and painless. He was sentenced to ten years, with no parole for five. Once the paperwork was done, he was shipped in shackles back to prison. 

He was taken aside from the other prisoners in the intake and processing area by two guards. They led him out into the corridor, and then grabbed him. They were trained in methods to restrain and hold violent inmates, which always made him feel completely helpless. He couldn’t put up a fight even if he was still capable of resistance. They threw him on a gurney and tightly strapped him down.

“Hey, I’ve already had the treatment, I don’t need another one.” He protested as they rolled him down the hall. The guards said nothing.

Soon he was back in the same operating room he had entered years ago. There were the same people watching and taking notes from above, there were the same assistants busy adjusting pieces of high tech equipment, and there was a man in a surgical mask towering over him. Even his voice sounded the same.

“Some time ago, we made history when we developed a form of psychosurgery that has successfully rehabilitated thousands of brutal criminals. Since then, we were alarmed to notice that, even though there was a sharp drop in violent crime, there was a significant increase in the overall crime rate. 

“We then turned our attention to the problem of fraud. We came to conclude that the answer to this problem lies in the function of the two brain hemispheres. The left hemisphere is responsible for recalling factual information from the memory and expressing it in words. The right brain serves the purpose of creative thought, in others words, composing believable falsehoods.

“ We believe that if we disconnect all neural pathways joining the two hemispheres, we can render an individual incapable of saying anything but the truth.” 

This sounded insane even to Gene.

“There may be some secondary damage involved.” The surgeon continued, “ The subject may be paralyzed on the left side of his body, and he may experience a significant loss of mental capacity, but I believe that he will totally rehabilitated, and that is all that matters.”

The metal jig was fastened around his skull, an IV was inserted in his arm, and he quickly lost consciousness.

His sister had done well for herself. What happened to Gene had scared her into cleaning up her act. She was off the heroin and she was supporting herself and Gene with the meager salary she took home from her job as a cleaner.

Gene was sent hope when the hospital closed down the floor that the workers nicknamed the Mitchell Ward. Mitchell was the name of the doctor that performed the experiments on Gene and many other subjects. The ward housed most of the doctor’s victims. 

Gene was confined to a wheelchair. He was incapable of reading, writing, talking or understanding speech. His left side was paralyzed, and his right suffered from uncontrollable tremors. His sister had to spoon feed him, dress him and wash him. She even had to wipe his ass. He had to drug him every night she worked so that he would sleep while she was at work. When she got home every morning she caught two, maybe three hours sleep, and then spent the rest of the day caring for her brother.

The stress and the exhaustion were wearing her down. She was on the verge of losing her job. When she came home that night, she began to think of the unthinkable. It wasn’t really her brother lying in the bed and drooling, it was an empty shell housing a dying mind. She could only imagine how it felt to be stuck in a body that won’t work. She went to the kitchen and fished her gun out of a drawer, and then walked into Gene’s room.

At the crack of dawn, a gunshot echoed through the halls of her apartment building.





 










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