Author’s note: Florida Man is a super-villain whose worthless minions are always causing him to run afoul of the law and press. 

Florida Man regained consciousness in stages. With his eyes closed, he took stock of where he was. Industrial mattress, no sharp pain or fog of painkillers. Must be jail. Shit. Jail again. You’d think a guy who made meth for a living would take care handling product, but apparently not.

Florida Man had paid a lot of money, too much really, for the formula to the actual MK ULTRA drug. Exposure to which places its victim into a state of hyper-suggestibility for several minutes followed by about 12 hours of zombie-like attempt to comply with those suggestions. Finally, his useless minions would be able to execute simple commands like “go to the store and buy food” without getting themselves arrested for something stupid like road rage. “Note to self,” he said, “do NOT use anyone to formulate the compound if they insist on calling it a recipe.” That meth guy claimed to have helped make GHB for a biker gang, but if so, he must have done so by staying outside.

Sitting up, Florida Man found himself in a cell alone. Either the… whichever county… sheriff had finally started according him respect as a super-villain or this was going to be a bad one. Hearing footsteps coming up the row, FM came to the front of the cell. Coming up the line was the biggest, widest redneck FM had seen since he tried running a tutoring camp for football players too dumb to graduate from Florida high schools. This did not help Florida Man narrow down where he might be, except it wasn’t a Caribbean island. As the CO passed Florida Man’s cell, the redneck stopped for a second and looked down on FM with sparkling eyes. “Boy,” the CO said, “I jus’ want you to know that if was up to me, I’d let you go free. You was jus’ expressing an opinion. Except at that jew’s house, but he weren’t even there and you didn’t even try to steal his jew-gold. Like a jew rabbi can’t afford to lose a bottle of vodka once in a while. ” Palm Beach county uniform. Okay, at least he knew who to call for bail.

“Could I…” Florida Man swallowed hard, “Could I see the papers?”

“Sure, Boy. I’ll have that little black trustee bring them with your breakfast.”

Shit. Shit. That fucking knuckle-dragging, no teeth, white trash, loser meth cook had been ranting about a white ethnostate and the problems with “joos and mooslems” as he was bringing the formula out. The compound must have spilled. What in the Hell had FM done during his fugue?

About ten minutes later the trustee came down the line with breakfast. And the newspaper. This was going to be tough to explain to some of his foreign backers.

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