Mitch was butt naked but for a towel on his butt, face down in one of those massage chairs with the face-holes.

He had found the premier (read best rated on Googol and Yap) acupressure clinic in the city and booked the earliest appointment possible. Now he was in a modestly sized room which had been painted a color someone who cared about such things would call "ochre." It just reminded him of baby shit.

They had had him strip down and lay on the table. After a bit, a reasonably attractive young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with distinctively Japanese features came in and bent down to say hello. Other than greetings they didn't make much small talk, and she got straight to work; first applying of the essential oils Mitch had always resented for assaulting his nostrils.

Mitch had signed up for a service they called "Extensive Balancing and Stimulation." It didn't look like this place's marketing department had made the connection he thought he had about the body's energies, as there was no mention of it in their media. He hadn't seen any mention of it on any of the other acu-anything websites either.

There had been a few mentions, on the less reputable forums that dealt in speculation, of some similar ideas, but so far he hadn't found any posts where they had actually gone and had a treatment. He had also found posts where some people claimed the eastern nations, particularly in places where the cultures who's faith had a strong focus on meditation, were dealing with the Tolling significantly better than the U.S. and other western countries. The poster's claimed the fact that the news and government only talked about worldwide numbers proved or, to the more reasonable, strongly implied that this was true.

The, supposed, exceptions were a few places with a strong ritual magic tradition. Usually individual towns or areas were mentioned and not whole countries. There were even a few places in the U.S. like one Indian reservation that still actively practiced their traditional religion, a few voodoo populations in the deep south, some neopagan hotspots. Although he had also read that some Christian denominations that believe in faith energies, faith healing, etcetera were also doing better than average.

This "information" was not in any of the official communique nor in the standard journalistic reports, but most of those would not agree that water was wet without proof and provenance.

Overall, there was very little useful information available and he couldn't help but think this dearth of information was going to spell his doom. He needed something that was going to change his situation fast before he turned into pretty lights. He wondered if a person's conciousness survived the entire process of their disintegration or if they could depart before the end. If they could, wouldn't it be a mercy?

Fuck that. Fuckitfuckitfuckit. Drill it up the ass with an absolutely monumental dildo. Lady Liberty is a ladyboy, and she is wrecking that idea, robe at the waist, hands on the hips, torch in her mouth, eyes rolling back in her head.

His acupressurist had started at his feet and had now reached his lower back. Suddenly he felt the weirdest sensation right behind his belly button as though someone were blowing up a balloon in the middle of his gut. Warmth spread from that spot across his entire body. It only lasted for a moment, but the sensation was too pronounced to deny or write off as a psychosomatic event.

It was actually a highly pleasurable sensation, and he popped boner that would shame even his teenage self. If his morning wood were pine, this would be oak.

Twice more he felt a similar sensation, once when she reached the middle of his chest, and once when she was working on his scalp. The epicenter of one was in his chest adjacent to the heart, while the other originated from the center of his brain. The sensation brought by the last one was so strong he nearly left a DNA sample on the seat. Finally, she finished and stepped back.

"How do you feel?"

The question startled Mitch, who was still suffering aftershocks of that last bliss-bomb in his head, and was focusing entirely on maintaining self-control.

Be cool, be cool.

"Great." Despite his best efforts, this came out a bit strained.

"Exellent, if you could just turn over we'll do the second half of the treatment."

"Second half?"

"Yes, the treatment you booked covers the complete meridian network." She said it as though that explained everything.

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea at the moment."

"Oh. Would you like to add V.I.P. services to your package?"

"V.I.P services?"

"Yes. You know." The "you know" comes across suggestively, and not at all like a question.

So, it's that kind of place.

Fuck it, I've been on a dry spell anyway.

An immensely satisfying period of time later Mitch exited the clinic.

"Now, how the fuck do I tell if that shit did anything? Well, something happened, but did it affect my situation? If not, no regrets. That girl was tight like a tiger and wild like a walrus."

He doesn't know if walruses are at all kinky, but he enjoys the alliteration.

The only option he could think of for testing the effect of this whole endeavor was identity fraud. They scanned your I.D. at the testing stations to make sure they were valid so he would have to pretend to be a dead person who hadn't been reported as dead yet or something and was still in the system.

He went to find an I.D. broker.

Luckily, it wasn't that hard. His recreational supplier knew a reliable source and vouched for him to Mitch and for Mitch to him, so, now he had a fake I.D. At the age of 35.

He got up early this time and was near the front of the line for the test.

Rigamarole ensued.

X0-

"... Shit."

He moved his thumb off of the last number.

4

X0-0 up to X0-4... There's something to this!

He turned to the operator and asked what that meant.

"Basically X means that of the types we have identified you fit into none. 0-4 is... I guess you could call it your level. There's not really a better term for it. 0-4 is very low."

"Are you able to see percentiles?" Mitch asks.

"Sure." He looked at the screen again.

Tenth or above. Please tell me it's the tenth or above.

"Hmmm, it looks like you're sitting in the bottom of the eighth percentile."

Your pastor fucks your mother up the ass after Sunday service you dick-munching sphincter. Woosaaaah. Not his fault. Breath Mitch. Stay cool.

So it looks like X1-whatever indicates someone above the Percentiles of Doom. So he needs to score at least X1-0 within the next seven months so as to not die at the Tolling. X1-1 to be safe.

Could these acu-things help him improve any more? Could he get there in time? If it is a bell curve, it will probably be much more difficult to gain the last two points he needs than it was to get the first few.

Fuck it. I'm going to find out. At least now there's a chance.