By Sang Freud

Total Behavioral Solutions Case Study: Conversion Therapy (Part 1)

Subject #5462

Former name: Thomas Hathaway

Current name: irrelevant

Sponsor: Senator James Hathaway

Anticipated disposition: release to sponsor’s agent 

Phase: final, awaiting pickup

Case history: Total Behavioral Solutions was contacted by a long-serving US Senator from [redacted] for help with his second son, Thomas, who was once again causing public relations nightmares. After well-publicized failures in business and attempts to cash in on his father’s good name, Thomas had been once again caught “entertaining” a series of high-class escorts in a hotel room, complete with cocaine and rumors of human trafficking. This proved to be the final straw, since the scandal hit in an election year and Senator Hathaway was doing his best to court the conservative right. Thomas had to be dealt with decisively and permanently. The Senator had no desire to see either his family drama or a mysterious obituary in the tabloids, so he called on us to arrange a quiet removal.

After extensive consultation, we presented Senator Hathaway with three options:

1. Simple incarceration. Thomas would “disappear” for all intents and purposes. The sponsor pays a yearly maintenance fee, and the subject would be used for labor or other enterprises to offset the cost of his upkeep. No mental or behavioral changes are guaranteed, but this would hardly matter.
2. Admission to one of our research programs. The younger Mr. Hathaway would advance science by testing medical, psychiatric, and physical interventions to help us understand what the human body is (and is not) capable of. We are always looking to increase our knowledge of torture techniques, particularly nerve stimulation in sensitive tissue. Subjects with Mr. Hathaway’s body type are always in demand for our device prototypes. He might even be selected to test our new targeted electroshock therapy protocol. Research status is irrevocable; the subject will remain in our facility and will be disposed of at the end of its usefulness.
3. Conversion and re-integration. Mr. Hathaway would be physically and psychologically “rebuilt” from the ground up and sold to a discreet client overseas. His body, which looks from photos to be typical of a privileged 33-year-old playboy, would be completely reconditioned. Since our buyers are overwhelmingly men in search of sex slaves, we would have to fix his sexuality. TBS has not yet been able to achieve true gay-to-straight “conversion,” but we have had success turning heterosexual men into fags and fuck toys (whether we have changed their actual desires is, of course, unknowable and immaterial). After conversion, subjects are generally unrecognizable even to close friends and family.

Senator Hathaway deliberated and decided that he could not justify the yearly expense of option 1, nor would his conscience allow him to directly end his son’s life, the inevitable result of option 2. After looking over our roster of potential buyers, the Senator was satisfied that option 3 would bring a permanent end to his PR embarrassment and might even give Thomas a shot at being useful to someone. He was not thrilled about turning his son gay, but if it meant never seeing his overgrown frat-boy face all over social media destroying a decades-long career, it might be worth it. Senator Hathaway transferred a generous cash donation to our efforts, and our extraction team moved into action.

***

Tom Hathaway was one of life’s winners. His last name was synonymous with power–it opened the doors of the Ivy League and got him a business degree even though he only rarely showed up to class. After college, his father got him an internship with well-connected friends, and Tom was ready to skate through life on easy mode. Perhaps one day he would run for office like his father. Perhaps he’d run his own consulting business. Maybe he’d quit the buttoned-up East Coast scene altogether and invest in movies or tech. He didn’t really know yet, even as his twenties turned into his thirties. He wasn’t interested in settling down. All he cared about was mountains of cocaine, endless parties, and a steady stream of beautiful women.

Tom didn’t need his golden last name to pull girls. He stood just under six feet tall, with broad shoulders that made every suit he’d ever worn look like it was made for him. His boyish face was just starting to show the slightest lines, and a shock of wavy dark blond hair called to mind a young Matt Damon or Leonardo DiCaprio. His body was by no means hard or heavily muscled, but the long hours he’d spent sailing and playing tennis throughout his youth were still evident in his well-toned arms.

Men, too, had a hard time looking away from Tom, though they tended to focus on his full lips and firm ass. Even straight men occasionally found themselves wondering what he would feel like wrapped around their dick or squirming underneath them. If Tom ever noticed the attention of men, however, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was too busy adding to the the tally of girls he’d fuck in a single night.

That, of course, was all Tom thought about that fateful night he’d entered the club. “Club” was maybe a bit generous–it was more of a pop-up event at a normally staid bar in the middle of downtown. Tom tossed his car keys nonchalantly to the valet, his mind entirely on the lovely Russian beauties likely to be waiting for him inside. He never saw his Italian sports car being driven offsite to a hidden garage. Tom didn’t know it yet, but he had no more use for luxury cars, and in three days’ time this one would be a pile of parts being auctioned off one by one online.

Tom easily made his way past the velvet ropes, and no one found it unusual that the club bouncer mumbled something cryptic into his earpiece.Once inside, he decided he could use a couple of drinks to loosen up and watch the options on display before making his moves. The bar was already crowded, but a small, bronze-skinned bartender practically barreled over to serve him. “Welcome, my friend. What can I get you?” the young man asked solicitously, as if there wasn’t a throng of other customers demanding service. Tom settled into a space that almost seemed as if it had been kept clear just for him. He was used to getting special treatment like this—what his family connections couldn’t do for him his million-dollar body would. He slid two crisp hundred-dollar bills over the counter. “You know what, my man? Surprise me.”

“My pleasure, sir.” A more observant man than Tom might have noticed the bartender’s gaze that lingered a little too long and seemed almost appraising as he pocketed the cash. The bartender went to work mixing an elaborate drink with double shots of Scotch whiskey, coffee and orange liqueurs, and a sprig of rosemary. Tom knew his Scotch, of course, and recognized the label of one of his favorites, smooth and peaty and well-aged. Not the sort of thing one would normally mix, but he appreciated the man’s creativity. He nodded appreciatively as the bartender retrieved an unlabeled bottle of bitters beneath the counter, added a few drops and presented the drink with a flourish. “Here you are, my friend. Be careful—it’s stronger than it looks.” Tom nodded abesntmindedly as he raised the glass to his lips, blissfully unaware of the smirk playing at the corners of the smaller man’s mouth. He turned around in his seat to watch the ladies on the dance floor who seemed to be competing for his attention.

The drink was unexpectedly delicious—Tom could taste the flavors enhancing each other along with an unexpected herbal undertone. Before he knew it his glass was empty. “That was…wow. Another, please?” Somehow the same bartender was right next to him despite the ever growing crowd.

“Are you sure about that, my friend? Truly, these pack a bit of a punch.” Tom waved his concern off dismissively. “This is hardly my first rodeo.” He passed the bartender another few bills, again not noticing the lurking smile that never quite reached the server’s eyes.

“Suit yourself, my friend. It’s your funeral.” Another drink was soon in Tom’s hand, and as he drained it he set his sights on a lovely blonde at the far end of the dance floor. She could be a model, he thought. Perhaps I could promise her a career in movies. Or maybe a green card if she needs it. He squared his shoulders, put on his thousand-watt smile, and started out to approach her.

When he tried to stand, however, he suddenly found that his legs would not support him. He wavered and caught himself on the edge of the bar, trying to understand why his body suddenly didn’t seem to obey his commands. That bartender was right, he thought. These things really do pack a…

“My friend, my friend! Are you alright?” The ever-present bartender’s voice was full of concern. “I told you to be careful! Please, let’s get you some fresh air.” Two large men with “Security” printed on the back of their jackets half-guided, half-carried Tom out of the club’s side door and into the alley along the building. No one heard the bartender mutter under his breath, “Adios, motherfucker.”

The night air definitely helped the wave of nausea in Tom’s stomach, but he still couldn’t seem to stand or walk under his own power. “Buddy, you ain’t looking so good,” one of the security guys said. “I think we need to get you some help.”

“I’m…okay, man. I think…I just…” It was so hard to form words. Tom was dimly aware of an ambulance parked quietly at the end of the alley, and he was almost grateful that one security guard held him up as the other spoke to the paramedic sitting in the driver’s seat. Soon Tom found himself guided over to a gurney. “No…really…I’m fine. I’ll call a cab and—“ but the bouncer holding him laid him down on the gurney and he could not coordinate himself to resist as paramedics passed straps over his chest and legs, pulling them as tight as they could. “We’ll take care of him from here, boys. Thanks for your help.” The paramedics loaded him into the back of the ambulance and shut the doors. Once everything was secured and settled, the ambulance backed out of the alley and sailed off into the night. Even in his current condition, it occurred to Tom that there were no lights, no sirens, no real sense of urgency.

“Where…are…we…”

“Shh. Just relax, sir. We’ll take care of everything,” said the man attending him in the back of the ambulance as he fitted a mask over Tom’s nose and mouth. “Just go ahead and breathe nice and deep. We’re gonna give you a little something to keep you calm.” The air in the mask tasted slightly sweet, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the attendant preparing an IV. “I…” But Tom suddenly couldn’t talk at all. He felt a slight prick, and his vision began to blur and gray out. “It’s okay, buddy. Don’t fight it. Just let go.”

The ambulance continued its ride, unhurried, onto the freeway and far out of town. City lights eventually turned to suburban streets and eventually to the countryside. After about an hour, they arrived at a nondescript driveway marked by gate and a small, easily missed sign:

“Total Behavioral Solutions Official Vehicles Only”

The guard at the gate checked the paramedic’s credentials and buzzed them in. The ambulance rolled into a discreet underground entrance. In the back, Tom slid in and out of consciousness. He didn’t realize it, but he had just arrived home.

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