The Alpha Factors

By WES SNOWDEN

When Norm Walker is diagnosed with terminal boredom by a doctor friend he has no idea of the danger and life-changing experiences waiting for him when he signs up with the mysterious Beyond/Boredom Institute for specialized treatment of the condition. His symptoms first appeared after he prematurely sold his advertising agency at a too young age. To participate in the Institute's highly unorthodox program, Norm has to deposit two hundred thousand dollars upfront. His only chance for a full refund depends on successfully completing a series of four highly demanding and exhilarating challenges designed to force him out of his Circle of Comfort.

Using the latest artificial intelligence (AI) software and based on a comprehensive analysis of Norm's character, the Institute generates four uniquely different  Alpha Factor enhanced challenges for the patient to solve. On land and at sea, he finds love, danger, and excitement while learning to leave his boredom far, far behind. This enjoyable and satisfying story might make you laugh, cry, or be intrigued, but certainly you won't bored….

• Language: English
• Publisher: WES SNOWDEN
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393442981

WES SNOWDEN

After a successful career as an international business owner, Wes Snowden now spends his time between Toronto, Vancouver, and Scottsdale, Arizona. As a relatively new author, Wes has written a broad range of  books, all unique in their storyline. Although his writings are enjoyable for all ages, the author enjoys writing kid's stories for grown-ups the best. Wes has just finished four full-length adult novels- White Swan Wishes, Zachary's Gold, One Last Move and The Leprechaun Wars All four will be published by spring of 2020. Reviews and comments always appreciated at: [e-mail]

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Beyond/Boredom

PROLOGUE

April 1st, 2011  Seattle, Washington

For the casual observer from a considerable distance, the man standing in the middle of the busiest intersection in downtown Seattle appeared almost normal, if there is any such condition as normal these days. It was only when you drew closer that the true spectacle emerged through the mist. A sighting to almost make you question your eyes.

It was raining, as usual, and quite chilly because of the blustery wind coming in from the West. At four p.m., the rush hour traffic was now starting to build toward the constant flow it would become as the hours ticked past.

The man, or should I say the damned fool, standing out in the cold rain holding a ragged cardboard sign was me, Norman Walker. At the ripe old age of thirty-five, I never imagined I would find myself in such an embarrassing predicament. Especially for a guy as shy as I am.

I was mentally kicking my own ass forever, agreeing to take on this final challenge. After successfully completing the first three, I should have just forfeited the money and bypassed this one. I could have saved myself a heap of anguish. Too soon old, too late smart.

I detest being the center of attention at the best of times, but here I was being scrutinized by a rapidly growing group of strangers. Some were on foot while others were in cars that slowed to a crawl when they spotted me. I was mortified.

I looked at my watch for the hundredth time, still dismayed that another two hours remained in my ordeal. My watch also showed me the delivery I was waiting for was almost half an hour late. If it didn’t arrive soon, it would be too late. 

Three teenage girls were quite enjoying the spectacle, snapping selfies of themselves while trying to capture my image in the background of each picture. The flow of pedestrians bunched up as they ran into the blockade caused by the young ladies. As they stopped, many of the new gawkers were putting smartphone cameras into action as well. Despite the honking horns and the roar of the background noise created by the passing traffic, I could distinctly hear loud peals of laughter coming from the crowd.

In hindsight, I really couldn’t blame the crowd. I did, indeed, present an arresting spectacle. The pictures circulating many times over social media would show me a normally mature respectable businessman, standing in the rain holding a miniature poodle by a long trailing silver leash.

Not too unusual, you might say, except the soaking wet poodle had bright pink curly hair in the exact same shade as the pink hair on my head. To top it off, I was also wearing an adult diaper, silver army boots, and a fluorescent yellow T-shirt bearing a crimson website logo saying BEYOND/BOREDOM.

As I gave an embarrassed wave at a passing police car full of laughing officers, I couldn’t help wondering for the hundredth time how my current dilemma had come to pass. I knew in my heart it wasn’t rational, but it made me feel a little better to pick out a villain to blame for getting me into this ridiculous situation.

I thought back to how it all started with my innocent trip to a medical office and how everything transpired from my diagnosis one year ago. It didn’t take me long to decide that the responsible culprit was my best friend and personal physician, Doctor Ted Rogers.

The bastard.

The Diagnosis

Going crazy is a frightening ordeal.

It’s something that usually happens to other poor saps, not to guys like me. Especially when I’m at the peak. But then I thought, If that’s true, then why the hell do I have a sinking feeling that my brain is rebelling on me?

Sitting behind the wheel of my shiny black twin-turbo Porsche 911, I stared intently at the red stoplight controlling the traffic at the very busy corner of 1st Avenue and Yesler Way in downtown Seattle. I was running late for my nine-thirty a.m. medical appointment to review the results of some diagnostic tests ordered several days ago. Frankly, I was worried.

I reluctantly became convinced some mysterious disease had invaded my brain. Whatever it was, it was causing me to experience a host of unusual symptoms. The most worrisome symptom was the inability for me to stay focused on any one subject for more than a few minutes.

Lately, I was easily distracted by almost anything remotely more interesting than the task at hand. And now it’s happening again. Instead of concentrating on my important session with my doctor, my brain was irrationally intrigued by the systematic flow of traffic.

I’m fascinated that all of the hundreds of cars are moving like an orchestrated ballet in graceful orderly rhythm, back and forth through the congested intersection. Not at the direction of some higher human authority, but slavishly in blind obedience to the beck and call of the traffic lights.

A sudden chilling thought struck me like a thunderbolt. This whole peaceful scene in front of me is just an illusion. It’s all fiction because the entire difference between modern civilization and absolute chaos at this single moment in time boils down to the reliability of one single fucking little light bulb.

I’m positive beyond the shadow of a doubt that if the red bulb behind the stoplight in front of me were to suddenly fail, smack in the middle of rush hour, the orderly process of stop and go would degenerate quickly, perhaps within seconds, into a dog eat dog, vicious battle of the survivors.

Without guidance from the light to impose discipline, the winners would be determined solely by the level of aggression of the driver. The façade of civilization would evaporate in an instant giving way to fender benders, physical confrontations, and possibly even gunfire.

All triggered by the simple failure of a tiny ninety-nine cent light bulb.

My mental gymnastics were interrupted by the impatient honking of some asshole behind me. The light had suddenly turned green while I was daydreaming about the downfall of civilization and, because I hadn’t taken off with a jackrabbit start, I was now the stupid slothful jerk delaying the world by a nanosecond.

When the guy hit his horn for the second time, I lost it. I opened my window and gave him the famous one-finger salute. Then, in case he was one of the vast majority of drivers driving around armed to the teeth, I quickly took off before any shooting could start. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the suburban parking lot of the Westside Medical Group offices.

The elevator was out of order, again, so I decided to walk. It was harder than I thought. By the time I reached the third-floor medical offices, I was puffing. I paused for a minute to catch my breath and suck in my stomach before entering. I had my own reasons for the vain gesture.

And there she was. My doctor’s statuesque receptionist sat primly at her normal work station, pretending not to notice my arrival. Gretchen and I had a love/hate relationship going. Unfortunately, the love was only on my part.

I hit her with my most charming smile. Hi, Gretchen. Wow! You’re looking even more stunning than usual this morning. Must be your new hairstyle.

Gretchen rolled her eyes. She wasn’t taking the bait. Good morning, Mr. Walker. Doctor Rogers will be with you shortly. He’s running a little behind schedule because of an emergency earlier this morning. Take a seat, and I’ll call you when he’s ready.

I shrugged and picked up a tattered old copy of Reader’s Digest. I laughed out loud when I saw the issue date of December 1996. A new record low for my friend’s medical office. Before this find, the record for the oldest magazine I had ever unburied from the heaping pile was a Better Homes & Gardens issue from July 1998.

I poked listlessly through the remaining dogeared piles but found nothing to arouse my interest. I sat back and thought about the past several months. Hopefully, my test results would help Ted Rogers diagnose whatever the hell was bugging me. My symptoms were dragging on far too long.

The intercom buzzed. Gretchen listened and motioned for me to bypass the examination room and go directly to Dr. Rogers’s office. I winked at her as I passed by, then knocked gently and entered. My dearest friend sat behind his desk, feet up, wading through a large pile of lab reports.

Ted Rogers didn’t believe in the pseudo awe a white coat was supposed to generate. As a modern physician, he had replaced the traditional intimidating uniform with designer jeans and a powder blue Polo golf shirt as his garb for the day. He smiled and motioned for me to take a seat.

Good morning, Ted. Your delectable, desirable, mouthwatering nurse, Gretchen, tells me you started your day with an emergency. Was it open-heart surgery, a brain transplant, or anything equally interesting?

Yah, yah. Some emergency. Two brothers were playing a weird game, and things got a little out of hand, Ted said with a laugh. The smaller kid ended up with three pieces of Lego up his backside. I just fished them out without asking any questions.

I laughed, too. Okay, what’s the verdict on my tests? I’m getting tired of feeling like crap all the time. Do I have to start working on updating my will?

Ted grinned. Everyone should have an updated will. You should know that.

I’m serious, I’m having problems. Can you prescribe something to cure whatever the hell it is that’s ailing me?

Ted looked at his notes. First, my old friend, we should review the symptoms that you said were bothering you the most.

Okay.

As I understand it, you’re lethargic, have trouble sleeping, poor appetite, restless, marginally depressed most of the time, and now you’re having some difficulty concentrating.  Does that about sum it up, buddy?

When I get nervous, I joke as a defense mechanism. And if that’s not everything, Doc, I also suffer from a general lack of interest in just about everything. Also, I have a hair-trigger temper to boot. Oh, I forgot, I have athlete’s foot, and I’ve been having a lot of weird thoughts lately, too.

Ted looked very serious. Well, my friend, we ran just about every test I could think of short of a complete CAT scan. We did X-rays, a cardiac stress work-up, and almost every blood panel ever invented, just to be safe.

Go ahead. Hit me with the diagnosis. I can take it.

He shrugged. The simple answer is absolutely nothing showed up. It’s possible we could have missed something, but, in my professional opinion, you’re likely just experiencing the symptoms of a condition that is having a direct impact on your brain.

I had qualms, but I pretended to panic. Syphilis? No, no! Please don’t tell me I have syphilis. I know it can attack the brain.

Ted smiled and shook his head. Although it wouldn’t surprise me at all, you don’t have syphilis or any other STD. Frankly, my friend, I think you’re suffering from a severe case of old-fashioned, terminal boredom. It’s turned you into a walking zombie.

I was stunned. You’ve got to be kidding. After all your years of study, is that really your highly trained professional diagnosis—terminal boredom?

Think about it, Norm. Since you sold your advertising agency last year, you’ve been wandering around like a lost soul. You have no interest in anything and nothing to look forward to. Frankly, I don’t think you should have ever signed that five-year non-compete agreement. It was far too early for you to retire.

I shrugged. Some days I wish I had told the buyers to go jump in the lake, but when they start waving a ten-million-dollar payout in front of your nose, it’s easy to lose your perspective in a hurry. Anyway, what’s done is done.

Well, at least you’re a rich zombie.

When we stopped laughing, I asked, Is there anything I can I do right now about the way I feel? Are there any anti-depressants that are not habit-forming?

My friend shook his head, vigorously. You don’t want to start down that road, buddy, it’s a dead-end street. My advice to you is to get yourself started on an exercise program, develop some interesting hobbies, use that creative noodle of yours, and find yourself some compatible female companionship, other than my receptionist.

Instinctively, other than the part about his receptionist, I knew Ted’s advice was right on the money. My recent breakup with Andrea Corby had finally ended our turbulent seven-year relationship. Since then, I’ve been living on my own, almost like a hermit, in the old five-bedroom family cottage on the shores of beautiful Green Lake.

My parents had owned the cottage for many years. Most of my best early childhood memories revolved around youthful activities on the expansive waters of the freshwater lake. The cottage was way too big for me. At my current stage of life, I would probably be better off in one of the new swanky downtown buildings, but, lately, I couldn’t even summon up enough energy to go condo shopping.

"Thanks for running the tests,