Time With Pacifica

	Of all seven billion people on this planet, I am the one who profits the most from the petroleum industry.  My company has foiled three attempts to invent free energy just this month.  The man standing across from me is my equivalent in the communications industry.  His company has an algorithm that has carefully and deliberately caused every interruption or slowdown in your internet this month, all for a greater purpose I scarcely comprehend.  We have known each other since we were both sixteen, and we are playing golf, a game that was made for men like us - the real men of this world, who actually control their own lives.  We are being carted between holes; we have at least ten more miles to go.  This is the biggest golf course in Oregon.
	"I believe that my daughter is broken," says Preston.
	"Good," I say, "although I thought that was accomplished many years ago."
	"No, no," he says.  He takes a moment to laugh about my humorous misunderstanding.  "The opposite, actually - it's the conditioning that I believe is broken."  I gasp; this is a revelation worth gasping over.
	"If what you're saying is true, then you have been robbed, sir," I say.  "You paid top dollar for that child psychologist from Argentina, and you followed his advice to the letter; you made a point of telling me as much repeatedly."
	"I did," he says.
	"Surely you can sue him?" I say.  "Or at least ask him what's happened and how to fix it?"
	"No," he says.  "I became uncomfortable with the situation many years ago and quietly disposed of him."
	"Ah," I say.  "What a shame."  It occurs to me that I remember Preston's daughter - I saw her just last year, when I was having dinner at Northwest Manor.  She'd been a perfect angel, speaking only when spoken to and following every commandment of etiquette to the letter.  It fully sold me on whatever parenting techniques Preston had used.  What on Earth had happened since then?  I decide to ask him.  "What, specifically, indicated to you that the conditioning failed?"
	"It was not subtle, Phillips," he says.  "It was not subtle at all.  My Pacifica had a major outburst at Northwest Fest."
	"Well, no wonder I had to ask," I said.  "I'm never going to attend any event that allows in millionaires.  You should get some standards, Northwest."
	"I know you weren't there," he says in frustration, and, getting his point, I stay silent and allow him to finish.  "She opened our gates and allowed members of the general public in."  I stare in horror that the beautiful little girl I saw mere months ago is no more, and he nods.  Eventually, I speak:
	"Why?" I say, still staring in horror.
	"Something about a ghost," he says dismissively.  "She was trying to impress some poor friends."
	"Why is she allowed to have any of those?" I say.
	"She isn't," he says, to my relief.  "She's grounded and I'm investigating the situation.  I can hardly imagine what punishment could be enough.  I suppose I might have to disown her, though I feel that there must be a more expedient way."
	"Well..." I start.  I've wanted to say this for a long time; I've just always stopped myself because Preston and I are such good friends.  But a real friend would point out the elephant in the room.  "You've never had a son, Northwest.  And that puts you in a very precarious situation.  Your family name is currently awaiting extinction.  I would say that that's a much more serious problem than your daughter acting up."
	"It's true, and it's eating me up, Phillips," he says.  I see a panicked side of Preston I've never seen before.  "Priscilla hated the first pregnancy so much that she flat-out refused to try again.  Thanks to my idiocy she has nearly as much power as I do, so I can't force her to change her mind.  A divorce would be the biggest disaster in the Northwest family's history; it would literally cut me in half, Phillips.  I don't know what I'm going to do."  Preston is crying.  He's literally crying into my chest.  My God, am I glad that the staff here know their place.  This looks incredibly flamboyant and the rumors would reflect awfully on both of us.  I push Preston away from me.
	"I have an idea," I say, "that I think might solve multiple problems of yours at once."  He looks up at me like a wounded puppy, and I smile.  "Your daughter has very publicly and visibly defied you.  Am I correct?"  He nods.  "Of course the solution is to exert more control over her; make it clear to her that you're her God and not her servant.  But that's simply obvious, and you would have done it anyway."  Preston raises an eyebrow.
	"Is there somewhere you're going with this, Phillips?" he says.
	"Yes," I say.  "Stay with me, Northwest.  Now, your daughter is not a male heir and therefore cannot carry on the Northwest name.  ...or can she?"
	“She cannot,” he says, “and I'm puzzled by your suggestion otherwise.”
	“Well,” I say, having noticed a nearby well, “let's imagine a hypothetical.  This isn't a suggestion, merely rhetoric.  Suppose that you don't exert more control over your daughter.  Suppose instead that you allow her to roam free and do as she pleases.  What, then, might happen?”  He has no idea, and does not speak, so I continue.  “She might meet engage in illicit activities and become pregnant.”
	“Oh,” he says, and I can see that it's coming together in his mind.
	“And then, if she never marries, the baby is indeed a Northwest,” I say.  “A Northwest bastard, but still a Northwest.”
	“It would be-” he starts
	“Shameful, yes,” I say.  “But not as shameful as your family's extinction.”
	“Admittedly,” he says.  “But the father would be some rube, and I would hate to dilute my family's fine genetics.”
	“That would be troublesome,” I say, “if the hypothetical I described actually occurred.  But let's rewind.  How are you to punish your daughter?  I have a very clever answer: sell her time.”  The wheels are turning in Preston's head.
	“Phillips,” he says, “you're a horrific genius.”
	“Set the price high enough to lock out the plebeians, but low enough to demean her,” I say.  “Advertise it in our sort of circles, in private – no need to be explicit about what the time is used for, but suggest it with innuendos.  I know many men like us who would forfeit large parts of their fortune to participate.”  For the moment I don't say that I'm one of them.
	“I - I like the way your mind works, Phillips,” he says.
	“Thank you, Northwest,” I say.  The cart stops, and I carefully exit and secure my club.  “Watch this.”  I strike the ball with power and efficiency.  A hole in one, just as it should be.  Life really is going my way, isn't it?

***

	I arrive at Northwest Manor in the middle of the afternoon.  Their butler, Hartman, gives me an uncomfortable look and then turns away when Preston and Priscilla arrive.
	“Norbert, darling!” says Priscilla, offering a hug and flashing a smile I know she owes to botulinum toxin.
	“Nice to see you, Priscilla,” I say.  “So, you've started the Time With Pacifica program, I hear?  Any takers?”
	“We have several interested parties, but you're the first to actually show,” says Priscilla.
	“Which is very appropriate, seeing as the entire program was your idea,” says Preston.  My eye darts past him to his twelve-year-old daughter, Pacifica, who's waiting in the distance.  I'm not sure if she knows what's going on, just yet; her facial expression indicates simple confusion.
	“How much time are you interested in, Norbert?” says Priscilla.
	“I've made arrangements for forty eight hours,” I say, and I grin.
	“Forty eight hours?” says Preston.  “You're aware you can't leave a small room, or even talk to either of us, until that time is up?”
	“Quite aware,” I say.  I become distinctly aware that my devilish smile is beginning to resemble Priscilla's, and I resume a neutral expression for fear of becoming more like her.
	“You have some issues you want to work out, Norbert, dear?” says Priscilla, and she laughs in a deep register.  I squint at her in mock disapproval.
	“There are two things I'd like to tell you before we begin,” says Preston, and he pulls me aside and begins to whisper.  “First, I've scripted out our life for the next few years, and I've decided that I don't actually want Pacifica to bear children until she's fourteen or so.  But of course I'm still going ahead with the program now, so I'll just have abortifacients on regular standby.”
	“Perfectly reasonable,” I say.
	“Second, here's the bell that we've used with her,” he says, and he presents a small silver bell to me.  “I wouldn't normally offer it to you, but since you're staying for forty eight hours, you might find it useful or even stimulating. I can't guarantee that it'll be effective all of the time – if I could, we wouldn't be in this situation to begin with - but it should generally demand her attention and make her submissive.  I've tested it since  the incident, and it still usually works; I speculate that it will work very well for you.”
	“Thank you,” I say, but I don't really know what to say.  I feel honored as I accept the bell from Preston.  We then approach Pacifica, and she's even more of a nymphet than I remembered.  She stares up at us, doe-eyed, and doesn't even bother to ask what's going on, because she knows it'll all be explained in time.  She is correct.
	“Pacifica,” says Preston, “this is Norbert Phillips.  You remember him, don't you?”
	“Of course I do, father,” she says, sweetly.  I make eye contact with her and nod.  She stirs something in me that I've suppressed, something I am completely unable to find with my wife.
	“He's the first participant in a program we've launched to pay for the damage you caused at Northwest Fest,” he says.
	“I'm sorry,” she says, but only halfheartedly.  I softly move the bell, which is hidden in my hand, and that shuts her up.  Her pupils lock onto me, and I can see an animal part of her brain shout “HE HAS THE BELL NOW!  WHY DOES HE HAVE THE BELL?”
	“It's called Time With Pacifica,” he says, “and I hope it will reinforce for you what an important part of the Northwest family you are.  People will pay one hundred thousand dollars an hour just to talk to you, and get to know you.”
	“One hundred thousand dollars an hour,” she inadvertently mouths, and I can tell that she knows exactly how little that is, in the grand scheme of things.
	“Mr. Phillips has paid nearly five million dollars just to know you for two days, Pacifica,” he says, and Pacifica tries to smile at me.  Though her disgust with the situation is visible, I still don't think she knows what's coming.  “We're going to the green room.”
	“The green room?” she says, and I can tell that she at least has some idea what this means.
	“Yes, the green room,” he says.  Pacifica and I follow him to the center of Northwest Manor, where there's a miserable-looking little room with peeling green wallpaper, a single, unusually shaped wooden bed, probably from the 60s, and no windows.
	“Have fun!” says Priscilla, and Jesus Christ, I didn't even know she was here, too.  The door slams shut and Pacifica and I are alone.  It's a very large door, and I realize that the room is probably soundproof.  I can't hear footsteps trailing away, at least.
	“What's going on?” asks Pacifica.  I put a hand on each of her shoulders and pull her head up against my chest.  She already knows not to resist, so I suppose she already has some idea of what's going on.
	“I've paid four point eight million dollars for forty eight hours of your time, little Miss Northwest,” I say.  “A paltry sum.  There is no supervision whatsoever.  You will do as I say.”
	“Why?” she says.
	“Your parents sold you,” I say.  “That's just what happens to little girls who fall from grace.”  I begin to fidget with the belt on her hot pink dress.  “I'm going to take off your clothes, now.  No time for clothes during Time With Pacifica.  What would be the point of that?”  Soon I've stripped her bare, except for her golden earrings, and she hasn't said a word, only whimpered.  I am dissatisfied with this.  With one hand I begin to penetrate her tiny vagina, and even rub her virgin clit to truly confuse her.  With the other I summon the bell that her father gave me.  “Tell me about the bell, Pacifica.  Why does it hurt?  What does it make you feel?”  She stutters to respond.
	“I can barely describe it,” she says, moaning involuntarily through her speech.  “It, it makes me remember something, something I can barely remember.  I was – a child when they did it, when they – they made me respond to the bell.  It hurt a lot.  There was electricity, and there were needles, and I think I was naked like I am now.”
	“Well,” I say, “you're going to learn about the other thing people do naked today.”  I make sure to ring the bell just as she hits her first orgasm.  The look on her face alone is worth the four point eight million dollars.  Her body as a whole convulses in a gorgeous mess.  I love blondes and I love nymphets.  This is a match made in heaven.  I wonder if I could drop a billion or so and take her off Preston's hands entirely?  We could stage her being kidnapped and murdered so no one would look for her; it'd be great.
	The rest of the evening is essentially perfect, full of base delights.  I make her pose for a few photographs to keep on my phone.  I make her lie on the floor, and then I shit on her tiny barely-developed boobs (it's tit fertilizer!) and make her eat it without using her hands.  Finally I fuck her (vaginally, of course; I'll probably try anal tomorrow), and I'm fairly certain that she's a virgin, because she has no idea what to do.  I'd like to think that I successfully fertilize her, though of course I know that Preston will have the embryo ejected within the week.
	At this point I'm rather tuckered out, so I retire to the bed.  The mattress is circular, but the base is a much larger triangular wooden block.  I'd normally call it tacky, but at the moment I don't feel like criticizing it.
	“Come to bed, Pacifica,” I say.
	With my eagle-like hearing, I can sense that she mutters “Dipper” under her breath before she comes to join me.
	“Who's Dipper?” I say, and my contempt is audible and perhaps tangible.  “Who is that?  Is that some nigger friend of yours you always wanted to fuck?  He isn't here now, sweetie.  You're my bitch, and no one can save you from that.  No one even cares enough about you to try.”  She turns rebellious, and looks straight into my soul.
	“Dipper does,” she says, quietly.  My fist slams into her eye and her tune changes.  I hope the Northwests won't mind – no, now that I think about it, they'd probably be more upset with their daughter for provoking it; I'm fine.  I ring the bell and grasp her close.
	“Sweet dreams,” I say, and the artificial light of the room just stays on, but we both drift to sleep, her in my tight-gripping arms.

***

	I awaken to a ghastly sight.  I am gazing up at Pacifica, and I am unable to move.  I've been restrained, somehow, to the bed.  Tied.  Pacifica is missing clumps of hair – she must have torn out her hair to tie me to the bed.  I've never seen such ingenuity in my life, but of course I'm steaming with anger – and terror, admittedly, mostly terror.  Pacifica is grinning at me, and it's a wicked, malevolent grin; her teeth all individually shine on me.  She's wearing her panties again, but they're on her head, as some kind of mask.  She doesn't look like herself at all.
	“Glad you could join the party, Norby!” she says, in a shrill, sing-song voice, and I realize that she's not, in fact, herself at all.  Years ago I read that abused children can develop multiple personality disorder.  That must have happened here.  I must be witnessing some alternate persona of Pacifica.  Perhaps the bell could save me, and revert her to the Pacifica I know – but no, of course, she's already taken the bell.  In fact, she's taken all of my clothes.  I'm completely naked.
	“What's going on, Pacifica?” I say, meekly.
	“Pacifica isn't in control today, Norbers,” she says.  Aha!  My theory was correct!  “Name's Bill.  Bill Cipher.  Dream demon.”
	“Well, Bill, can you maybe bring Pacifica back?” I ask.  It's worth a shot.
	“No can do, fatso!” she says.  I'm getting very angry, now.  “I'm here to stay.  Pacifica is in here, too, though.  I decided to let her stay in her body to watch.  It just wouldn't be fun if we didn't have an audience, would it?  And I'm getting the impression you're not taking this very seriously.  Actual demon Bill Cipher here, possessing this girl.”  She stuck the littlest finger on her left hand in her mouth, and bit it off without a second thought, and spit it back into her palm.  Then she laughed.  She fucking laughed.  “I love human pain!  Really can't get enough of it!”  Something is very wrong, here.
	“How and why did you possess Pacifica Northwest?” I ask.  Maybe this demon business is real, after all.  I know that there are real supernatural phenomena in our world; the multiple personalities explanation just seemed more plausible at first.
	“She called out for help in her dreams,” Pacifica, or Bill, or whoever, says.  “I saw and offered to help.  Turns out she'd rather give her body to me than to you.  Now, let's play a game called 'You bite your left pinky off too or I bite your dick off an inch at a time'!”.  This is not what I paid four point eight million dollars for.  “And I'm going to be honest with you.  That's, like, three bites.”  I want to punch something, but I want to keep my genitalia intact more.
	“Don't you need to untie me for me to do that?” I say.
	“I need to untie one of your arms, buster,” says Bill through Pacifica.  “Don't get any bright ideas about escaping.”  It unties my left arm – using strange, unnatural movements to do so – and guides my hand to my mouth with incredible strength.  “Do it.”  It's difficult, but I manage to bite my finger off before the weird creature with Pacifica's body gets its teeth around my penis.  I immediately scream, and it just laughs and laughs.
	“I don't know if I like the crunch or the scream better!” it says.  “Oh, who am I kidding – definitely the scream!  Now, I'm trying out human sexuality, because that seems like something I should explore at least one before I exterminate all of you.  I think I'll do that lamp over there.”  It continues to babble using a warped, disobedient form of Pacifica's voice, as it removes a lightbulb from a nearby lamp and sticks the pole far, far into Pacifica's vagina – surely stretching it out horribly.  The Northwests aren't going to be happy about this.  Maybe their problem was just that their daughter was prone to possession all along?  I feel nauseous.
	“Yeah, that's pretty great,” it finally says, wrenching itself off of the lamp - I think I see blood; it's torn Pacifica's vagina to shreds.  “You really ought to try it!”  I see the little possessed blonde girl march towards me, lamp in hand, and I know that it's going straight through my colon.  It briefly actually satisfies my prostate, but then it continues, tearing into my intestines and making my demise a matter of time.  “I'd rip your heart out, 'cuz that sounds fun right now, but why hasten the inevitable?  Fast deaths are such a buzzkill.”  I've lost all ability to speak at this point.  The thing wearing Pacifica just watches me over the following hours as I expire.