Dunloe Ingredients, Inc. may be a fictional 'individual', but it is a very real legal device to limit its personal liabilities should it harm others. Like, for instance, Dunloe's appetite enhancers having created millions of overweight Americans.

        Monday, January 11, 1999.

        Ian is on the privately-owned island of Banba, a Caribbean paradise. It's a perfect place for jetsetters to play in private. In the beautiful hills above Banba Bay, one can dine in outdoor terrace restaurants where the night air, the food, and the drinks stay at precisely the right temperature. And the breezes do not intrude.

        Over the years, Dunloe's upper executives have acquired most of the island by quietly buying it piece by piece. They eventually gave it its present name. Banbanese police brass know that their ultra-rich residents prefer to be very private.

        Dunloe management who have percolated to the top of the pyramid because of their wealth addiction, power addiction, and work addiction, are rewarded with more wealth: higher salaries, more power, higher positions in the corporation, and more work. Over time and by slow operations, the top of the pyramid has acquired an addictive-compulsive personality as the less addicted are let go and the more addicted are promoted. Now the top floats above and is surrounded with an aura of protection and secrecy.

        For those here on vacation, today is "Firstday", as they say in Banba. Either your vacation begins on it, or a new week of it does, so there seems an eternity left before you have to go back to reality. It's a great excuse for an extra drink or to command a steel-drum band to play another song.

        For the elite, however, every day is Firstday. Ian knows that his vacation will be over when, more or less, he wants to play in his appetite lab again. He is free as only the wealthy can be. Especially if one's also got a Ph. D. He has been well prepared by academe for a life of very pleasurable work and extremely pleasing play. Ian hopes on this trip that his creativity will be bolstered by the sun and he'll make some progress on the problem of how to eliminate the overweight side effect of Dunloe's appetite enhancers.

        It's 5pm or so. The temperature is 82°, and it's sunny, dry, and wonderful. Ian is at Envoy, a beautiful outdoor restaurant in the hills. The place is mostly for jetsetters and their beautiful company.

        He notices two beauties at another table. He sips his drink, looks at his menu, then eyes the two again. One is blonde, the other brunette. He fantasizes them together, the darker one dominating. His fantasy is ended by the arrival of his Dry Irish Manhattan, straight up.

        The drink is a mix of three parts Irish whiskey, one part vermouth, and a half-splash of Irish sparkling water. 'Dry' refers to unsweetened vermouth. 'Straight up' means no ice. To be made truly correctly, the final product must be neither shaken nor stirred. But shaking might just appear in the early stages of production. The first-stage mix is achieved first merely by the order of pouring of second liquid into first, and then the third into the new combination. But there is much still to be done, and much to happen. 

        So to begin with, one shot of Vermouth goes into a martini mixing container containing four ice cubes. (Ice is used in the making, but doesn't appear in the final drink.) The ice cubes have already been in the container for a minute. Then three shots of Bushmill's regular follow. Then occurs two flicks of the maker's wrists. After that, the whiskey and melting ice will drift the vermouth sea. But the sudden dive-in and bubbling action of the sparkling splash with complete the mix.] 

        And, of course, it must finally be served in a glass with a stem. The purpose of the stem is to enable one to hold the drink without one's fingers warming the drink. (Surprisingly few wine drinkers know this.)

        His drink is his creation, though he knows he cannot be the only one in the world to have thought of it. Yet, he always has to describe it to waiters and bartenders who don't know him, and he wonders why it is not a more popular drink given the quality of Irish whiskey. The Irish started the world's first commercial distillery. The word whiskey comes from the Irish word 'fuisce' (pr. fiss-kih).

        His splendid drink fuels a charge within him. Lust, lust for power, and the power of alcohol are a triple play that few can resist once they get involved.

        He fantasizes them together again, this time with him dominating them both, though one much more than the other. But he stops himself. Blondey there has probably never been with two, thinks he. He sips slowly and catches the end of a glance. He wants to make her limp and grateful in his arms, obedient to his every wish.

        "Would you like to order sir?"

        He imagines Brunette to be more dominant, and he knows from experience that he will derive the greatest pleasure from the more submissive one.

        "Oh." Ian is jolted back to the virtual reality of the Envoy.

        Here, one dines under utopian conditions. The deep blue sky is sprinkled with a few fair-weather clouds that don't move. Diners watch mountains cascade into the sea not through glass but between red marble pillars imported from some far-away place. There are no bothersome insects at all. The food, prepared by a world-class chef, is presented as a painting that goes with the upholstery of the lush hills. And last but not least, at Envoy, waiters do what they are supposed to do: wait. You don't wait for them.

        "Uh, no, not yet. See if the ladies will have a drink," as he nods toward them.

        "Yes sir."

        The discrete waiter does not go directly to their table. He tends to other business momentarily and then arrives from another direction.

        Ian sips as he watches the little scene of which he is now producer/director. Waiter arrives, leans over. The ivory linen towel on his arm drapes at the edge of the table. Ian imagines Blonde's dress dropping slowly. The waiter delivers Ian's offer, his eyes diverting theirs toward his table. They look at each other. Waiter waits. The two smile and order two Banba Breezes. (It's just the usual rum and coke, but the coke is diet re-sweetened with a squeeze of an orange slice and diluted with a splash of Killarney Sparkling Water. It's supposedly a healthier drink this way.)

        He returns to his menu. He'll wait five minutes for the alcohol to flow through them and begin exert its power. Once that happens, they may be amenable to his next communication.

        The waiter sees that Ian is looking more seriously at his menu. It features two trios this evening. He moves to the table.

        "What is this Paté Foix a Trois ?"

        The waiter explains.

        "I see. I'll need a little more time."

        "Yes, sir. I can have the chef..."

        "That won't be necessary, thank you."

        He sees that the two's conversation is more animated now. The Breezes are freeing the life forces in their chakras.

        "Waiter?"

        "Sir?" arriving in a whisper.

        "Would it be appropriate to invite the ladies to dinner?"

        "Yes sir." He glides away, and again tends to another matter before arriving from another direction.

        The two confer. "I don't know, I guess it's okay. Do you think he has a friend?" asks Blonde.

        They accept. Waiter sails off.

        "The ladies accept, sir."

        "Very good. I have to make a phone call. I'll return to their table."

        "Yes sir," grateful that the logistics of the transfer have been simplified.

        Ian goes to the lobby and dials his mobile videophone. At the beep he leaves a message that he'll be out on his boat tonight.

        He arrives at the Two's table. Three drinks have arrived just ahead of him.

        "Hello," he says in a dark-haired voice. "Martinis, I see."

        A pause. "What's yours?" asks Blonde as a secretary might ask a boss.

        "A dry Irish Manhattan."

        "What's that?"

        "Irish whiskey and vermouth." The ice is broken.

        "I've never heard of it."

        "Well, I thought it up, but others must have as well."

        "What does it taste like?"

        "Try it," and pushes it toward her.

        Blonde picks it up by holding it near its rim. Her fingers are long and lovely. A tight ring surrounds the middle finger of her right hand. She sips ever so slightly.

        "One should hold a stem glass by its stem so that one's fingers don't warm the drink," he says. There is just the slightest firmness in his voice.

        "Oh." She puts it down and picks it up properly. She sips it. "Mmmm, it's very nice. Very smooth. It's like a martini, isn't it?" she asks hoping she hasn't asked a dumb question.    

        "Yes, it is indeed a martini. A big difference is the glass. A martini glass, as you can see, is very wide at its rim, the Manhattan glass is not." She glances at her glass.

        "Here on business?" he asks both.

        "Vacation," they answer in accidental unison. They all laugh a little.

        Waiter enters. "Will you be having dinner?"

        Ian answers, "Yes, I hope so," eyeing his guests.

        The Two smile and turn to their menus while waiter waits. Ian looks at the Two. Blonde is lovliest in his mind, perhaps because her body language signals vulnerability. She has a ring on her middle finger. He has often wondered if it signifies something sexual--her primary lover perhaps.

        "What is Paté Foix a Trois ?" asks Brunette.

        The waiter explains, and waits.

        The Two consider ordering it based not on how it might taste but on how demurely it may be eaten. It must be safe from slips. Ian considers how near its taste will be to basic foods like meat and fish.

        "Where are you from?" he asks Blonde.

        "New York."

        The waiter appears and sees the ladies' nearly-empty glasses. "Would you like me to freshen your drinks?"

        "I'll have what he's having," says Blonde.

        "I'm glad you like my drink."

        "You're on vacation?" she asks.

        "Well, yes."

        "How long?"

        "I don't know yet."

        "Oh that's great. I wish I could stay here forever."

        "This is Firstday for you?"

        "Uh, yes, but it's my second Firstday."

        "What do you do?"

        "I'm a secretary for a brokerage firm."

        "Oh? Which one?"

        "Carol Finch. We specialize in women's investments."

        "What are women's investments?"

        "Cosmetic companies with cruelty-free products, green corporations, clothing. There are lots of them. We have men customers too," smiling. Her smile reveals vulnerability. Ian sees that she'd never be good at the hard sell.

        "You should be a broker," he lies.

        "Thanks, I hope to be. I'm going to night school. The stock market is the best long-term investment. Better than gold or real estate."

        "I don't invest in the stock market," replies Ian.

        Waiter returns with Blonde's Manhattan. She sips it. Will he drop her off and go with me?

        They have been at the Envoy for nearly an hour and still have not ordered dinner. The alcohol is having an easy time leaving their empty stomachs.

        "Shall we order?" asks Brunette.

        "I don't know what I want," he says to her.

        "What about the Paté?"

        "Your French is very good. You've been to France, I take it."

        "Yes."

        Ian decides to hint at the issue. "A trois means 'for three,' doesn't it?"

        "Yes." Your French is good." She glances at Blonde who does not get the point.

        "Shall we try it? We might like it," says Brunette

        "Yes," say Ian and Blonde as their eyes meet. Ian wants her even more.

        "I could have my driver take us somewhere else," he offers.

        "Your driver?" asks Blonde secretarily.

        "Yes. I have one when I'm on vacation. It's the 'only way to go,' as they say in your country."

        "We do need to eat," says Brunette, but not in a way to discourage leaving.

        "I can arrange for something on my boat," he says.

        "Your boat? My, my," says Blonde.

        "I've been fortunate," is his standard reply.

        She is now at a crossroads, one of many to come. The road with Ian seems very exciting. She wonders again if she'll be alone with him as she sips the end of her drink.

        Brunette knows she's the one to act. "Frankly, there's nothing on the menu that interests me."

        "I agree," says he.

        They look at Blonde. "It's okay by me."

        "Waiter? Check, please." Ian takes his credit card out of his lapel pocket.

        "Director Card," notices Blonde.

        Ian smiles. "I'll order some food to be delivered to the boat. My driver will be at the front entrance. It's the Jaguar. See you in two minutes, maybe three," as he smiles at Brunette.

        He pays the separate checks with a hefty tip--"Thank you, SIR."

        The car is at the entrance canopy, the Two in the back seat. Ian gets in and sits on the fold-out seat. "The Marina," to the driver.

        The car floats gently down the lush hills. He can smell the Two now. Their fragrances mix with those of the hills.

        "What do you do? asks Blonde.

        "I direct a scientific research institute."

        "What kind of research?"

        "Mostly food science."

       Their conversation is sporadic for the next few minutes. They comment on the beauty of the hills around Banba Bay until the Marina floats into view.

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