The whimsical part of my mind, the one I keep hidden, whispers that the old fears of garage biotechnology leading to a biowarfare pandemonium wouldn't have been so bad.

I ignore it as much as anybody could while their brain is being stormed by an endorphine rush triggered by complex molecules synthesized from illegally reengineered organisms. I'm good at that.

_Practice_, says my wife. _Tolerance_, snickers the voice.

I spit the piece of enhanced chocolate and pull the gun the idiot twenty-something didn't look for.

"DEA," I say, smiling. That's my second favorite part.