Dr. Tod Vasiliev, as his door sign clearly states, is a successful plastic surgeon, known for his relatively fine work on celebrities and upper class housewives. He writes articles in the gutter press and maintains a high profile in high society, frequently seen flamboyantly shaking hands and making smalltalk with politicians and powerful lobbyists. What doesn't fit in the whole picture is the fact that the good doctor works for the cartels, using his legitimate operations as cover for processing Mat's blood and God knows what else.
"Mat, my friend, come in, come in", says the expressive doctor with a charming Russian accent.
He's in his forties but looks rather young for his age. He wears a dark suit and tie, and weird gold ring on his small finger, a testament to his political agenda. His bald head and round glasses make his eccentric smile rather creepy and intimidating.
Mat enters the round office, a bright little hall, with minimal design. The metallic furniture seem rather cold to sit on so he prefers to remain standing.
The doctor opens up a bottle of fine malt scotch and hastily tries to poor some in a couple of shots, with clumsy shaky moves.
"I know you're not supposed to drink alcohol in your condition, my friend, but I don't think the users of our product will mind", explains Dr. Tod.
Mat sighs. "I thought that Russians drunk vodka."
"A drink for peasants! Not for refined people like us", the doctor declares. "Cheers!"
They ritualistically drink the shots. Exquisite!
"Doctor, I wanted to talk to tell you about my symptoms. I haven't seen any improvement."
"But have they become worse?"
"More or less the same", Mat states.
"Then we're fine, my friend! Yes?", says the funny doctor as he prepares his special tools and equipment. "Please, come this way."
Mat is dragged to the back room of the office, a small examination room with extremely high-tech medical machines, monitors and computers.
"You know the drill by now, Mat. But as a professional doctor it is my duty to explain the steps again and again, so as to avoid any future misunderstandings or, God forbid, any mistakes. You will sit here for the next three hours, your blood will run through a tube into the filtration device, which I'm not supposed to own by the way, and then it will separate the product from your blood. I will be monitoring your vitals and also take blood samples to try and find a more effective treatment for your side effects. Make no mistake, my friend, this procedure applies a great deal of stress on your body and my job is to make the necessary adjustments so it can withstand it all."
Mat frowns at the thought of being a lab rat for steroid smuggling. "So what happens to the product when you extract it from my blood?"
The doctor laughs. "A courier picks it up and I suppose it is processed at a lab elsewhere. I don't really care what they do, I just do this for the right contacts, if you know what I truly mean, my friend."
"I know what you mean, doctor", says Mat.
"Now, let us begin", says the doctor with an unsuitable enthusiasm for a grim procedure.
During the unpleasant three hours, Mat can swear he's having a deja vu of this day. Since he's talked with Hector, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about her.
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