A week after sending the e-mail, I walked into the lobby of the HollywoodRoosevelt Hotel. I wore a blue wool sweater that was so soft and thin itlooked like cotton, black pants with laces running up the sides, and shoesthat gave me a couple extra inches in height. My pockets bulged with thesupplies Mystery had instructed every student to bring: a pen, a notepad, apack of gum, and condoms.I spotted Mystery instantly. He was seated regally in a Victorian armchair,with a smug, I-just-bench-pressed-the-world smile on his face. Hewore a casual, loose-fitting blue-black suit; a small, pointed labret piercingwagged from his chin; and his nails were painted jet black. He wasn't necessarilyattractive, but he was charismatic—tall and thin, with long chestnuthair, high cheekbones, and a bloodless pallor. He looked like acomputer geek who'd been bitten by a vampire and was midway throughhis transformation.Next to him was a shorter, intense-looking character who introducedhimself as Mystery's wing, Sin. He wore a form-fitting black crew neck shirt,and his hair was pitch black and gelled straight back. He had the complexion,however, of a man whose natural hair color is red.I was the first student to arrive."What's your top score?" Sin leaned in and asked as I sat down. Theywere already assessing me, trying to figure out if I was in possession of athing called game."My top score?""Yeah, how many girls have you been with?""Urn, somewhere around seven," I told them."Somewhere around seven?" Sin pressed."Six," I confessed.Sin ranked in the sixties, Mystery in the hundreds. I looked at them inwonder: These were the pickup artists whose exploits I'd been following soavidly online for months. They were another class of being: They had themagic pill, the solution to the inertia and frustration that has plagued the
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