St. Remedius Medical College: "The Repercussions of the Great Soda Wars of 1997"

Transformation, Hyperevolution, Propaganda, and Cola Extract

(Who was St. Remedius? And why is a medical college named after him?)

Sidenote: The back history on the Metaphysics department of St. Remedius Medical College is wildly incomplete without noting its discovery and application of transformative, reductionary, decompositionary, and fermentive magic starting at the end of the 19th Century. Most popular accounts and far too many thaumaturgic textbooks make note of magic backgrounds and accumulations, some tied to specific places and objects and others wafting slowly across the cosmos, and how Earth’s reserves of magical energy wax and wane based on use and cosmic replenishment. However, just as deposits of carbon-based fossils such as oil and coal are dependent upon specific preservation conditions that prevented the resources from being oxidized, either by free oxygen in the atmosphere or with the help of bacterial or metazoic metabolism, most accumulations of cosmic magic survive because of specific conditions preventing them from being utilized. These popular accounts and textbooks may mention that large displays of thaumaturgy simply did not exist before approximately 1000 CE, mostly involving the development and utilization of spells that tapped into these often ancient reserves. That lack of understanding caused an explosion of magic use and refinement never before seen on this planet, with little to no understanding the specifics of magic storage and sequestration until after everything simply ran out in the middle of the Great Exhibition in England in 1851. The repetrifaction of the dinosaurs on display was a tragedy, but obviously eclipsed by the deaths of thousands when the forces that levitated the famed Hanging Gardens of Cheshire sputtered and darkened, causing the whole structure to fall over a kilometer to the earth below, with additional disasters occurring through that day as the planet rotated.

The main theme of St. Remedius research into magical resources and reserves was not simply learning how to store magical energy, but that the energy was changed in form based on its use. Undetectable other than by patterns caused by their consumption, truly alien forces and entities used magic in various forms, excreting the equivalent of metabolites which were then used by other forces and entities, much like some bacteria turning starches to sugars, others turning the sugars into alcohol, and yet others consuming alcohol and converting it into acetic acid. Just as there was a significant life cycle between potatoes and vodka, grapes and champagne, and chardonnay and salad dressing, understanding the various decompositional processes and consumption strategies of magic and the uses for the end products of each stage. This led to a massive renaissance of thaumaturgy with the publication of the classic text The Magic Cycle in 1921, and the concepts and theories presented therein, with a few modifications and updates based on further discoveries, are still used today. The side industries and the patents generated by the concepts in The Magic Cycle, particularly vitrified magic nodes for storage and future use and the effervescence disciplines that allowed Earth-based interstellar teleportation, were a major source of revenues for St. Remedius all the way to its disappearance, and continued to influence world culture and industry well into the 31st Century.

As has been a theme through history, information itself is rarely dangerous, but the application of information leads to figurative and literal explosions. At many times in human history, a new discovery’s effects were aggravated and exacerbated by seemingly unrelated research coming from often obscure resources, but probably the best example in the modern era came from what business analysts referred to as “The Great Soda Wars of 1997.”

The last decade of the Twentieth Century already accumulated a century’s worth of cultural atrocities, but the one with the greatest repercussions involved soft drinks. The 1990s were the great age of mediocrity repackaged as innovation, with big manufacturers pumping out overhyped flavored water such as Fruitopia, Snapple, Surge, and Josta, but the turning point came with the release of the “textually enhanced alternative beverage” Orbitz in 1997. Taking a cue from the Jones Soda Holiday Packs of Brussel sprout and turkey gravy soda, it was only a matter of time before a soft drink manufacturer decided “you know, what the world needs is a drink that’s also a game of Russian roulette,” discovered that Beer Hunter wasn’t actually copyrighted, and put it into a bottle.

Nertz Soda combined soft drinks, games of chance, and stupid human tricks in one 12-ounce serving, taking advantage of the factors that allowed some humans to taste cilantro and others to taste only soap. Taking advantage of then-new developments in gene mapping, each of Nertz’s six flavors targeted a different smell-receptor gene cluster that affected the recipient’s attraction or aversion to a particular flavor. To a lucky genetic lottery winner, a particular flavor was nearly intoxicating; to everyone else, it was beyond disgusting. Only about one percent of the total human population was unable to drink all six flavors, but everyone else could appreciate at least one of the selections, with about ten percent of the general population enjoying three or more. Not only did this ensure extreme loyalty for each flavor, but the parent company, Sub-Atomic Bomb Sodas, made additional sales with new drinkers as they attempted to ascertain which sodas gave a gustatory delight and which ones merely induced vomiting. In the days before streaming video, this led to “chug parties,” with high school and college students attempting to down an entire can or bottle before the effects kicked in, mixing different flavors, and putting cans or bottles in paper bags to hide the labels before passing them out randomly.

Subsequent responses to Nertz weren’t merely to cash in on the potential grossout factor. Fans of particular Nertz flavors became tribes and the tribes became movements, with clubs and fairs allowing admission based on whether entrants could handle Boysenberry or Finger Lime, with dating services following suit. The Austin-regional bottler Infrapop combined one of the gene cluster stimulators with durian flavoring to make “24 Hours of Soda,” where one can or bottle within a 12-pack gave an extra-special surprise to multiple gene carriers. it was a matter of time before more came out to connect to particular psionic or magical proclivities, with Brainburn becoming the first augmented soft drink promising to stimulate psychic potential among those with that particular gene. That drink heralded the ongoing explosion of “brain drinks,” including ones with encoded DNA for special gene expression, nanobots for microscopic repair in extreme sports enthusiasts, and cantrips for improved balance, heightened reflexes, and gecko-like adhesion to walls and ceilings.

Obviously, not all of these sodas were successes, financially or otherwise. A soda line branded to appeal to those with Neandertal, Denisovian, or Menashan ancestry had the unnerving side effect of stimulating gene clusters that allowed detection of pheromones from those hominin species, leading to unfortunate responses at art gallery open houses, physics debates, and monster truck rallies respectively. Bogg Pop had a similar effect upon those with distant ancestry from multiple species of still-extant fae, leading to “weehoodoos” stalking fairy rings and sacred labyrinths in the hopes of joining chairuch or Monabulan societies that had no time for dilettantes. The Transhumanist League subsidized a soda intended to “ease human life toward the Singularity,” best reviewed as “Now I know what Bruce Sterling’s butthole tastes like without experiencing it firsthand.” Worst of all, the Hypermutationist Church offered a soda “promising peace and understanding for the cost of a Big Gulp,” but the soda sparked severe cravings among preteens…for Hypermutationist flesh.

With these sodas’ successes came critics, particularly those who argued that the gene cluster stimulants could be used for discrimination against sensitive ethnic groups, ingredients added to facilitate consumer tracking by sinister government entities or even more sinister advertising companies, or the cantrip augments could be used for crime. Others noted the environmental cost: Boohickey Soda, an augmented soda that put large glowing purple blotches on the drinker’s skin that moved about for the three hours in which it had effect, was such a drain on local magical resources that it soon had to be banned from thaumaturgical storage node centers and emergency care facilities. Still others were rushed to market before proper evaluations of potential effects: Firescale, a fermentation magic byproduct of dragon surgery instrument manufacture, had no ill effects, but left occasional drinkers with the urge to lick their eyeballs clean…and the tongue necessary to do so.

By the end of 1997, the boom in augmented sodas was over. Grocery and convenience stores were overloaded, and the soda wars caused the collapse of at least two drink distributors, with three others bought by Coca-Cola and Pepsi. Certain ingredients became rare, others became nearly nonexistent, and others became so widespread that familiarity bred contempt. Distributor promotional materials in 1998 show the effects of the collapse, including ads for the scheduled release of Brainburn Crystal, which was pulled before production started. The distributor crash led acolytes of specific brands to stockpile reserves for future enjoyment, with some 20-year-old bottles of Nertz Nectarine Xtra selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars through online markets. In most cases, the recipes for the Soda Wars brands were locked up or allowed to disappear with crashed hard drives and factory fires, but many were offered to public domain, and the Retro Soda Festival, running every year in downtown Fort Worth, encourages craft soda makers to revive lost brands and reverse engineer others. This works out especially well for enthusiasts of High One Soda, as the effects wear off after solar eclipses and require regular top-offs, preferably as the base for ice cream floats. (The story of the 2003 Ice Cream Wars, sadly, needs to be the subject for another essay.)

Want to get caught up on the St. Remedius story so far? Check out the main archive. Want more hints as to the history of St. Remedius Medical College? Check out Backstories and Fragments. Want to forget all of that and look at cat pictures from a beast who dreams of his own OnlyFans for his birthday? Check out Mandatory Parker. Questions, concerns, and disgust over generative AI? Check out Contact, Privacy Policy, and AI Policy. And feel free to visit the St. Remedius Medical College Redbubble shop for all of your Mandatory Parker needs.

Great Soda Wars of 1997 soda St. Remedius