Beast Machine

by Brad McKinniss

  “I’m sorry, Belinda, I can’t – I have work!” He adjusted his tie under his miner’s uniform and brushed a small amount of debris off his shoulders. “I work to provide for you.”

  “Fine,” said the woman angrily. She took a drag of her cigarette before saying, “How would I’s be able to afford dat filter ting, anyhow?” Smoke billowed out her nostrils. “Somethin’ like dat can’t be cheap. Ex-specially if it works.”

  Mandrake stopped for a moment to contemplate the topic then said, “I’m sure the new owner, Mr. Obelis, would pay for it. I’ve never met the man, but he’s already been the most generous person to me in my life. I’ll broach the subject today at work!” Mandrake began to hum a delightful tune, the same one he was singing moments ago.

  “Broach? What the fuck? Like one of dem pin things?” said the woman, clearly confused. She took another drag of her cigarette. She blew the smoke directly at Mandrake. Her teeth were caramel colored and snot slowly began to ooze out her right nostril, a very similar look that pre-Carda Implant Mandrake wore.

  “It means: I’ll ask my boss about it! Love you, honey, do something beautiful with your day!” said Mandrake. He kissed her on the forehead and left the trailer. She shook with disgust and spit a disgustingly large loogie onto the floor.

  “Fucking prick,” said the woman. “Won’t even drive th’ damn car anymore otha’wise he might hurt th’ en-viro-ment,” she said mockingly. “Hope he gets syphilis again from that skank two trailers over.”

  Chapter 27

  BIOME

  Hitbear exited the cement truck slowly. “Been a long time since I’ve driven, well, anything,” he said. “Didn’t do too shabby, I’d say.” He knocked on the truck with his metal paw. Tink, tink, tink! “These shaded windows did amazing. Didn’t have to worry about looky-loos at all!”

  Hitbear, Owlbert and Tubman were entrusted by Gora to go to the exact location the group had decided upon: 40.419 N and 123.184 W – a location north of Weaverville, California. The beasts would begin the process of digging a hole to push Dr. Borehole into once they had arrived at the location. The cement truck also needed to be covered by brush or at least concealed enough to not spook Dr. Borehole.

  “Remember, when you three get to the coordinates, you must avoid contact with any human being,” Gora had told the group. “Not only would it compromise this mission, but it would compromise all of our lives. Don’t mess it up.”

  “Where should we dig the hole?” asked Tubman as she hopped out of the cement truck. She then pantomimed rolling up her sleeves before realizing she had no sleeves to roll up. “Damn it, I still need to get used to this fur-body.” She adjusted her bandana instead to compensate for having no sleeves.

  “Right here is a decent opening with minimal debris, and the truck appears to be able to squeeze through these trees,” said Hitbear pointing. “The ‘decent opening’ is the most viable spot for the hole, I believe, as there is little to no flora or boulder-sized rocks that would make the digging extraordinarily difficult.” Hitbear could potentially move the rocks, but there wasn’t enough time to test the theory out.

  “Ja, I agree,” relayed Owlbert. “I vill fly up zee tree here und keep ein eye out for humans und mountain lions!” Owlbert flew up atop the nearest tree, giving him a great vantage point to keep an eye out against interlopers, and a wonderful view of California’s beautiful forests.

  “Aren’t you going to help dig?!” shouted Hitbear at his bird compatriot.

  “Nein; I’m ein owl,” shouted back Owlbert. “I don’t have ein proper parts to dig ein hole!” He turned his attention back to looking out for any threats and soaking in the California sun.

  “Stupid asshole,” mumbled Hitbear. “Okay, bunny, let’s get started shall we?”

  “Yup, let’s get done so we can relax,” replied Tubman. “Where are the shovels?”

  “Shovels…?” said Hitbear meekly. “What shovels?” He looked around as if someone else would show up with the shovels.

  Tubman hit her face softly with her paws. “The shovels you were supposed to bring along from the lab. Gora told you several times about the shovels!”

  “Bullshit, that wasn’t my job!” said Hitbear.

  “Yes, bear, it was your job, you fucking idiot,” yelled Tubman back at the behemoth bear. She was smaller than the average bear cub and Hitbear was larger than the average brown bear, but Tubman was not scared of him. Tubman made sure to stand her ground in this life, like in her past life. No one was going to protect her but herself.

  “URGH,” screamed Hitbear loudly, scaring birds in a nearby tree. Owlbert giggled from above. “Fine, whatever, I’ll just dig this hole. I’m the only one strong enough for this shit anyhow.”

  “Oh, really?” said Tubman. “I can dig a hole better than you.”

  “Bwaha!” laughed Hitbear. He slapped his belly. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in the past century. There’s no way you can dig a hole even two feet deep!”

  “You want to put a wager on it?”

  Hitbear smiled. “Of course I do, what’s the wager?”

  “If I can dig a hole quicker than you then I get to plan the next mission.”

  “Deal. No skin off my back.”

  “…and I get to pick what food we all eat for the next week.”

  “Um, I guess that’s fine, but no vegetables!”

  Tubman laughed menacingly, “Oh, that’s all we’re going to get, fuzzball.”

  “What do I win?”

  Tubman stared off into the distant. “Hmm. How about you win… you get to sleep on Gora’s bed, while she has to sleep on the floor!”

  “Deal!” said Hitbear excitedly. “You know Gora has specifications for the size of the hole, right?”

  “No, but let’s hear them. It shouldn’t matter.”

  “It must be at least seven feet deep and four feet across,” said Hitbear. Of course, there was no such requirement as Gora had told them to “build it deep enough” so Dr. Borehole could not escape.

  “That’s, uh,” stuttered Tubman, “fine. It’s fine. I’ve done more difficult things in my human life than dig some silly hole.” She smiled faintly. “Wait, how the hell can you remember the size of the hole we’re supposed to dig but forget the damn shovels?”

  Hitbear shrugged. “I have hard time remembering certain things.”

  The two scurried to the open area and were closely positioned near one another. Tubman situated herself in the most comfortable position for her body and began to slowly paw at the ground. The dirt was soft where she was digging, but wouldn’t reveal that fact to her larger companion. She’d take any advantage she could get.

  The hole she was slowly digging was a foot and a half deep at best, and the width of the hole was barely a foot. It was a paltry hole, but still impressive for an animal her size.

  Hitbear, on the other hand, was violently thrashing at the ground, using his metal paw and natural paw to move as much earth as he could. His metal claw would often hit subterranean rocks and would send the rocks flying. Kuh-chink, Kuh-chink, Kuh-chink went his claw as it hit the rocks. He was moving at such a furious pace that he was four feet deep in mere minutes, not to mention that the hole was five feet across as well. His pace was furious but tiring; he took a break to find a nearby stream to quench the thirst he had worked up.

  Owlbert peered down at his companions. “Time for ein nap,” said the bird beast. He saw no visible threats along the tree line and couldn’t hear anything discerning. He nestled his body up against the tree on a healthy-sized branch and fell asleep.

  -----

  Gora had finally reached the Bay Area, where Dr. Bridget Borehole worked. The building Dr. Borehole worked in was in the city of San Rafael, a short drive north of San Francisco. This building was not an opulent monument, like Dr. Spotila’s arrogant building, but it still stood several stories tall. It was flanked by several small deciduous trees and a litany of posies, tulips and geraniums; the building was as co
lorful as Dr. Spotila’s was expensive. Each window facing the passing street was a different tint color: some were blue, a few were lime green, others were amber colored, and more were red.

  A stone sign bearing Dr. Borehole, and her colleagues’ unimportant names, stood in front of the building’s entrance. Gora wondered if those colleagues had the same opinions on climate change that Dr. Borehole held.

  Gora had been driving a dumpy, beat-up rental for the trip down to the Bay Area. It was the only rental that had dark enough tinted windows and was an automatic. She stepped out of the dumpy rental and stretched her back, legs and neck. Crack, crack, craaaacckkk went Gora’s body loudly. “That was fantastic,” said Gora in quiet elation, followed by a lengthy yawn. Then she remembered a necessary part of the plan she had forgotten to complete.

  She was supposed to talk to Dr. Borehole over the phone to set up a meeting. Now she was at the facility unannounced and Dr. Borehole might not even be here.

  “Fuck,” said Gora. She slid back into the car and began to frantically fix her hair, which was already put in a ponytail. She removed the ponytail and shook her fingers through her dark brown hair. “I need to make a good impression, especially after that bitch spread those lies!”

  She put her hair in the nicest bun she could and added a small amount of concealer to blotchy parts of her face. Gora liked getting herself dolled up but never was the best at it. “This would suffice,” she thought. She already had extra hair falling out of her bun and the concealer was painfully obviously covering acne as it was a different, darker color than her skin tone.

  It was the afternoon, so most of Dr. Borehole’s colleagues were working or taking a late lunch as the parking lot was half-filled. “She better not be at lunch.” Gora took a final look in her overhead mirror and exited her vehicle. She let out a nervous fart as she shut the door of the rental car. “Ugh.”

  She made her way to the entrance of the colorful building and pulled open the glass door. She was immediately in the lobby. Gora was greeted by a young male secretary in a white dress shirt and green tie.

  “Hi, my name is Griff!” said the young man cheerfully. “Welcome to Borehole Institute of Meteorology Evaluators or BIOME for short. What can I help you with?”

  Gora was impressed by the young man’s eagerness. “Hi, Griff,” said Gora. “I need to talk to Doctor Bridget Borehole! The head of the, uh, institute. Institute of biomes, erm, I mean, this institute. Which is called BIOME. ” She stepped close to Griff’s desk and relaxed her hands atop the desk, doing her best to disguise her anxiety. “Can I see her?”

  “I’m sorry, but Doctor Borehole is in meetings all day!” Griff smiled at Gora. He had wonderfully bright, white teeth. They were nearly too bright. “Must be fake teeth,” thought Gora. Griff laced his fingers together and put them behind his head revealing a rather taut chest that could be seen through the white dress shirt. Gora was entranced by his green tie instead of his pectorals, however, which seemed to radiate the same amount of friendliness that Griff’s teeth did.

  “Could you tell her it’s an emergency? I’m an old friend.” Gora tried to look as desperate as possible. Her bun, almost on cue, started to unfurl to look messier. She tried to cry but only made her face red in the attempt. Her eyes began to twitch as well. Griff gave her a look of befuddlement and sat up straight in his chair.

  “Hm,” said Griff. He adjusted his tie and stroked back his medium length hair. “I’ll see what I can do, just for you! Especially since your face is all blotchy!” He winked charmingly at Gora, causing her to forget his last comment. She smiled and kicked up her left foot. Griff picked up his office phone and hit speed dial #1.

  Gora kept her smile up as long as she could but the smile faded into a look of uneasiness. She wasn’t used to smiling for so long, especially during a situation such as this. It was making her queasy. The person Griff was calling answered the phone after four rings.

  “Hi there, Sheila,” said Griff happily into the phone. “I’m here with, uh, what’s your name, miss?” Griff turned toward Gora quickly, flashing his bright smile once again.

  “Gora.”

  “Last name?”

  “Dr. Borehole will know who I am.”

  “Um, okay.” Griff turned back to the telephone quickly. “Well, Sheila, I’m here with a Gora – she says Doctor Borehole will know who she is.” Griff nodded and scratched the back of his head with his other hand. “She didn’t give me a last name. Yeah, I told her that Doctor Borehole was busy all day.” Gora looked around the waiting area in the lobby while Griff talked to this Sheila person.

  It had six differently colored sofa chairs against a clean white wall with end tables between each sofa chair. Portraits of Doctor Borehole and her colleagues sat above the six sofa chairs, each painted by the same artist it appeared.

  Doctor Borehole was an average sized, gorgeous woman with short brown hair and deep brown eyes, but the portrait made her into a more voluptuous woman with long curly hair down to her ass and the figure of supermodel. Her real face was rounded and her cheekbones high, yet the portrait gave her a strange angular look. It made her look like a Martian. A sickly Martian with great curves. The only truthful parts of Dr. Borehole’s portrait were the small reddish birthmark on her left cheek, under her eye, and her peach colored skin. Her real life beauty became distorted and weird in the portrait.

  “Miss Gora, hello, Miss Gora?” called Griff. “Doctor Borehole will see you in ten minutes. She seemed angry, per Sheila, but I bet that has more to do with this busy workweek than anything!” Griff smiled and handed Gora a nametag clip and a marker. “Write your name with this marker and clip it on!”

  “Thanks,” said Gora accepting the items.

  “Please just wait in one of comfy sofa chairs and admire the marvelous portraits! A local painter, Lem Winks, painted them! I’m getting mine done next week!” Griff returned to his busywork.

  “Will do,” said Gora as she walked away toward a chair. She sat under the Doctor Borehole portrait. The portrait was a strange embellishment of Doctor Borehole, yet Gora couldn’t help but be enamored by the portrait. It spoke to her in a way: how even when women are truly physically beautiful, people will still not be satisfied. Women had to be altered, torn down and then built up again in unusual ways, and shaped into how others wanted them to be. Women were merely the wet clay that people had to mold to their liking.

  The portrait felt alive to Gora, but it felt like a horrible lie, and the portrait began to taunt Gora. “Whore!” shouted the portrait of the Martian Doctor Borehole. “You’re a whore that steals ideas! I know you fucked Silva to get your name on his work! You thieving whore!”

  It glared back at Gora, the same glare that Gora had often seen at ASH meetings from Dr. Borehole. The same glare that Dr. Borehole held as she spoke disrespectfully of Gora whenever she had the chance. Gora was no longer enamored with the portrait, rather, she become enraged by it.

  “Die!” yelled Gora. She then screamed gutturally and wildly. WUUUHHH! WUUGGGH! WUHHHH! Griff covered his ears instinctively as Gora kept screaming.

  She stood on top of the sofa chair and ripped the portrait down, knocking the portrait next to Doctor Bridget Borehole’s off as well. Collateral damage.

  “No! What are you doing?!” shouted Griff from behind his desk. His ears still covered, he tried to quickly get past his desk, but was foiled by the side door that automatically locked at unnecessary times. Griff had called maintenance numerous times in the past six months about the faulty lock, yet nothing had been done about it.

  Gora took the portrait and broke it over her knee; this action took several tries as the portrait’s frame was made from a sturdy wood. She forced her fingers through the eyes of the portrait; poking then scraping out nonexistent eyeballs and brain matter with dirty fingernails. “I want you gone!” She finally ripped the frame apart and tossed pieces randomly throughout the lobby.

  Spit shot from Gora’s mouth like a water machin
e-gun as Gora turned her anger toward the innocent sofa chairs and side-tables. The furniture didn’t stand a chance against the rage of Gora.

  “Miss Gora, why?!” shrieked Griff, still fiddling with the locked side door of his large desk. Gora flipped over each sofa chair with ease, putting watermelon sized holes in the walls. “Please, no! AGH!” Griff began to senselessly kick at the side door. Tears streamed down Griff’s face – for fear of losing his job and for fear of losing his life to the maniac in the lobby. Gora ripped open the cushions for the sofa chairs, releasing the stuffing across the room and all over her clothes.

  Gora began to grab each of the remaining portraits and flung them throughout the lobby, then returning to what was left of Doctor Bridget Borehole’s portrait and stomping, spitting on it furiously.

  THWOMP, THWOMP, THWOMP.

  Griff wasn’t strong enough to open the lock on the side door, despite his healthy chest. There was no way he was strong enough to kick the side door down. He became so panicked by Gora’s actions that he did not realize he could leap over the gate.

  THWOMP, THWOMP, THWOMP.

  “Glad somebody finally took that damned thing down,” said a deep, raspy voice. Griff and Gora turned their heads promptly towards the voice. Gora stopped thrashing around the lobby and wiped her mouth of any excess spit. “I didn’t like that portrait of me. It exaggerated my looks too much and made me look like an alien. I look quite beautiful enough without the embellishments.” It was Bridget Borehole in the flesh.

  Chapter 28

  Doctors Get Implants

  “Yes,” said Doctor Silva. “Will do, sir.”

  Silva took a deep breath and closed his flip cell phone, a cheap prepaid cell phone from a local Tel-Mart Plus. Chairman Obelis instructed Silva to buy a prepaid phone, known as a burner, every week or two. “Anyone could be listening. I can’t give up any of my devices that block out wandering ears, I have enough trouble keeping people out of my hair as it is,” Chairman Obelis told Silva. It was a tedious part of the job to buy a burner every week or so, but Silva made sure he had a new one every week or so.