Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad

by Bryan Hall

  Her mother was never quite the same after they scattered her father’s ashes over Sunset Pond, where he liked to fish now and then. Since Lucinda had skipped the embalming, the urn, the burial plot, and the memorial service, disposing of her father’s body had cost a grand total of six hundred dollars—after the social security death benefit. Though her mother would not have a burial plot to visit and adorn with flowers, she could always sit at the edge of the pond and put flowers into the water if she wanted to, couldn’t she? What was the difference?

  The following week, after the life insurance check was divvied up, her mother caught up on back bills and just managed to save the house from foreclosure.

  Lucinda made a surgery appointment.

  It was during her recovery at home that Mrs. Parker’s relic of an automobile, the one that should have been replaced years ago, finally gave out. The brakes failed, and in her panic, she lost control of the vehicle and hit a two-hundred-year-old maple tree head-on. She made it through with only a broken leg to show for it, but when they took her to the hospital for a CT scan, they found the cancer.

  It was everywhere.

  She had, at most, three months to live.

  When she gave Lucinda the news from her hospital bed, her beautiful daughter managed to summon up a tear or two, then rushed home and dug out her mother’s life insurance policy and will—which left everything to her.

  It was hard for Lucinda to be too upset with that kind of a windfall staring her in the face.

  She met with her mother’s doctor the next morning to discuss her mother’s illness and her final days. As the doctor was walking her out, he inquired about family medical history, since her mother was alternately too sick or too upset to discuss it.

  “Has anyone else in your family ever had cancer?” he asked.

  “Oh, sure. One of my uncles died of it a few years ago.”

  “A blood relation?”

  “Yes. My mother’s brother. Why?”

  “I’m concerned that you may have a predisposition for cancer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That because it runs in your family, you would be more likely to get it than someone whose family is clean of it. What sort of cancer did your uncle have?”

  “Colon cancer, I think.”

  “Then you should be sure to get a colonoscopy at least once every two years.

  Lucinda was alarmed. “And what kind of cancer does my mother have?”

  “Well, since it’s spread so far, it’s a little hard to say, but from what I’ve seen in the scan results, I’d guess it started somewhere in the reproductive tract.”

  “I had an aunt who died of ovarian cancer.”

  “Mother’s side or father’s?”

  “Father’s.”

  “Oh, then you have a predisposition for it on both sides of your family. Any breast cancer?”

  Lucinda nodded miserably. “Two cousins. Both dead.”

  “My advice to you, then, is to get a PAP smear, mammogram, and colonoscopy every year, like clockwork,” the doctor said. “My dear, are you all right?”

  Lucinda was sheet white and trembling all over.

  “I understand that you lost your father recently, too. I’m sure the stress of that and your mother’s situation is taking a huge toll on you.” The doctor pulled his prescription pad from his pocket. “Ever taken Valium?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re going to start. This will at least allow you to get some sleep. Under no circumstances are you to drink alcohol with this medication—do you understand?”

  “Yes. But I don’t drink. It’s really bad for the skin. Ages it, you know? I can’t have that. Thank you, doctor.” Lucinda took the slip from his fingers, and then left the hospital.

  As the doctor watched her walk away, his eyes narrowed slightly. The only time she showed any emotion at all was when I explained predisposition.

  Lucinda sat in her-father’s-now-her-car on Level B of the hospital’s underground parking garage and stared into space. I finally got my face and neck looking perfect. There nothing more that has to be done for another five years, and now I could get cancer and die? I don’t think so! I’ve invested too much money in this perfect face to be dying any time soon.

  Lucinda firmly believed there is a way out of every problem, and so she reclined her seat a bit and thought.

  And it didn’t take long before she had a solution.

  A perfect solution.

  As it turned out, her mother didn’t have three days left to live, much less three months. She passed peacefully, or so they told Lucinda. Her mother’s body met the same fate as her father’s, even though she had specifically requested embalming and burial in her will. Lucinda rationalized that she’d want to be with her husband, and so it was the pine box and the pond for her, as well.

  Between her mother’s insurance policy and what was left of her father’s, Lucinda had $65,000 to her name, as well as a house and a car. It was time to put her plan into action. She picked up the phone and dialed.

  The next day, she met with a surgeon to discuss a double radical mastectomy.

  “May I ask why you want this procedure if you don’t have cancer? You’re very young and this operation is most disfiguring.”

  “I have a predisposition to breast cancer, so I figure no breasts, no cancer. It’s one less thing to worry about,” Lucinda explained.

  “Here, let me show you some photographs of post-mastectomy patients. You should know what you’re asking for.” He rolled open a file drawer, extracted a folder and handed it to her.

  They didn’t have the desired effect. The mutilated chests moved her not at all. “This doesn’t bother me, doctor. I still want the procedure.”

  “May I ask why you are so worried about this at your age?”

  “I have, over recent years, paid out approximately $150,000 for facial cosmetic surgery. I have no intention of dying of cancer now or for a long, long time and losing that investment.”

  “If that is your reason, then I must respectfully decline to perform this surgery.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep looking until I find a doctor who will. You’re certainly not the only one on my list. Good day.”

  Lucinda met with four more doctors before she found one who was glad to help her. The surgery was scheduled for that weekend, and went off without a hitch. Lucinda Parker, at age nineteen, had traded in her 34C breasts for two flat round masses of bumpy scar tissue.

  And she was satisfied.

  While recovering at home, she received the final bill for services rendered. This bill, added to the partial invoices already delivered, came to just over forty thousand dollars. That left her with fifteen thousand, a house, and a car. It also left her with two more procedures that had to be done ASAP.

  While recovering, she applied for a second mortgage on the house. She was happy to discover that it was closer to being fully paid off than she had realized, and so had little trouble securing a six-figure equity line of credit. No sooner was she fully recovered from the breast surgery than she was doctor-shopping the next.

  “I understand that you want to schedule a complete hysterectomy. And it says here on your paperwork that you’re, what, twenty years old?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Are you having problems with heavy bleeding? Cramping?”

  “No, not at all. I have a predisposition for cancer, and if I have a complete hysterectomy, that eliminates three cancer possibilities. No uterus, no ovaries, no cervix, no cancer. It’s three less things to worry about.”

  “That may be true, but do you realize that you will never be able to bear children after this operation?”

  Lucinda sighed. “Doctor, with a face like this, do you really think I want to spend my time chasing children around? All kids give you is wrinkles and gray hair.”

  The doctor looked astonished. “My dear, you will not be able to avoid either of those things forever.”

  �
�With hair dye and plastic surgery, I’m damned well going to try. Now, will you be doing this procedure, or not?”

  “‘Not’ young lady. I’m sure you know the way out.”

  This time it took twelve turn-downs before she located a willing surgeon, and the bills were much higher and the recovery time much longer and much harder. It took most of her loan to pay for the hysterectomy, and she still had one more expensive procedure to go.

  What to do, what to do?

  Well, she’d think about it—she had a month or two of convalescing to go through. She was sure to come up with something.

  A knock at the door roused her from her thoughts. It was Charlie Foley, fifteen now and working at Harkin’s Market delivering groceries.

  “Hi, Lu. Here’s your groceries.” He strode in and set the box on the table. “See you.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! Where you off to in such a rush? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I’ve been around. Not my fault you haven’t seen me. Though every time you come back from the hospital, you look and act so much less like you that I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  “I’m still me, Charlie. Still the same old Lu who used to take you to the movies.”

  “I really miss the old Lu. The old Lu cared about people. The old Lu loved her parents and honored their wishes,” Charlie said. “You’re not her—not anymore.”

  “Oh, sure I am, Charlie. Please stay a while and talk. I get so lonely.”

  “How could you possibly be lonely, Lu? What happened? Your mirror break?” With that, her former knight in red sneakers shook his head and took his leave.

  “How could he treat me like that? After all I did for him! Who the hell does he think he is to say things like that to me? Me! Well, if that’s the way he feels, good riddance, I say.” Unconsciously, she reached for her hand mirror.

  After a few weeks of weighing financial options, Lucinda finally came up with a foolproof way to cover her surgery costs and get back at Charlie and his attitude at the same time.

  Once she was fully recovered, one Monday morning she walked to the end of the lane where the mailboxes were and waited in the tall grass.

  It wasn’t long before she heard Mr. Foley’s pickup truck roaring down the narrow road. The final turn out of the lane was blind, so Lucinda stepped out into the road just before Mr. Foley rounded the corner.

  When he appeared, she looked fearful and stepped slightly off to the left. The fender clipped her just where she had planned for it to—the right hip. She also didn’t see any harm if some of her previous stitches pulled out and added a little more blood to the mix.

  She never expected a broken hip to hurt quite as much as it did, but as her father used to say, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

  Police and an ambulance were summoned and Lucinda played the incident for all it was worth.

  And to make matters worse for poor Mr. Foley, he had whiskey on his breath. He had downed a shot that morning to treat a heavy cold. Back home, in Ireland, that was how it was done, and had always worked well for him.

  This time, it worked well for Lucinda. She sued him for everything he had, and by the time the case was settled, she owned his joint bank account, his truck, his wife’s car, and their house and everything in it. Oh, also Charlie’s savings that he planned to use for college.

  When she was being wheeled out of court that day, Charlie Foley walked up to her and spit on the ground at her feet.

  But she’d won, and soon she’d have plenty of cash to get that final procedure done, once the Foley assets were liquidated, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

  By the time she’d recovered from her “accident” and sold off everything the Foleys had, there was more than enough money to cover the next procedure.

  “You want a colostomy? Why?”

  “I have a predisposition for colon cancer. It runs in my family. So, no colon, no colon cancer. It’s one less thing to worry about.”

  “Are you aware that you’ll have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of your life?”

  Lucinda flashed her perfect white teeth at the man. “I understand. I still want it done. Will you do it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  This time, it took months before she found a willing doctor. He seemed a little sketchy and his credentials weren’t the best, but he was ready to operate the next day, so the deal was sealed.

  This surgery took everything she had to pay for—or, rather, everything the Foleys had had. Lucinda heard that they were living in a shelter downtown, and that Charlie’s job at the grocery store was all that was feeding and clothing them. But, Lucinda reasoned, they had a roof, a bed, and food, so what more could they ask for? She thought about them less and less as time passed. A new kid, Justin now delivered her groceries. Harkins must have given Charlie a new route for some reason.

  Lucinda was finally happy, finally satisfied. She had eliminated all the cancer risks that ran in her family and threatened her to take her life and, therefore her beauty, away from her. She stared into the mirror for hours on end, secure in the knowledge that, with regular surgical maintenance, she would be looking this way for a long, long time to come.

  The food stamps, social security, and disability checks she was now collecting from the government covered food, her new mortgage, and miscellaneous other bills.

  She never left the house.

  Why should she? Who out there would appreciate her beauty as much as she did? Better to stay home.

  Things were wonderful for many months—until the phone call.

  Her father’s last remaining brother had died.

  Lucinda panicked.

  She had no more money left.

  The 911 call came in later that afternoon from Justin, who had come by to collect for the week. He’d received no answer to his knock, and seeing her car in the driveway and finding the door unlocked, had gone looking for her thinking she might need help.

  The police found her on her bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood.

  “She peeled off her skin. Got as far as her waist before she died of shock and blood loss,” the M.E. said. “But she didn’t touch her face or her neck. She’ll be a good-looking corpse once she’s dressed.”

  “Damnedest suicide I ever saw in my whole life,” Officer Donnelly said to the M.E. “Was there a note or anything?”

  “Yeah. She’s looking right at it. It’s a weird one. All I can figure is that it was supposed to remind her about something while she was ... doing this.” The M.E., who had seen more horror in his professional life than he cared to talk about, shuddered over this latest one.

  Donnelly followed the body’s vacant gaze. Indeed, there was a note, of sorts, that she’d taped up to the tiles directly opposite her line of sight. She must have been looking at it right until the moment she died.

  ONE LESS THING TO WORRY ABOUT!

  THE SUN-SNAKE

  BY CHRISTINE MORGAN

  In Kukmatlan, the Great City, the Festival of the Sun-Snake neared its culmination.

  For thirteen days, the People had celebrated with banquets and sacrifices, dancing and games. Trade goods and tribute came from every province, from the small coastal villages to the remote settlements in the cloud-forests. The marketplace bustled with activity. Artisans demonstrated their crafts, displayed and sold their wares. Poets, speech-givers, and riddle-makers entertained the crowds.

  For thirteen days, travelers had come to the Temple of Kuk, which climbed skyward in a stepped pyramid to a high platform where rayed- and serpentine-engraved stelae marked the calendrical and astrological positions of the sun.

  For thirteen days, ritual bloodletting was done, stingray spines or threads-of-thorns piercing lips, ears, cheeks, and tongues, the heels of new infants, the foreskins of boys becoming men, the labia of girls becoming women. The scarlet drops fell upon corn paper, which was then burned to let the wafting smoke carry these offerings of nourishment and de
votion to the gods.

  For thirteen days, the Hom, the sacred ball court with its high walls and stone rings, had resounded with the whack and thud of pokatok. Just as each province sent its tribute, each province sent its team, made up of their best young athletes and warriors. When one team emerged victorious, its individual players competed against each other in contests of speed, strength, sport, and skill.

  Now, only two remained standing.

  They were not brothers, but could have been, both of an age and of a height, straight black hair cropped to equal length, muscular brown bodies gleaming with sweat. Barefoot, unadorned by jewelry, they wore only white loincloths bordered in embroidery of red and yellow.

  Makchel and Tlinoc exchanged proud, anxious smiles.

  Whichever of them won this final challenge, they knew they had already brought great honor to their families and their village.

  Spectators looked on from the seating areas above the walls. These were the nobles of Kukmatlan and the wealthiest provinces, richly dressed, stylishly tattooed, teeth glittering with inlaid disks of crystal and precious stones.

  The God-King himself was there, ancient and wizened in a jaguar-skin mantle, his face seamed like the shell of a nut but his wise eyes keenly alert beneath his quetzal-feathered headdress. His wives, sons, daughters, and grandchildren sat with him, flanked by slaves holding woven shades on poles.

  There, too, aloof and untouchable, were the Corn Maidens.

  Only the most beautiful of noble-born girls, whose heads swept up and back in flawless elegant lines from skull-binding since infancy, whose eyes crossed the most appealingly from having strung baubles suspended between them, only they would be selected.

  Their garments were long, loose huipils of gold-beaded strands hung from collars of stiff green maize leaves. More gold hung in bangled clusters at their earlobes, around their necks, and at their wrists and ankles. In their hair were ornaments of gold, jade, and feathers of green and yellow.