by Bryan Hall
“He’s quite a specimen is he not, Stella?” With Mike heavily sedated, Dr. Fleischman could do an exhaustive examination and plan Mike’s transformation.
“I’ve never seen anything like him,” Stella said.
“He’s a throwback to an earlier age. Rare these days, very rare. Truthfully, I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime.”
“Poor guy,” Stella said. “Can you fix him?”
“Revealing his true nature is a challenge worthy of the effort. When I first saw him, I had a vision. One day there will be no concept of ugliness or deformity. We will not be bound by uncontrolled genetic hocus-pocus. One day there will only be perfection of the individual form. Mr. Demartini, Miss Dare, you, even Mr. Gambone, you are all the future of flesh.”
Dr. Fleischman pulled open a drawer and removed a pair of calipers. “Take this sheet away and record these measurements, please.” He moved around the table, measuring every inch of Mike’s body, calling out the numbers. Drawing out this man’s true form would demand every skill, every technique he’d developed, and some not yet in his repertoire. Dr. Fleischman smiled. He would need to consult a geneticist. Mike Gambone might prove to be his greatest work, perhaps even his crowning achievement.
Mike’s eyelids rolled open. Fluttered. Shut. Then opened again. It was an effort to keep them open at all. Where was he? He tried to think, but his thoughts flitted around his head, then flew off somewhere before he had a chance to make sense of them. His mouth was dry, so dry. The inside of his cheeks felt swollen. He tried to move and couldn’t. His vision was blurry, but he thought he might be in a hospital. Had he been in an accident? After a while his vision cleared enough that he could see his immediate surroundings. He saw why he couldn’t move; his entire body was wrapped in bandages.
“Ah, Mr. Gambone, I see you are awake.”
With his eyes, Mike followed the sound of the voice, a man’s voice.
“You’re disoriented, yes? That’s to be expected. Do you remember where you are?”
Mike tried to answer. He tried to say, “No,” but a dry rasp was all he could manage. He shook his head.
The man nodded. “That’s an unfortunate side effect of the sedatives. Your surgery was done in stages. But even so, each stage was extensive and we’ve had to keep you in a semi-comatose state.”
Mike tried to speak, again only rasps and croaks were the result.
“Would you like a sip of water, Mr. Gambone?”
Mike nodded.
“Stella, please bring Mr. Gambone some water.”
A woman appeared at Mike’s side with a plastic cup with a straw in the lid. She held the cup near Mike’s mouth and bent the straw so he could reach it. It was all he could do to suck water through the straw and into his mouth. Swallowing was torture. After the first time it was easier.
“Not too much,” the man said. The woman pulled the straw out of Mike’s mouth.
Stella. Stella. Mike remembered Stella. His nurse. Stella with the great ass. Stella ...
He looked from Stella to ... he couldn’t remember his name ... the doctor. “How long?” was all he could get out before his throat closed up again. When he spoke, it felt like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.
“How long have you been here?” the doctor said.
Mike nodded.
“Nearly six months.”
Somewhere in his foggy thoughts Mike felt alarm. But it was like the clanging of a distant bell, and a few moments later he no longer remembered why he was upset.
There was Stella beside him again. Where had she come from? She adjusted some tubes that ran from a pole down to his arm. She patted his shoulder.
“Dr. Fleischman is doing your last surgery today.”
Then whatever was dripping through that tube into his arm shut him down like an on/off switch.
Mike jolted awake, or maybe he was only half awake, gripped by a dream he couldn’t shake loose. His eyes were open and he was marginally aware of a room, of a presence, but within seconds of that awareness the images, the emotions going on behind his eyes overtook him.
Mike ran, ran for his life; ran from the thing that roared behind him. He ran in the dark, over unfamiliar ground. He stumbled and fell. Nearly hysterical, he scrambled to his feet, only to find his legs had turned to columns of concrete; he could barely lift them. Struggling with the terrible weight, he dragged one foot then the other an inch at a time, always aware of the thing pounding after him, overtaking him. Without warning it smashed into him, forcing him to the ground, its bulk pinning him down, hot, foul breath choking him. Mike’s brain sent adrenaline-fueled commands to his limbs, but they responded like so much dead wood. The muscles in his jaws convulsed, but his mouth would not open, leaving a scream trapped in his throat.
When Mike opened his eyes again, he was staring into a wide, blue sky. Sunshine warmed his face. Birds sang. He rolled his eyes right, then left. They felt gritty, sandy. Above him the tops of evergreen trees swayed in a summer breeze. His head hurt and his thoughts were fuzzy. Why was he having such a hard time remembering things? Mike struggled to sit up. He felt stiff and awkward. He pushed himself up with his hands. His hands! Mike felt a stab of panic in his gut as he stared at hands that could not be his and yet were attached to his body. He saw thick, knotty fingers and heavily muscled forearms covered in long, unkempt hair. He froze, terrified. Mike's brain stuttered like a car stuck between gears. The strong, pungent scent in the air was a stench coming from him. Mike staggered to his feet and in doing so, could not avoid looking at his body. Coarse, shaggy, tangled hair covered him. He screamed an inarticulate, inhuman bellow.
Dr. Fleischman lowered his rifle. “This really is beautiful country, Henry,” he said to his companion. Snowflakes drifted around them as they crossed an ice-crusted stream at the shallows and walked to the body that lay sprawled on the opposite bank. Professor Henry Trabant bent down and removed the tranquilizer dart embedded in the creature’s coarse hair.
“Forgive me, Henry,” Dr. Fleischman said as he passed his field camera to his friend and placed his foot on the creature’s back. “Do you mind?”
Trabant shook his head and took the camera. “Really, Leo, this a bit much.”
“I admit it’s a cliché, but it’s my little amusement.”
Trabant took the picture, then another. “That should do it,” he said. “Now, we’d better hurry. That tranquilizer won’t last long.”
“I’m surprised we had to capture him this way,” Dr. Fleischman said.
“He’s adapting better than we anticipated. Much better. He’s hunting deer like he was born to it, and he’s hiding from people.”
Dr. Fleischman pushed apart the hair on the creature’s neck until he exposed skin. He took a large needle from his kit and used it to insert a chip. He wiped away the blood and painted the wound with liquid skin, followed by an injection of antibiotic that would stay in the body for at least a month.
“That chip is state of the art,” Trabant said with obvious pride, “and no bigger than a grain of rice. You can’t imagine the data we’ll have access to.”
“The sedative is starting to wear off,” Dr. Fleischman said. “He’s moving. Go, go.”
The two men retreated across the stream to the far bank, then further until they reached the tree line.
“I never thought it possible,” Trabant said, “a living, breathing Sasquatch. You’ve outdone yourself, Leo.”
Dr. Fleischman smiled. “I have, haven’t I? I revealed his true nature. He had no idea what he really was. None at all.”
The creature raised its head, rolled, and heaved itself to its feet. It shook itself, tilted its head upward, sniffed the air, and turned in their direction.
“He’s seen us,” Dr. Fleischman said.
The shaggy giant stared at them for a few seconds, and then moved away with increasing speed and a rolling ape-like gait, long arms swinging at its sides. It looked over its shoulder one more time before it disappear
ed into the cover of the trees.
WE’RE ALL MAD HERE
BY E.A. BLACK
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” said Alice.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the cat. “We’re all mad here.”
- Lewis Carroll
Catherine “Cat” Dean held Frankie as close as she could, her face buried deep in his chest. She loved the smell of soap and the finest cologne emanating from her one true love. Her heart swelled with love as she wrapped her arms around him. She had never loved anyone as much as she loved Frankie. He snored as he slept, a habit he’d had since he was young. She tweaked his ears, and he growled as he turned away from her. She rubbed his belly in response, and he curled into her shoulder, content as can be and completely oblivious to what was going to happen to him in the morning. Cat felt so guilty over his future she fed him his favorite swordfish dish for dinner that evening.
Frankie was going to have his balls snipped.
Frankie, or more accurately, Catsahaulics Cinco de Meow of Frankincense and Purr, had already fathered several prize-winning kittens from pedigreed Ragdolls that Cat had specially selected. Only the finest Ragdolls would share Frankie’s bed. Ne’er would a local stray diddle with her pwecious Fwankie-Wankie. The laid-back Ragdoll had spread his magnificent seed for catkind, and Cat had the blue ribbons and first-place trophies to prove it. It was time for her resplendent pussy to retire and enjoy the golden years beyond his short stint as a stud.
Hence, the snipping. No respectable plastic surgeon in the state would dare to give Cat the surgeries she needed for both herself and Frankie, so she was forced to rely on a backstreet cosmetic surgeon who wanted to be paid in cash. Whilst poor Frankie would be rendered an “it” after his neutering, Cat couldn’t allow her best breeder the humiliation of castration. Oh, no, she insisted the surgeon insert fake testicles called Ballz into her cat’s nut sack. Of course, the surgeon knew this surgery was done more to appease Cat’s guilt feelings than any real humiliation the cat might have felt over being rendered unmanly, but at $250 per nut, he wasn’t complaining.
The surgery didn’t stop there, though.
This surgeon also transformed Cat from an overweight, jowled fifty-three-year-old woman into his finest masterpiece. Not content with the body she was born with, she sought to nip it here and tuck it there until she looked beautiful beyond belief. Today, Cat treated herself to another eyelift and cheek implants.
She paid good money to transform her own face and body into the image of Frankie. Catherine Dean wanted more than anything in the world to look like a cat.
Cat took multivitamins each morning to look and feel her best for her latest surgical enhancement. She felt healthier than ever! Her body hummed with energy! She took dance lessons so that she would lose the clunky gait she grew up with. She exercised more and lost that spare tire she’d taken years to grow. The over-the-counter diet pills she had been taking helped whittle away those extra pounds, and she wanted to show off her new, streamlined and feline body. She felt like a cheetah, all sleek and graceful. Granted, liposuction did most of the work, but Cat made an effort to do her Pilates and eat well.
As Cat left the drugstore after purchasing her monthly supply of Lose It Fatty! diet pills, she nearly collided with Joanne Brockheimer, an acquaintance Cat knew before she first went under the knife. Cat didn’t acquire friends, since she rarely let anyone get close enough to know her. People frightened her. She disliked feeling judged and falling short of other people’s expectations, so she took herself out of the modern world. Joanne was an exception, but Cat barely tolerated her. Joanne and Cat compared surgeries. Joanne had so much plastic surgery done she set off the scanner at the local Piggly Wiggly.
“Good morning, Cat. You’re looking as ... fine as ever.” Joanne looked down her snub nose at Cat. After a half-dozen facelifts, her skin took on a sheen like that of an overstretched balloon. Botox had wiped every expression from her face, giving her the drooling visage of a plastic baby doll covered with an inch-thick layer of makeup. She droned on, her voice a nasal whine caused by her deviated septum, which no amount of surgery ever seemed to fix. “So you’re off for another lift, dear? You need to go easy on the Botox. You have that startled look you get from surgeons who don’t know what they’re doing.” She waved one manicured hand over her face. “I had my eyes and chin tucked. You can’t even see the scars. Jean-Pierre is so impressive. I’m only forty-five years old and I don’t look a day over thirty.”
“In dog years,” Cat muttered.
“What was that?” Joanne didn’t give Cat a chance to respond. “You really should give Jean-Pierre a call, but I know you can’t afford him. So you’ve had to settle, although I don’t think Jean-Pierre would approve of making anyone look like a cat. He’s above that sort of thing.”
Cat wished she could completely avoid Joanne, but the woman insisted upon mingling with her if only to chat about silicone versus saline and the emotional benefits of chin tucks. She walked away, calling over her shoulder, anything to give herself distance from the annoying woman. “It’s nice talking to you again, Joanne, but I must be off. Things to do and people to see.”
“TTFN!” Joanne waved her fingers as she teetered down the street on her five-inch heels, her superior attitude following close behind. Cat sighed as the woman wiggled her way down Central Avenue, marinating in her perfume as she walked.
“I hate the living ...” Cat groaned.
Cat preferred her dozens of felines to that peculiar species known as homo sapiens. Cats were honest. They didn’t ditch her at the last minute for dates, leaving her sipping dry white wine at a restaurant table in full, embarrassing view of everyone else in the place. Cats lived life on their own terms and they didn’t answer to anyone. They were selective about who they let into their lives, whether feline, animal, or human. They did not have ulterior motives, unlike her good-for-nothing uncle who cozied up to her before her wealthy mother died, hoping for a piece of the inheritance pie. When he didn’t get it, he left Cat alone at long last. She felt relieved but disappointed that yet another man let her down.
Frankie never let her down. When Cat felt lonely, Frankie made his way to her lap. When Cat needed a good cry, Frankie was there, purring and rubbing against her until the tears stopped falling. She returned the favor, and she was always there for her favorite kitty. When Frankie wanted a cuddle, he jumped in her lap. When he wanted his breakfast, he awakened her at 5:30 each morning with a tap of his claw on her face. She happily fed him the best cat food money could buy. When he wanted attention, he dropped books on her head or stood in front of her computer staring at her until she gave in to his demands. She spoiled her cats, especially Frankie, and they in turn gave her the love and attention she craved.
Cats were straightforward, unlike humans. They were also not judgmental. Her father and younger sister criticized her over her crowd of cats. They fussed about the smell and recoiled when one of the twenty kitties approached them. Her sister Prudence complained about allergies, although she owned a cat herself. No one, not even family, could talk Cat out of her horde of felines. Things were so bad between Cat and her family that they stopped coming around to visit. They stopped calling and they didn’t even bother to check in. Cat didn’t notice she received no birthday cards until her birthday had passed by four days.
No one human missed Cat, and she missed no one as well.
She hoarded the little beasts that were her only friends. She nuzzled them and talked to them and brushed their fur. The only reason Cat bought a Kindle reader over a Nook was because “kindle” was the term for a group of kittens.
But living in a houseful of cats had its problems.
She culled her horde of cats over the past few weeks by digging the corpses out from beneath mountains of trash, but she ran out of room in her backyard. Since she spent so much on cosmetic surgery, she ran through her inheritance quickly. Money was tight. Toward the end of the month she ran out of
cash again and couldn’t afford food, although what few dollars she did have went to pay for cat food. Her pretties would not suffer starvation! Still, her stomach rumbled endlessly, leaving her with only one option. She enjoyed their dark meat, although it was a bit stringy. It was then that she noticed the change.
Her skin felt softer and more elastic. She could swear her eyesight had improved, especially her night vision. Even her hair became more lustrous, much like a lion’s mane. Her body became more limber so she could prance about her apartment like the cat she wanted to be. She was obsessed with cats. She wanted to look like one. She wanted to be one.
Never again would she bury her cats. No, she ate them. After all, you are what you eat.
She stopped at a storefront and looked at the televisions in the window. They were attached to a special camera that showed her face on every screen. Twelve Cats smiled back at her. Her bosom swelled with pride at her unusual look. Her almond-shaped eyes called attention to her face. Two years ago she bought special contact lenses with slitted pupils so she would look even more feline. Whenever she wore them, people’s heads turned, but she didn’t realize she bordered on the uncanny. Her catlike appearance made people feel uncomfortable, but she thought in her delusion they admired her.
They didn’t. They mocked her behind her back. Children pointed fingers slapped away by mothers who couldn’t resist gaping themselves.
Cat saw none of this. She knew she stood out in the crowd and she would have it no other way. She liked her unusual appearance, despite not liking people. She enjoyed the reactions she received but she rarely addressed anyone who showed the slightest bit of interest. The only reason she put up with Joanne was because the woman had known her before her surgeries. Cat knew she looked better than Joanne.