The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “VRM?”

  “Virtual Reality Museum,” answered the doctor tersely.

  “Hey, Doc, I can assure you . . .”

  “You can assure me of nothing, Justin. It’s all the little things I’ve noticed. Like her overconcern for you. She’d chalk it up to being especially sensitive toward your needs, probably say something about ‘post-VRM syndrome.’ But you and I know better, don’t we?” The doctor didn’t wait for a reply. “Or how you wait for each other before eating at the table. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve both begun to finish each other’s sentences.”

  “Doc,” parried Justin, “I think you’re overreacting. I can assure you . . .” He paused, waiting for the interruption. There was none forthcoming. Thaddeus was waiting to be convinced. “I can assure you,” repeated Justin, “that we’re just friends.”

  “All that I’ve just described,” answered Thaddeus, “are the beginnings of the strongest possible relationship. Of that I can assure you.” He then somehow managed to reassemble the discarded newspaper and buried his head among the columns. “And I have absolutely no fashion sense,” he answered dismissively, almost as if his accusatory exchange had never taken place.

  Justin pondered the conversation as he dived into his bowl of cereal, grabbing the sports page from the discarded pile in the middle of the table. He perused the headlines. It seemed that the Mars Rangers had beaten the crap out of the Titan Warriors in a game called rocketball. From what Justin could ascertain, the object of the game was to wipe out as many of the opposing team members as possible while trying to advance the ball in ten-kilometer stretches. The only game that seemed to have survived intact was soccer, and Justin had never been a big fan of the game. A die-hard football fan, for sure, but soccer was a game that never appealed. The closest thing he found to football involved variable gravity fields and body armor; however, none of the teams, stats, or players made much sense to him. Time for that later, he thought. There was also, per Justin’s request, a comics page, but its presence on the table was for naught. Justin had tried to get sebastian to convert the short, animated, three-dimensional holographic presentations that were the comics of the day into the two-dimensional panels Justin had been used to—to no avail.

  Either, figured Justin, the new medium was not meant to be expressed in the old form, or he was too out of touch to understand modern humor. He hadn’t understood what passed for humor in his day, preferring old episodes of I Love Lucy to the mostly vapid sitcoms that came later. He also had to get used to the fact that what he once thought of as the business section was here called “the front page”—which made perfect sense given the society he found himself in.

  Justin polished off his bowl and moved it aside.

  “Why,” he asked Dr. Gillette—off topic, “do you say that Neela’s not really my reanimationist anymore?”

  The doctor looked up from behind the science section of the paper.

  “You mean, besides the fact that I’m your official reanimationist now, and that Dr. Harper works for me?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Well, then, you and Dr. Harper,” he answered, “have become closer than what would be considered the norm for a client and doctor. To be frank, it interferes with the professional relationship. Of course, in retrospect, it’s not that surprising, is it? You’re a famous, handsome, and mysterious man. She’s an intelligent, compassionate, and not unattractive woman.” The doctor considered then rejected the idea of bringing up the fact that Neela had metaphorically given birth to Justin—being the first female he saw after reanimation. While that attraction was well documented as a psychological norm, in this case, decided Thaddeus, there were so many other variables at play as to render the phenomena statistically insignificant.

  “So, I’m guessing this kind of thing must happen all the time,” offered Justin, looking a little disappointed.

  “Almost never, and certainly never like this—that is, with the deep emotional bonds,” answered the doctor, putting his paper down—this time neatly folded—on the table.

  “Justin, you and your situation are unique. The truth of the matter is that Neela is far more than your friend, which given your circumstance is probably more critical to your emotional well-being than a reanimation specialist. But it is not usual, and not moral. However, in your case it might be needed. If I thought otherwise I would have had Neela transferred out of here a long time ago. Luckily, officially she’s not your specialist. I’m not saying that you don’t need a specialist . . . you do. But that, my dear friend,” said Thaddeus, eyebrow raised, “you have in me. Nor am I saying that because she’s not officially your specialist that means she’s open territory. She’s not. Because Dr. Harper woke you, in the eyes of the world she’s still your reanimationist, and therefore still off-limits.”

  “So,” Justin answered, “what you’re telling me is that in Dr. Harper I’ve not hired the services of a reanimation specialist but those of a friend?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “You know, Doc,” continued Justin, “we had a word for that in my day.”

  The doctor was not amused. “It’s humor like that which will get you and Neela into trouble,” answered Thaddeus, picking up on the crude innuendo. “I wish you’d get sexed already. You do realize that intercourse is readily available in this day and age for no charge. You could have the oldest of women and not have to pay for it. The fact that you don’t makes your infatuation with Dr. Harper all the more obvious.”

  “Doctor! I . . . um, before we discuss my sex life, could you at least tell me how to go about finding Neela? She’s not answering her DijAssist.”

  “You mean Dr. Harper.”

  “Neela, Dr. Harper, either way, it’s not helping me decide what I’m going to wear to Mardi Gras.”

  Dr. Gillette immediately relaxed, and a smile broke out on his face. “My dear boy, why didn’t you say so? Fashion’s one thing that I readily agree I have no business advising on. However, Mardi Gras is quite another matter, and I would be delighted to be of assistance.” Dr. Gillette leaned forward with a convivial grin. “How do you feel about enormously large phalluses?”

  Justin sighed.

  Sean Doogle of the Majority Party made a surprise and radical announcement this morning from his party’s headquarters in San Francisco. It would appear that, not being satisfied with life on the political fringe, Mr. Doogle is now taking his party out of political reality and into never-never land. In a prepared statement it was announced that the Majority Party was no longer satisfied with granting everyone a majority status within themselves, but that they wished to end the practice of personal incorporation entirely. The party will now be called the “Liberty Party,” in what this journalist supposes is an obscure attempt to link themselves to the Liberty Party of the American pre–Civil War era. That party was made up of individuals who helped to end slavery over four hundred years ago. This party, one supposes, seeks to end civilization as we know it. It is the belief of this site that we shall soon hear the last of the Liberty/Majority Party, and good riddance.

  In more relevant news, the Eliminationist Party was granted a concession that shows its increasing strength in governmental matters. The speaker of the assembly proposed that the entire planet of Venus be turned into a government-free zone when it’s ready for settlement. This would give the Eliminationists the large area they requested but put the issue on the back burner—as most experts agree it will take at least another century for Venus to be ready for human habitation.

  —ALL THINGS POLITICAL SITE, NEURO #3432435

  In the end Justin decided on something simple yet symbolic. He ordered it from a local shop, and it was delivered within hours to his apartment. Though Mardi Gras could be experienced systemwide, he’d decided to take it in from the event’s original birthplace. All that was left to do was to grab a t.o.p. to the Hotel Rex on Canal Street in downtown New Orleans. He planned to arrive in the late afternoon. It would be the start
of the holiday and a way to get the full flavor of the insanity he’d been told to expect.

  Justin was informed by sebastian that a t.o.p. was available to take him directly to his hotel should he so desire, but Justin declined. If this was to be the party of the people, then damned if he wasn’t going to mingle with the maniacs. “At least,” cautioned his worried avatar, “do some minor facial adjustment so you won’t be mobbed upon your arrival at the main terminal.” To this Justin agreed, especially when he determined that a fake nose and facial-hair growth would be about as simple as sticking on a rubber nose from a novelty shop. The distinct advantage of the simple disguises was that they were nano-based novelty items, which meant that the hair actually attached itself to the face, and the added epidermis of the nose did the same without interfering in any way with Justin’s nasal passages.

  Though there was a private t.o.p. on the roof of the apartment he lived in, Justin chose to take his personal flyer to the NYC orport, and from there hop on a private t.o.p. to the Neville orport in New Orleans. It gave his new security detail conniptions, but that’s what he paid them for.

  When he disembarked from the t.o.p. and started on his descent to the main terminal, he was so taken aback by the chaos before him he was almost tempted to turn around and head back to the safety of his New York City lair.

  A Greek mythological god flew past him chasing an almost naked woman, who Justin could swear had two complete sets of voluminous breasts. The woman was laughing or Justin might have been tempted to . . . do what, he had no idea. He counted at least four sexual trysts occurring both on the ground and in the air. When he finally did manage to float down to the ground, he was so busy staring at the assortment of oddballs and exploits that he ran smack into a large blue spider with a strikingly human face.

  “Tr-transbod?” was all Justin managed to stutter, shocked by the living, breathing creature in front of him.

  “No,” the spider growled, scratching his nose with one of his legs, “this is how I always look. What, were you born yesterday?”

  “Well, actually . . . ,” Justin began. But the spider cut him off, handing him a crystal disk. “Listen, bud. Big party every night at Schatzy’s on Bourbon Street.” The spider then moved on, and by the shrieks of delight and laughter that followed “it,” Justin realized that he’d just bumped into one of the best walking advertisements he’d ever seen.

  He had to step over broken beer bottles and past a group of drunken men swaying in hula skirts, and sidestep an alligator-skinned couple holding alligator-skin bags. As he made his way out the exit he could have sworn he saw the spider talking to a cyclops.

  “Alright, sebastian, you win,” he said, as he exited the orport. “Get me to the Hotel Rex ASAP.”

  _______

  There was no point in keeping his mask on. Seasoned paparrazi would have spotted him in a nanobeat, so he ditched it in the cab. The first thing he noticed as he entered the hotel was the hubbub of people and transbods hurriedly rushing to and fro. The next thing he noticed was the burgundy-colored marble floor spread across the entire lobby. In the center of the space were two hexagonal marble pillars with ornate wooden benches in the style of Louis XIV resting on either side. Large floral bouquets were in evidence everywhere. He looked over at the main desk and saw that it, too, was made from the same burgundy tile as the floor he was standing on. Behind the desk were three well-dressed workers, and behind them were what appeared to be three Botticelli paintings. Ironically, it wasn’t the Botticelli paintings that marked the hotel as überprestigious; it was the humans working in front of them. Only the most prominent hotels and restaurants would even attempt to use human labor during Mardi Gras. Except for police, courts, and medical centers, most of humanity was taking the week off—way off.

  Justin ignored the head-turning his entrance had garnered and began to make his way to the desk. If he could find his room he’d at least be able to take a break from the overload of visual stimuli.

  No luck. He was stopped in his tracks by one of the most erotic creatures he’d ever laid eyes on. Granted, he hadn’t seen that many, but this one was knock-dead stunning. Where most of the transbods he’d noticed seemed to content themselves with the merely outrageous, this woman, if what he was looking at could be called that, had clearly gone for more devilish attire.

  She was tall, at least as tall as Justin, and her skin was deep auburn red. She had a very thick mane of long black hair that seemed to fall restlessly off her shoulders, cascading down onto a well-exposed bosom that was attempting to escape from a tight-fitting black leather top. Protruding from her forehead through the mass of hair was a pair of short, pointed ivory horns. Justin’s eyes followed her perfectly flat stomach to the black leather G-string patch she was wearing over her crotch. The strings on either side of the minuscule covering seemed to leap in perfect arches over her shapely hips. Her extraordinarily long legs were accentuated by a pair of thigh-high black leather boots resting precariously over six-inch stiletto heels. He also noticed that her arms and hands were covered in fingerless black leather gloves that went all the way up to her well-toned biceps. The face seemed oddly familiar, though it was hard to get past the jet-black eyes—no white showing whatsoever—black pouty lips, and dazzling white teeth. But the pièce de résistance was a set of large bat wings that emerged from the back of the creature’s upright shoulders. They were almost as large as the woman herself.

  Justin was entranced.

  He wasn’t the only one. The entire lobby seemed to stop and stare as the transbod made her way across the foyer. And it only took a second for Justin to realize that the demon was heading straight toward him. It was one of the few times in his lives that he was thankful his face was so easily recognized.

  The woman quickly traversed the space between herself and Justin. As she approached, he could see that she had a slightly worried look on her face.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Justin recognized the voice instantly, but his mind had trouble putting the sound to the image.

  “Ne-Ne-Neela?” he stuttered.

  Neela’s expression went from concerned den mother to that of a girl hoping her date liked the prom dress. She spread her wings out to their full radius and placed her hands squarely on her hips. “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “Neela,” he answered, hardly believing this beautiful creature was his dear friend and confidante. “ ‘Like’ is not the word; ‘amazed’ is.” Then, “It’s all . . . real?”

  Neela laughed, as a bit of the seductress demon returned. “Of course it’s real, Justin.”

  She took his hand and placed it on her arm. “See,” she said, rubbing his hand slowly up and down her upper arm just above the rim where the black leather glove ended. “The color doesn’t come off.” She removed his hand from her arm and placed it on one of her horns, drawing Justin closer provocatively. “They don’t come off either . . . even this,” she said, as a long prehensile tail emerged from her backside, practically popping up between them, “doesn’t come off.” She saw by the look in Justin’s eyes that the tail had completely surprised him—as she’d intended.

  Justin’s head was spinning and his heart was pounding. He was speechless, no longer because of what he was looking at but because of what he was feeling. He wanted this woman, and he wanted her now. He laughed inwardly as he realized he probably could have taken her—if she were willing—right there on the cold marble floor with nary an onlooker interested. Though they certainly would’ve been, he reasoned, had they any inkling as to her real identity.

  But he’d had it pounded into him so many times about the dire consequences of such an action that he barely allowed himself time for the fantasy. Old Thaddeus’s admonitions had apparently done their job. Though he knew he wanted her, he also knew he’d never risk her career just to satisfy his carnal desires.

  “Well, hello there!” came a cry from the far end of the lobby. It was Dr. Gillette. Of that Justin was sure. W
here the voice was coming from he couldn’t tell amid the din.

  He felt a tap on the shoulder.

  Thank goodness, thought Justin, needing time to sort out his feelings. While the good doctor offered respite from Neela, his outfit, too, did not. Except for a pair of sandals, Thaddeus was stark naked. But what did set him apart from most of the other hotel patrons, many of whom were, in fact, unclothed, was his exposed phallus. It was a good two feet long and as thick as a soda can. Justin’s first reaction was to laugh, but Dr. Gillette, misinterpreting his laugh, assured him that it was fully functional.

  “Oh, that I believe, Thaddeus,” replied Justin. “I just can’t wait to see the woman who that,” he said, pointing down to the doctor’s giant organ with his eyebrows, “will fit into.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, dear boy,” answered Thaddeus, with a devilish grin. Thaddeus finally seemed to notice Neela standing proudly next to his patient. The doctor’s appreciation of Neela’s transformation was noted not only in his eyes but also in his manhood. It now stood fully erect at what Justin guessed must have been two and a half feet.

  “Thank you, Thaddeus,” Neela said, with obvious delight.

  “Don’t mention it, dear. I must say they certainly did justice to your vision.”

  “And your outfit . . . ,” she began to say.

  Thaddeus cut her off. “I know, I know. Boooring. Well, what did you expect? Who has time?” He then apologized for keeping Neela’s secret from Justin.

  On their way up to the room, via a very slow-moving, old-fashioned elevator, Neela explained to Justin why she’d recently been so unavailable. “First of all,” she explained, “I wanted to surprise you.”

  Justin blushed. “Well, consider it a success,” he said, trying hard not to stare at every square inch of her.

  In the space of two weeks Neela had had her hair, eye, and skin color changed and her pregrown wings, tail, and horns attached—the last part taking only two days to complete. The rest of the time was spent getting used to the new appendages and learning how to use them.