by I.B. Holder
*****
“I don’t know what happened.” Blue confided in an overly empathetic huff. He was painting black latex over Tracy’s body. He left open all the areas that might be useful in the coming hours.
“Where are we?” she begged.
“Short,” He lied, “it barely changed since yesterday. They must be getting ready for the new girl. This happened last time.” He dipped his brush in a clear substance. “This is an actual mixture of sweat that I’ve collected off the ground, it should make your hair shine.”
“What happened last time?”
“It won’t happen to a pretty little muffet like you, anyway. You know what the men want out there, a performer like you should have no problem giving it to them. Have you ever wondered what a tuffet was, and why Miss Muffet ever bothered taking a rest in a place she must have noticed to be a spiders web?” Blue dipped a tube into a bottle marked lubricant, and then hooked it up an air compressor.
“I can. AH.” CLICK, Tracy caught her breath and could barely talk as Blue shot the mixture into her body. “Is that-” CLICK.
“All done.”
Blue left her face unpainted, hair slicked back tight against her temples. He wanted to see every dimple of every expression that she made. He wanted there to be no escape from her new identity, what she’d become - probably because there was no escape from what he himself was. Some illnesses are best left undiagnosed.
His watch alarm beeped. She was ready. “Don’t be gentle.” Blue whispered into her ear.